Undead

(Based on a true story)

They stood backstage.

They stood in darkness, waiting for their turn in the spotlight.

They were terrified.

They weren’t scared of being onstage, they were enthusiastic 16 year olds.

They were scared of the shadowy figure in the corner.

Shadowy, yet strangely pale.

Strangely pale and lit by an eerie blue light.

Strange muffled sounds emanated from it at random intervals.

It was their teacher.

Their young, burgundy-haired teacher with a fair complexion.

Fair complexion on a good day, in the sunlight.

Now they suspected she was undead. Either Dracula or a genetically-modified-virus-caused-zombie.

The eerie light that lit her undead face was her Nokia.

The blue was Facebook.

They couldn’t see her Nokia in the inky darkness.

Just her face.

Her pale, mysteriously lit, blue, undead face.

The odd muffled sounds were suppressed giggles.

They thought she was having fits.

Evil, devious, undead fits.

She giggled at the amusing things her friend was saying.

Oddly they described this situation exactly.

“They must be terrified of you,” he said.

She giggled.

They cringed.

They did not know how this would end.

Suddenly she was before them, her glasses glinting in the phone light.

They hadn’t seen her move.

She came up close, so close that they could see the evil in her eyes.

She whispered hoarsely, “its time”

A few of them fainted.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the next act is slightly delayed for technical reasons.”

She Makes It Seem So Simple

Conversation with a five year old:

Annaika:

Why were you on the phone for so long? Who were you talking to?

Me:

My friend Nicole from Bombay. She’s getting married soon.

Annaika:

So she is older than you?

Me:

No she is my age.

Annaika:

So you are also getting married.

Me:

No. No. I’m not getting married.

Annaika:

Why not? You’re OLD!

Me:

I’m not old!

Annaika:

Yes you are!

Me:

And I don’t know anyone to get married to.

Annaika:

You don’t know any girls?

Me:

I know many girls.

Annaika:

So why don’t you marry them?

Me:

Do you know any boys?

Annaika:

Yeah I know many boys. There's Vishal and ……

Me:

So why don’t you marry one of them?

Annaika:

I’m not old enough silly!

Me:

So when you grow up. Who will you marry?

Annaika:

I don’t know. One of them.

Me:

And how will you choose who you’re going to marry?

Annaika:

I’ll do Eenie Meenie Minie Mo, Silly!

A Ferry Tale

Once upon a time, in a land very close by, so close actually, that you’re probably already in it, lived a group of people called rickshawwallas. They were an evil race, who initially began as a peace-loving, service-rendering community. They soon discovered that the service they rendered left others in their power, and this was when their reign of terror began. This power corrupted them and they began to disobey the commandments set in place by the Sacred Fare Meter, the keeper of the balance of Good and Evil.

They evolved into a sinister race of devious individuals, charging far more than required and refusing to render services unless the helpless complied to their demands and sometimes not even then. Many a time they pretended that if they went to certain places they would be attacked and killed by a vicious and horrific demon known as Traffic.

This was untrue.

Traffic would be there, yes.

But Traffic was not horrifying. Traffic was just highly annoying.

There was one, named Raj, who did not bow to the evil ways of the other rickshawwallas. He was righteous, he was courageous, he was pure of heart, and he followed the tenants of the Sacred Fare Meter. Sometimes, when in a good mood, he even charged half price.

Then he was just awesome.

The other rickshawwallas made fun of him and called him names. They abused him and called him a weakling who was not man enough to swindle his customers out of their money. But he stayed strong and did not bow down to their will. He stood firm in his convictions and remained righteous and pure of heart. He was also pure of… well… um… well… heart.

Though he was honorable he was quite poor, but all that was to change when he was visited by Kilometria, the Fairy Princess from the land of the Sacred Fare Meter. Though she was a beautiful woman, scantily clad, as fairy princesses are wont to be, she did not fear for, after all, he was pure of heart.

“Raj”, she said dramatically, “you are righteous.”

He did not reply.

He was not speechless.

He was still asleep.

She was new to dramatic speeches and had not realized she had to wake him up first.

“”Become a fairy,” they said. “It’s a glamorous life,” they said.” she muttered to herself as she shook him a little too violently out of aggression.

A few moments later he was awake.

“Raj”, she said dramatically, “you are righteous.” She said in a tone that suggested she was saying this for the fist time. “You have obeyed the tenants of the Sacred Fare Meter unwaveringly for many years. That is good. I am pleased. You shall have many riches. And a good wife.”

He woke up the next morning with many riches and a good wife.

He retired filthy rich and had many grandchildren who loved him.

He also had the biggest house and HD satellite television.

The moral of the story is, never charge more than the meter and you shall be rewarded.

This story is part of a developmental initiative and has been designed for the children of rickshawwallas. 

White and Fluffy

Tonight kids, I will tell you a story, a horrific story of evil scientists and the experiments they perform on little children. It is a story filled with fear and trembling, it is a story that all children must hear if they are to protect themselves from the evils of the world.

It is the story of Little Albert.

Many, many years ago there was a little boy. He was named Albert. So it was not unusual that they called him ‘little Albert’. It was unusual that they sometimes called him Francis. Why? I haven’t the foggiest.

His mother was very poor and she sent him, not even a year old, to a scientist to be experimented on in exchange for money. He was an evil scientist who made Albert afraid of things that he hadn’t even had the chance to discover that he might have loved.

He made Albert afraid of all fluffy white things. To make anyone afraid of anything is an evil thing to do. But to make someone afraid of all that is white and fluffy is downright dastardly.

How? How did he do this, you ask?

“Elementary,” says Doctor Watson, “It is quite simple. Its something even you can do at home with the neighborhood kids. You present the child with something white and fluffy, for example a white rat or a rabbit. Then you make a very loud sound when the child approaches the rabbit. I prefer using a hammer and a large metal rod. It makes for the perfect hare conditioner.”

Though we may wish this is a story of the retribution that Albert wrought upon Watson once he grew up and was able to do such things as drive, fight, and maybe even control his bowels, this is one providing no such satisfaction. This is rather the story of Albert and his life of fear.

Being afraid of all that is white and fluffy wrecked havoc on Little Albert’s life. For a month after the experiment he did not stop crying at bath times because his towel was white and his mother did not realize why he was crying. In fact as an older child, if his mother forgot about his fear of white towels and accidentally started drying him with one he would run away screaming. The neighbors were always on edge as there is nothing more unnerving as a child screaming gibberish and running naked through the compound.

He avoided all sorts of pasties with fluffy white frostings and ran away from his aunts who wore fluffy white house slippers. Though we must admit, he would have run away from his aunts anyway. His fear of cotton, though making it difficult to treat his wounds, had a far more alarming effect at Christmas time when the streets were filled with Santa’s and their fluffy white cotton beards.

Worse than Santa was snowfall.

He was never able to enter his friend James’ house. James house had white shag carpeting. At some point in time James wondered if Albert was a vampire.

One night he went home with a girl. She, on the pretence of slipping into something more comfortable, slipped into a pristine white bathrobe.

He ran away screaming.

She proceeded to develop body image issues.

Albert subsequently vowed to overcome his fear and went about throwing himself compulsively at white fluffy things. This led to the deaths of a few mice and rabbits, an embarrassing incident with a woman in a white fur coat and the ruining of many a wedding cake.

He began wearing bath slippers everywhere, and carpeted every inch of his house with white shag, including the walls. Often he would stroke the furry walls.

His family decided he was quite mental and sent him to a psychiatrist. Unfortunately he was unable to see the irony.

One day he was killed by a polar bear.

Therefore kids, we learn that no matter what your parents tell you, it is not necessarily a good thing to overcome your fears.

Custard Apples

Conversation between Annaika (5), Jude (13) and I (22) [lol, yeah sure]. Interjected with much laughter and hilarity.

Me:

Doesn’t this custard apple look like a dragon’s egg?

Annaika:
What? No silly! It’s a fruit!

Me:

No see. Inside…. all this gooey stuff….. that’s dragon snot.

Annaika:

Eeeew. Dragon snot!...eeeeew!

Jude:

But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would there be snot inside the egg?

Me:

Actually the custard apple isnt the egg. It’s the black seeds that are the eggs. The custard apple is just pretending.

Jude:

That doesn’t make any sense either. Why would it pretend to be an egg if it already has eggs inside it?

Me:

See…the dragon lays its eggs and then collects them and with the help of snot makes a custard apple. Dragon hunters usually search for their eggs so that they can destroy the dragons. When they find these custard apple pretend eggs they break them open, eat them and throw the seeds away, thinking that they have destroyed the egg and had a good meal in the process when actually they are helping the  dragons hatch. Dragons are very smart you see..

Annaika:

What? That’s silly. Dragons don’t exist and custard apples are fruit.

Me:           

Really? Have you ever seen a custard apple tree?

Jude:

Yes, actually, I have.

Me:

That was a dragon pretending.

The Problem With Rain

They knew not who he was, nor whence he came.

Neither were they aware of what he looked for in handbags.

But that did not matter for he was a man.

All they knew was that he could make it rain.

They saw him as a hero, a lord, a magician, the bringer of joy and hope.

He was the one who could change a drought into a deluge.

He was sought out by all.

They called him the ‘Shower Master’

He hated the name.

It was very ill considered.

He lived a double life.

Student by day.

Mysterious ‘Shower Master’ by night.

As a student he was unremarkable. He had bad grades and worse style.

As a mysterious stranger he rocked.

To hide his identity he wore cloaks and robes and hoods and shades.

To develop a mysterious witch doctor magic practitioner aura he wore chains and beads and rings and rabbits feet and aubergines.

He had gone slightly overboard.

They began to think he was crazy.

That wasn’t entirely untrue.

They loved him and feared him.

They brought him gifts and riches and puddings to convince him to make it rain or to make it stop.

He favoured those with puddings.

They didn’t know that.

It would have made things much easier.

He could make or break them.

Many would kill to be him. But they didn’t, for they couldn’t. They wished they could. That didn’t change anything.

They didn’t know that he disliked his job.

They didn’t know the price he had to pay.

They thought he controlled the weather.

They thought wrong.

He didn’t.

In fact, sometimes, the weather controlled him.

The rain is a thing with a mind of its own.

No. Really.

Not just a mind, but a personality as well.

Being an ever changing force of nature, the rain is not known for its stability.

It is a scary force to meet in a dark alley.

He could talk to the rain. He had no special powers at all. He was one of hundreds across the globe that could talk to the weather. Many of these became weathermen as they believed this talent would help them in their careers.

It didn’t.

The rain lies.

None of them could control the rain.

But he was different.

He was manipulative cunning and conniving.

He also knew psychology.

He would tease, flatter, challenge and bribe the rain.

But the rain would do the same to him.

The rain would make him dance and sing, balance eggs on his nose and do other amusing things before it would give in to his wishes.

They had a loving relationship.

As a child he talked to the rain and over time they became friends. They both had nobody else.

Well the rain did. But they were idiots who tried to command it.

“Rain I tell you. Rain!” they would say.

“Oh go be weathermen”, the rain would reply.

And they did.

They were rather daft.

His name was Fred.

He called the rain names.

They were constantly locked in a battle of wits. For them it was all about the mind games, and sometimes the board games. But the rain could never concentrate very long on Monopoly.

Their situation got progressively worse.

At one point in time he had to dance under the full moon naked while covered in slugs.

This is why he never let anyone see him when working.

Sometimes he had to draw strange symbols on the ground. Some may think that these caused it to rain. Actually the rain wanted them drawn as they made rude signs when seen from the sky.

Though Fred loved his friend he wasn’t very happy with the things he had to do anymore.

It wasn’t very helpful when every so often there came from the heavens yells of “Dance little minion! Dance!”

And then there were the little things.

One summer Fred decided to go driving for the first time. He was just getting the hang of it when “HELOOOO” thundered the rain and completely obscured his vision in a deluge that no one had seen coming.

“HERE I AM! IT”S GREAT TO BE BACK!”

For Fred the first rains of the monsoon were usually a struggle for survival.

There came a day when

“We need to talk”

“Um…you’re making me uncomfortable Fred”

“This isn’t working Rudolph” (for that was the name that Fred chose to call the rain that day)

“Was it something I said?”

“It is so much more than that”

“Why haven’t you said anything?”

“I’ve tried. But you never give me a chance to what with the dancing around fires and eating of disgusting lizard tails.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you felt that way about lizard tails.”

“I feel that way about a lot of things”

“We do have a problem don’t we?”

“Yes we do.”

And that’s how Fred and the rain decided to get therapy. 

She Wobbled

She wobbled. A lot

She had been drinking. A lot.

He was going to drop her home.

He tied his shoelace

She ran down the stairs.

He looked up. She was gone.

He was worried. That woman will kill herself. Or a car will do it for her.

He ran down the stairs.

It seems she gets more stable the less stable she is.

He missed one.

He fell down the rest.

She met 2 of his friends outside.

“Hey where is he?” they asked

He fell in a pile at their feet.

“Never mind, here he is. You better take him home.”

His pride was hurt. So was his butt and right elbow.

He was completely sober.

The Winning Streak

He ordered pineapple juice.

She ordered plum.

They stood there talking as people passed by.

Suddenly they heard a voice scream:

“NOO! NOT MY AUNTIES! TAKE ME INSTEAD PLEASE DON’T TAKE MY AUN….”

…*GNNnnGNNnnn* went the mixer.

“AARGH! NOOO! WHY GOD WHY?!” screamed, what they quickly realized to be a plum.

The plum was quickly silenced.

The fork was aimed well.

“Oops! Forgot to sedate that one.” said the juice-walla.

They were horrified.

They had never been acquainted with the fruit slaughter industry.

Realization struck.

Everyday they took lives, broke up families, and possibly destroyed entire cultures of fruit.

A girl walked up to the juice stand.

She ordered grape.

“Nooo!” screamed Kay. “Think of the massacre! The bloodshed! The ethnic cleansing!”

The girl raised an eyebrow.

She took a minute.

It was a false eyebrow.

And it was shaped like a unicorn.

“Oh! My! God!” said Kay. “I absolutely LOVE your eyebrow!”

She was easily distracted.

“Where did you get it?” she continued, completely oblivious to the ongoing deaths of a family of grapes.

“Oh there’s this place called ‘UNIBROW- Eyebrows for men and women’.”

It was at that moment that an un-sedated grape ran past and jumped off the counter.

“AAH!” Gasped Kay and M. as the suicidal grape fell to its death.

They were the only two people who saw what followed.

The girl at the counter had begun singing to herself about princesses…. and bear hugs.

Everyone else was watching her.

Some appalled, some amused, one very, very afraid. Spot the princess.

The fall should have killed it, as it had killed many men that size.

But the grape possessed some remarkable survival qualities.

It was round and squishy.

It bounced, rolled and ran (or continued rolling) for freedom screaming, “I will avenge you my aunties!”

They sighed with relief.

The juice-walla shivered with fear. There is nothing scarier than a vengeful grape.

Their relief was short lived.

Down came the shoe.

“AAH!” gasped the grape.

“AAH!” gasped Kay and M. as the grape’s life flashed before their eyes.

They were very empathetic people.

“AHA!” rejoiced the juice-walla.

The grape rolled.

The shoe descended.

The grape was slow.

The shoe caught upon his backside.

“AH!” they screamed in horror.

“AHA!” rejoiced the juice-walla yet again. He had no shame.

With a pop so small that nobody heard it, the grape shot out of its skin and zoomed away to freedom.

They were a little relieved, but still a little horrified. There was a skinless streaking grape before them.

They watched as it reached the safe zone.

Shoe.

Squish.

Mess on the floor.

It happened so fast.

They would never be the same again.

Neither would the grape.

The juice walla threw a party.

The incident changed their lives. They went to become the two people who single handedly exposed the fruit slaughter industry to the world and initiated the Free All Fruit revolution (or FAF). Today they travel the world telling the story of “The Grape That Lived…..For a While.”

They have conducted rallies and hold protests outside orchards and salad bars, fighting for the rights of fruit and promoting the more traditional (and caring) diet of carnivorism.

Their signs often read:

“Fruit are our Friends!”

 “Be Humane. Eat Meat!”

 “Say No To Fruitcake”

The last one tends to be misunderstood.

Their efforts have not gone unnoticed. They have succeeded in convincing me to eat steak for the rest of my life. For the betterment of the world I am willing to make this sacrifice.