Mozzarella

Jake silently reloaded his Beretta while his experienced ears attuned even to the sound of a mouse scuttling across the floor, listened carefully, trying to gauge Brenner’s next movement. He heard a silent click. Brenner had reloaded as well. And his was a Luger with a larger magazine. Eight bullets to his six.

Which didn’t really matter, of course. All Jake needed was two shots. And so did Brenner. It was Geneva all over again.

Sound familiar? It could be something you’d read in the latest Archer or Ludlum. Tom Clancy, perhaps. The quintessential spy confrontation. Just one glance at these words can make me remember years of my life spent in reading stuff like this.

Yup, spy thrillers and their like. There was a time when I used to gobble up 3 books like this in a week. A time when Ludlum was my favourite author, Noel Holcroft my idol and the CIA my calling in life. Allright, maybe not as bad as that. But it was close. While most of this is not pulp per se, it is the prevailing view amongst several people that it is, so ‘pulp’ it shall be referred to as. There are a few people who’ve never passed through this phase in their lives and indeed some who are proud of this. And though I hardly read books like these nowadays, I don’t really regret having ‘wasted’ my time on them.

In those years, it was all about escapism. A yearning for a life more than an ordinary student who just went to school and did his homework. It is an impressionable age, the age of 13 or 14. A couple of years past puberty, when a boy realises that he is a man and wants to assert himself in some way. And of course, urban India offers few such opportunities and hence the boy has to turn to ‘pulp’ fiction to satiate these desires.

The phenomenon, of course, started in the West. The ‘pulp’ thriller offers a lot to the average Joe. This was and still remains the central reason for their popularity. Imagine the average American (though it’s not very likely that you or I have met one) with a boring job, bogged down with responsibilities concerning his wife and kids. He who drives downtown in a beaten down Mercedes. And while he’s stuck in the traffic, I’m sure there must be some point of time when he wishes he had a Maserati. And that’s where it starts. He wishes to get out of the drudgery of his white-collar job and live a life less ordinary. Guns, thrills, chases. He wants them all.

Notice how the ‘pulp’ thriller plays upon these emotions. The protagonist in many American novels is an ordinary guy with an ordinary job. This is of course, his ‘cover’. In reality, he’s usually one of the CIA’s (or equivalent agency’s) hotshot agents or alternatively someone on the run from it. And there is definitely a point when he leaves his job and family to assume his true identity. See how the transformation of the hero from an ordinary guy to super-spy parallels the fantasizing of the reader, be he an adult or a high-school boy.

Then the guns. Guns are described in such vivid detail in ‘pulp’ fiction, no-doubt serving as an effective lure for the reader. Technical descriptions about the magazine, muzzle velocity, piercing power and silencer action only serve to give a masterful illusion of power to the reader. Indeed, he is already visualizing himself reloading and shooting the gun, which surely is a welcome momentary diversion from operating something mundane like a lawn mower.

Further seduction of the reader results from phrases like ‘his trusty Walther PPK’, ‘his ever-dependable Beretta’ and so on. These give a sense of belonging, control and total mastery over the weapon. Ever noticed how James Bond always drives the same car and uses the same gun all the time? Though it is highly unlikely that a spy would even use one unless he absolutely has to. This feeling of power is even more pronounced in a schoolboy who’s often denied certain privileges by adults though he feels he is entitled to them.

The setting comes next of course, hand in hand with the plot. This usually concerns situations of international intrigue involving one or more intelligence agencies battling it out. In the 70s and 80s it was almost always the CIA and the KGB with the MI5 and Mossad making regular appearances. Of course, the novels that come out nowadays are more focussed on terrorism, in tune with the situation in the real world today, though many feel that the falling of the Iron Curtain has deprived several authors of their pet playground.

Note that the extremely meticulous research that goes in to the descriptions of these agencies is a mere smokescreen to mask how unrealistic the situations actually are. For instance, the work of a spy is almost always portrayed to be glamourous while in reality it involves more paperwork and long waits than the authors will have you believe.

The setting is usually in several exotic places, which yet again play upon the escapist nature of the reader. Geneva, Zurich and other Swiss locations are a favourite of several authors citing the relatively relaxed international laws there as a perfect reason for all sorts of monetary transactions taking place there. I can’t recall any spy thriller I’ve read, which didn’t involve a Swiss bank in some way or the other. Other popular locations include the bleak, snow-ridden landscape of Russia, the autobahns of Germany, the streets of Paris, military bases on islands, in forests etc. Very often, the quiet, charming English/French/German village or American town also makes an appearance. It is quite clear that, while it is the goal of most authors to make the reader relate to whatever they’ve written, ‘pulp’ authors aim for the exact opposite. And yet, ironically their greatest strength is that the readers do actually fantasize and try to relate themselves to it.

The character of the hero is of course that of a person who is generally on the high moral ground. In fact, most novels try to bring in an element of ‘realism’ by portraying the hero as a person who has to kill people sometimes in his line of work and feels a terrible sense of remorse as a result. This hooks in the reader in two ways. One, the sense of approval that results from the fact that the hero is ‘human after all and a victim of circumstance’. And the other at a very subconscious level, is the sense of power. An undercurrent that makes the reader feel that he holds the keys of life and death over people.

As is true with most movies and books, the hero lives his usual life in the beginning of the novel and as it progresses, faces several problems some of which might even be personal. The odds seem unsurmountable, but in the end, the hero triumphs over them. Which brings us to the antagonist. In general the antagonist is a powerful figure and often absent for large parts of the book, the author successfully playing upon the fear of the unseen here. Not fear, but more of a sort of apprehension. The antagonist is often an equal of the hero as far as physical and mental abililities go. He’s often a ruthless cold-blooded killer and it is through the subtle use of adjectives like these (describing immorality) that the author ensures that the reader doesn’t end up identifying himself with the antagonist.

There is of course another type of antagonist that is popular in many novels and this is that of the organization. An omnipotent, omniescent and yet unseen organization working behind the scenes to effect several international incidents like embezzlement, assassination and so on. This is very popular with authors like Ludlum. And indeed, a vast powerful organization against a single hero is a powerful reel for the reader, although some are more attracted by the one-on-one fight dynamic of the lone antagonist versus the lone protagonist.

And where would 'pulp' thrillers be without the women? Reality is clearly ignored here because the chances of a woman coming near a spy operation, much less get intimately involved with the spy are very small indeed. But if there is one universal common thread in all spy thrillers, it is – if there’s a major female character, she had better be as beautiful as possible. And descriptions of love scenes are usually, though not always, there. For the red-blooded male absolutely cannot resist anything like this. A couple of additional points worthy of mention here. One, that if a female is a double agent then she is almost never killed by the hero. She either commits suicide or is killed by some other woman. A typical example of the latter being in The Guns Of Navarone (the movie atleast, don’t remember if the book had it). Two – in spite of the woman generally being able to take care of herself, the hero always assumes a protective attitude towards her and his whole family (if it exists). This is something that resonates very clearly with the reader’s personal life. For at the end of the day, in spite his flights of fancy, the reader always feels a sense of responsibility towards his wife and kids and so does the hero, making the illusion all the more complete.

And of course, one of the most important things of all. The twist. Most book have a twist (sometimes predictable) in the plot. The author always banks his success upon the ‘unputdownability’ of the book. A book like this is almost always devoured in a maximum of three to four sittings. Any more and it’s failing its purpose. The slow release of crucial information causing curiousity and eagerness in the reader to flick those pages faster and faster is an art, which some ‘pulp’ authors have nearly perfected.

Of course, no ‘pulp’ thriller carries all of these characteristics. It would be called a manual of cliché if it did. But nevertheless, these are some of the common techniques used by authors to pull the reader into their web. It is notable that British and American authors differ in several ways. The British protagonists are usually young bachelors and are not tied down by family and other bonds. The American is however a more sensitive sort of fellow with several responsibilities on his shoulders. In American novels, the women are usually romantically involved with the hero and often play an important part in the plot. Whereas women are either a distraction (Ian Fleming) or not significantly present (McLean) in the works of British authors. I’m not sure if these differences are representative of the cultural differences between the British and the Americans.

So, if you have indeed waded through this long post, you’ll know why these novels were irresistible to me and to most teenagers in their high school days. And though I may have grown out of these novels it still doesn’t prevent me from reading the blurbs on the latest Ludlum or Forsyth at the AH Wheeler bookstalls. I still rank the Bourne Identity as one of my favourite books, because I have nothing but pleasant memories of it. The thirst to read ‘pulp’ is no longer there, but it’s impossible to forget the time when it was there. Deep in the recesses of my memory, there is a world inhabited by spies, guns, fast cars, beautiful women and international intrigue. A world where ‘pulp’ culture still lives on.

As much fun as I had reading the stuff which JD put up, I was a little skeptical of answering this myself after being ‘tagged’ by him. But what the hell, I’ve got nothing better to do anyway. So here goes…

How do people refer to you?

Relatives and parents call me Ashish. Most of my friends call me Aziz thanks to this watchman misspelling Ashish in the callers’ registry and one of my friends stealing the registry for weekend reading. My official nickname is Engine (after I gulped petrol under very strange circumstances), though very few people call me that.

What are your screen names?

Screen names are restricted to Ashish on most occasions unless I’m feeling particularly bored, in which case I find Sir Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett more interesting. And being the semi-regular Quake player that I am, I am known (with a sense of dread and foreboding I might add) in the fragging grounds as Creeping Death. I don’t think I should get into the LanMsn names here as they change twice everyday.

What are the physical things you like about yourself?

In general, I guess I’m happy that I’m not abnormal in any way. Reasonably tall, average weight, normal skin. I feel (unlike my parents) that my longish hair rather suits me.

What are the physical things you don't like about yourself?

I’m perfectly happy with most of myself, though I sometimes wish I had longer fingers and broader wrists.

How has your heritage influenced you?

My Tamil is pretty different from what they speak in Chennai, and somehow that makes me proud (don’t ask why). But apart from that nothing major, really. I believe in a kind of God (too complicated to explain) but for most practical purposes, I don’t bother about God, the universe and all that. I don’t really believe in religious rituals (and hardly observe any myself), but they instil a kind of discipline in a person, so I guess they’re allright as long as they don’t get in the way of more important activities.

What are the things that scare you?

Being on the top of a very tall building without a railing on the sides. Basically great heights, though only when I feel that there is a realistic chance of me dropping from them.

But apart from that, to quote Edmund Blackadder,”I laugh in the face of fear. I tweak the nose of panic and drop ice-cubes down the vest of terror.”

What are your everyday essentials?

Atleast an hour everyday, with music in my ears through headphones.

Mindless jamming on the guitar.

One episode of some comedy series.

The internet, of course.

Name three things you're wearing now.

Glasses, T-shirt and shorts. Why is this question here? Very pointless.

What are the things you want in a relationship?

Tough one. Since I have no experience whatsoever in this regard, I’ll restrict myself to saying that the ‘other’ must have a sense of humour that matches mine, stay cool most of the time and not worry about things that are not under her control.

Give me two truths and a lie, in no particular order.

I’ve been brutally honest throughout this post.

I’m extremely skilled at defending myself against someone who attacks me with a piece of fresh fruit.

I have a cunning plan to bring about world peace.

What are the 'things' in the opposite sex that appeal to you?

A nice voice, ‘non-grumpiness’ and good conversation skills appeal the most to me (apart from the usual umm… things which most men look for in women)

What are the three things you want to do badly now?

To listen to Extreme right now. A few clicks and this is done.

To eat Haldiram’s Bhujia (whose endless supply in my house is sadly at an end).

To get the Beatles Anthology DVD to work somehow.

What are the three career options you're considering?

I’d love to be a writer someday, but unfortunately (or fortunately), that may not be.

An engineer in a chemical plant, but only because I’m doing my Btech in Chemical Engineering. This option is not really motivated by interest.

My low CGPA has forced me to consider management as the most likely career path though I really don’t have a good idea of what it’ll involve.

What are the three places you'd like to go on vacation?

New York, London and Woodstock (if the festival returns sometime). I always feel better if I’m in a large city. The larger the better.

Name three kid names you like.

Can’t think of any. Anything apart from Baldrick should do fine.

What are the three things you'd like to do before you died?

Play something like Malmsteen’s “Arpeggios From Hell” on the guitar.

Write something that is published.

Torture Sooraj Barjatya in the same way he tortured me with “Main Prem Ki Deewani Hoon”

What is your favourite quote?

“I’ll be darned… Cover me in flour and eggs and bake me for 40 minutes!”

Who else do you want to tag to make them take the quiz now?

Allright, I know I’ve been very boring, but quite frankly so are the questions. Let’s just say that since I’ve spent this much time on it, I might as well put it up. The people I’d want to tag are:

The “Eveready” Bhaand, who I suspect is always online.

Metabuh, who’s barbecuing himself in the Chennai heat by playing Quake.

The dead parrot who’s not blogged since 44 BC.

I’ve been a doorman for as long as I can remember.

Actually, Mr. Patel tells me that it’s been about 10 years since he hired me, but it seems like a really long time to me. When your entire day consists of opening a door to let patrons inside and outside a restaurant; your week then consists of 7 such days (mostly) and your year consists of 52 such weeks. 10 years and you’ve lived out a lifetime.

It’s all such a blur sometimes. Doors opening and closing. People walking in and out. The same set of people could’ve walked in and out everyday and I wouldn’t have known. You see, I don’t remember faces anymore. All I remember is what they eat – and only when I happen to look inside the restaurant out of boredom. For example I remember that the first customer yesterday, ordered chapathis and kurma.

I know I’m not normal. It’s not normal for a doorman to work throughout the day on both shifts, but it’s what I do. From 9 am to 11 pm everyday. And make no mistake; I do it of my own free will. Nor is it normal for a person to stick to a job like this for this long. I know that there might be greener pastures elsewhere, but I’ve simply not reached out.

Imagine that you lived under an apple tree and survived on those apples as they fell down, some 3 or 4 per day. The industrious man would’ve climbed the tree, plucked the apples, sold them, bought some seeds, grown more apple trees and continued until he had established an orchard. I’m not industrious.

I am content to live off 4 apples a day, because you see; with every new venture there is an element of the unknown. The unknown scares me. I am satisfied with the wages that my present job gives me. Of course, it gives me more than that. An identity and a haven, for instance. As long as I’m outside the Girnaar restaurant, I’m allright. I even live in a small room behind it. Any further down the Cross Cut road away from Girnaar, and I feel uneasy. The unknown scares me.

It’s a pretty boring job. To look at the patrons entering and welcome them in that phony cheerful voice that I’ve developed to such an extent that it’s almost mechanical. And yet cheerful, don’t ask me how. Most of them don’t even look at me, which is fair enough considering the fact that I’m not exactly talking to them. I open the door and a small blast of the cooled air from inside hits me as the patrons enter. There is usually a small hint of the aroma of tandoori rotis in that air. It makes me hungry sometimes. The door is closed and I’m standing pointlessly again, waiting for the next person to arrive.

Sometimes it does get a bit tiring sometimes when one stands for hours together in the sweltering afternoon heat. On these occasions, I sit on this little stool beside the door and often get a wink from Jaikishan. I don’t know why he does that. He’s a good waiter, and treats the patrons well. Of course, I can’t hear any of them inside. They’re like the fishes in the small aquarium inside the restaurant – opening and closing their mouths with apparently no sound coming out of them.

Jaikishan is the one who doubles for me, when I’m gobbling my lunch or dinner hurriedly. He’s been here for some 5 years according to him. We haven’t exchanged more than 10 words in that time. I suppose one might think of restaurant employees as people sharing a great rapport with each other, celebrating together on special occasions and so forth. It’s not so. Not here at least.

It used to, though. Once upon a time in the past, it used to be like that. But not now. This business has become a vicious race. Employees come in, worm their way into favour with the boss, earn a fat pile of cash and leave when they see better opportunities elsewhere. The whole city’s supposed to be like that. I wouldn’t know about the rest of the city, of course.

The day ends at 11:00 pm when I make my way around the restaurant into my sparsely furnished room. And every night, as I lie down on the bed and close my eyes, I remember that my parents passed away long ago and I was pretty hopeless at studies. I recall that I have an aunt living in Ghatkopar. But these aren’t exactly memories. In the sense that they seem to be something I know as information and not something I remember as experiences. It’s almost as if my mind is forcing me to learn who I was. What I am is of course, perfectly clear.

I’ve been a doorman for as long as I can remember.

Here’s a compilation of stuff that doesn’t make sense to me. Yeah, read the fine print. To me. If any of you can explain these things to me, please do. I need not agree of course:

1. Why do people love to wallow in misery?

Picture this. You’ve been working all day (or been jobless, whatever) and at night after dinner you’d like to relax a little, right? By watching people cry?

Yup, Sun TV. Tune in at about 8 or 9 pm everyday to see the young and old alike weep like they’re swallows forced to stay in Siberia for the winter. It’s most likely that you’ll spot the ocular-rivulet-releasing self-sacrificing goody-two-shoes wife of some mustachioed ‘I-abuse-women-and-my-shirt-is-starched-white’ maniac. Kids who’ve been given the burning karandi treatment on their tender hands by the evil maid-servant are currently the ‘hot’ favourite. Of course, all this weeping and wailing allows glycerine companies to make a quick buck off these serials, something that assures me that my Chemical Engineering education may not be in vain after all. Glycerine has given the term ‘soap-opera’ a new meaning.

2. What about the people who’re really suffering in life?

Simple. They head to Oprah or Smriti Irani or any of the other celebrated agony aunts on television nowadays. Why though?

I find it hard to believe that people who’re at an all time low in their lives can have their problems solved on national television in front of millions of viewers. And in about an hour.

Woman: “My husband is not able to satisfy me in bed.”

Oprah: “There, there…”

A couple of enlightening graphs with a little admonishing speech from Oprah (“Men! You’ve really got to fill those 10 minutes up!”) and then:

How the hell?

The traditional cookery shows involved a chef standing in a kitchen and showing us how to cook a dish or two. But nowadays, you’ve got a dummy beside the chef who generally nods his/her head and goes oh-I-see for everything the chef does.

Chef: “Now I add garam masala to the ice-cream batter…”

Dummy (with a serious knowledgeable look on his face): “Oh I see, I see…”

And at the end after sampling the ice-cream,

Dummy (looking like a bird that’s just swallowed a plate): “Umm, aah, marvellous… aap ki haath ki bani cheez to hamesha lajawaab hoti hai.”

Allright, so maybe most of the time the dishes are actually good. But why do we need a lackey in VJ attire to testify to this? Surely they’ll have to be paid nicely and this would increase production costs right? Does it really bring in those TRPs?

4. More soaps

More soaps, this time the saas-bahu sagas that seem to be everybody’s favourite. There are two distinct types, ones that don’t start with ‘K’ (and suck miserably as a result) and the ones that start with ‘K’ (suck even worse… and are always misspelt).

Trademarks include a super-hard-working-ever-helpful-perfect bahu who is usually the main character. But as the old Peruvian proverb goes: “Bahu must have evil strapless-blouse-wearing-bindi-toting co-bahu as enemy” And there are even awards for these categories called the Star Parivaar Awards or something. Of course, the characters never age even after 15-20 years have passed. People die suddenly allowing a couple of episodes devoted to mourning. And around 90% of them reappear after plastic-surgery. The most unbearable feature in my opinion are the thunderclaps, explosions and other godawful sound effects that ensue after ‘dramatic’ dialogues.

Youngster with gel-in-hair: “Nahi!” (12 tonnes of RDX destroy the neighbourhood)

Father (of around the same age as son): “Kya!” (gazillion tonnes of TNT destroy what’s left of the city followed by a slap that sails one foot wide of the son and repeats itself thrice to the embarassment of the stunt choreographers)

Needless to say that the cameraman is circus-trained and performs several acrobatics causing several flips and jooms.

5. And now for something completely different - the bicycle stand

Why the hell is there a yellow sign at the DAV Gopalapuram entrance saying ‘Parking for Gill Nagar students’? Gill Nagar to the best of my knowledge is miles away from the ‘hallowed portals’ of DAV Gopalapuram. And while we’re at it, where is the mythical and forbidden ‘Santosh Bar’ which the Princi mentioned? And how did we sit through those ridiculous GVC classes without bursting out in laughter? How did I spend 2 years there?!?!?

6. Kill Bill

Will someone tell me what Tarantino’s trying to convey apart from the fact that squished eyeballs, cut-off arms and rivers of blood are pretty funny (maybe that was the intention) to watch?

7. Sooraj Barjatya and Karan Johar are amongst Bollywood’s respected directors

Sooraj Barjatya once released a movie that made me amputate all my limbs and chew my hair. It was this ghastly piece of work called Main Prem Ki Deewani Hoon. Why do they allow crap like this to be released? And why do people force their cousins to sit with them and watch it in a locked room? And I’m not even starting on Karan ‘Koffee-drinking-tosser’ Johar for fear of continuing this blog for another two pages. Suffice it to say that the Indian film industry, in my opinion, could gain more respect if he were to vaporize suddenly (hope springs eternal).

8. Death Metal and Nu-metal

How people can listen to this monstrosity called Death Metal is beyond me. How could somebody seriously listen to a band that calls itself Cannibal Corpse or Cattle Decapitation or Cannibal Holocaust? And has a singer that belches and grunts all the while as videos of people ‘devoured by vermin’ are shown?

On a completely related note, if you like singers yowling and jumping about to two chords and two notes on the bass, then nu-metal is for you. It’s quite pathetic. Dunno how people like it.

9. Front Page International News: Beyonce battling chocolate addiction

Other samples of such international news include Jennifer Aniston moving her house near Courtney Cox and Paris Hilton upto no good. The Times also likes featuring several other pointless articles. Case in point being an article that laments about what it would be like if Bogart didn’t have his cigarette in Casablanca, 0r if Sharon Stone didn’t have one in Basic Instinct, or if Clint ‘Dirty Harry’ Eastwood didn’t smoke. It’s time someone told them that the ban didn’t extend to movies made abroad. And why does the Ahmedabad Times supplement have to provide photographs of arbit people dancing at one of the myriad party plots of Ahmedabad on Page 3 everyday?

(Note: Short story. Fiction. Please read and comment)

“It was an April morning,

When they told us we should go,

As I turned to look at you, you smiled at me,

How could we say no?”

- Achilles Last Stand, Led Zeppelin

These were the words that were ringing in my head that day, for no particular reason. Hadn’t listened to Zep for quite some time now, so it was with a pleasant twang that I recalled the day when I heard ‘Heartbreaker’ for the first time and started imagining that I was playing the solo in the middle. And that with an acoustic guitar in my hands!

Plant stopped singing and I entered the elevator. Another boy of about my age entered behind me. I pressed the button for the 14^th floor and he nodded indicating that he was going there as well. A weird sort of foreboding enveloped me. Probably. Come to think of it, when we’re looking back at something in the past, we always tend to imagine all sorts of emotions that might’ve never been there at all. For instance, on the day that my IIT-JEE results came out, I would like to think that I was apprehensive of the outcome. That I was nervous and cried like a Chennai water resorvoir couldn’t when I found out that I wasn’t in. I don’t think any of that happened.

I felt the steady ascent of the elevator as an invisible force pushed me down. As I was staring pointlessly at the green interiors of the elevator, there was dull thud as the lift stopped and everything went black.

“Bloody hell! A power cut,” said I. “Oh no!” said the boy at almost the same time. A sound that was half a laugh and half a cough came out of me. I smiled at him, but he was busy hammering on the alarm button. Of course, in accordance to the great tradition of Lotus apartments it didn’t work.

“Damn nuisance, isn’t it?” he said.

“Yes. This is the first time I’ve been caught in an elevator like this,” said I. “Hope power comes back soon. I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of the afternoon in this place.”

“Hm, neither would I. I’m Ravi. And you are…?”

“Prakash,” said I. “You’re new to this place, right?”

“Yeah, moved in last Thursday,” said Ravi.

“You’re studying in Chennai?”

“Oh yes. IIT. Mechanical Engineering. Going to the 2^nd year. And you?” he asked.

“I’m in MBEC. EEE. Same year as you,” said I, after a noticeable pause.

I have to mention something here. I could never speak immediately after someone said that he was in IIT. Yeah, I’m not in IIT, so what? Nor would you, if didn’t have a little luck. On the other hand, nearly all of my friends seemed to have luck. Maybe it wasn’t just that.

“Oh. I couldn’t clear the Mains. Did badly in Physics… missed the cutoff by some one mark,” I mentioned, rather unnecessarily.

This JEE talk fades out a little amongst us after we finish 1^st year, when we realise that there’s more to life than the JEE. But it does pop up sometimes and before you know it, you’re discussing the damn battery terminal polarities which could’ve swung either way in some question in the Physics exam.

“Hmm. It doesn’t really matter. IIT is not all that cracked up as it’s made out to be,” he said, with a small smile on his face. I couldn’t be sure in the dark of course, but something told me that there was a smile on his face. And irrationally enough, there was a faint glimmer of hatred towards him at that moment, which passed away in a millisecond.

“It’s bad though, isn’t it? That one question could change your whole life. Remember there was this question where you’ve got to mark the polarities on a battery and you marked them… Ahh, forget it. What am I…”

“Damn! You know what? I scraped through on that very question. Wrong answer there and I wouldn’t have made it,” said Ravi.

“Really? Lucky for you then,” said I before elapsing into a silence. He was silent as well. It isn’t a very comforting thought to stand beside someone whose future is very different from yours just because you chose the pineapple on the right he chose the nearly identical one on the left.

Nearly an hour passed with some small talk here and there. I found out that Ravi was a big fan of Deep Purple and Led Zep. Though this should’ve led on to some interesting conversations about what Zeppelin could’ve been if Bonham didn’t snuff it, it didn’t. And there was no sign of the power coming back, though statistically every passing moment increased the chances of that happening. Or maybe it didn’t. I was never any great shakes at maths anyway.

“This heat is really a killer isn’t it?” said I, breaking a long silence. Way to go, Prakash. Weather talk. The most effective way to start a conversation. Even ahead of, ‘Haven’t I seen you before?’

“Yes it is. Typical. You’ve used the most effective way to start a conversation. Even ahead of, ‘Haven’t I seen you before?’” said Ravi.

Something was wrong.

“Wait a sec…”

“I know what you’re thinking, Prakash. That something’s wrong?” said Ravi.

“You… you’re not…”

“Not what? Not real? I’m real, allright. Though reality is a pretty fickle concept isn’t it?”

“That’s my line!” I thought indignantly. “Tell me you just didn’t say that,” said I, sounding like the wrestler Booker T.

“You’re sounding like Booker T,” he said.

“What the fuck!” I lunged at him. Nobody could read my thoughts like a book. Unless…

Needless to say, I came up with empty air. He was behind me of course, though he was in front of me all the time.

“Wait this isn’t like one of those movies is it? Split personality? You’re fake!” I said, clutching my hair in desperation.

“You know I’m not, Prakash. You know I’m not…”

And I knew he wasn’t. Ravi was real. The elevator was real. The power-cut was real. And I was Jimmy freaking Page, playing the ‘Heartbreaker’ solo. It lasted for exactly 46 seconds.

“Hello, Jimmy,” he said.

“No, I’m not Page!” I screamed out.

“Ah, but you were. Just a moment ago,” he said.

I gulped some air and calmed myself as much as I could in the stale elevator. And simply asked, “Who are you?”

“You know it. Just look inside. Though the more pertinent question would be, ‘Who am I?’”

I knew the answer to my question of course. Ravi was me. More specifically Ravi was me when I didn’t screw up in that circuit question in the Physics JEE exam. He was simply what I would’ve been, had I marked negative on the right and positive on the left. Did I do the opposite? I’m not so sure now.

Ravi was not another personality, like an alter ego or something. He would disappear the moment I wanted him to. But did I? Did I want him to go away? After all I wanted to be in IIT right? So maybe I was in IIT. I was Jimmy Page for some time, wasn’t I?

“You are what you think you are, Prakash. That moment when you grab your acoustic guitar and listen to Heartbreaker, no matter how unbelievable it might seem you are Jimmy Page and you are playing it. From that moment when you marked negative on the right, you have been me…”

“Stop it! Stop it, you bastard! Quit saying that! You’re screwing up my mind,” I shouted, simultaneously slumping down to the elevator floor.

“Fine, then. You don’t seem to accept that you cleared the JEE. So be it. You’re of course, correct. You are a student of MBEC. You were never good enough, were you?”

“You’re lying! You wretched...”

The lights came on suddenly causing me to shield my eyes. The lift moved with a jolt. This sudden disorientation coupled with the heat caused me to faint for a moment. I recovered in a moment and saw that I was alone.

Ping! The lift had reached the 14^th floor. I walked out, almost expecting some silent spectre to follow me. Of course nothing did. I opened the door and entered my house. The first thing I did was to run to the mirror and look at my face. I still don’t know why I did that.

All I knew was that the elevator was a test. Would I accept what I had and look to the future? Or would I rue over what might have been and fantasize about it? I had left Ravi behind in the elevator. That I knew for sure. But who was to say there wouldn’t be a… say a Praveen in the future?

I opened the bedroom windows causing the sunlight to stream in and looking at the crazy people walking on the street below on this hot summer afternoon.

“Strangers passing in the street,

By chance two separate glances meet,

I am you and what I see is me.”

Only that I wasn’t Dave Gilmour. Or Jimmy Page. I was simply Prakash Chandran, 2^nd yr EEE student at MBEC.