Fishing

It was a spectacle for the ages. And I had a front row seat to it every Monday morning. My elder brother, decked in his precisely tattered bomber jacket, would be whistle a familiar tune. The crisp, morning air in conjunction with intermittent splashes of the cold Amsterdam canal water never failed to electrify our spirits. My brother, if in a genial mood, would let me help. But most days, I would sit in my small seat on the boat, next to my brother, scrunched up like a ball of cotton, just absorbing every bit of the performance unfolding in front of me.

An inevitable crowd of people, meant to be grinding their way to work, would stop and gather around the edge of the canal. The canal was the arena and my brother its glorious gladiator. Unfazed by the simmering expectations of the gathered crowd, my brother would continue his merry whistling. The same lyric-less tune, over and over, rising in pitch, over and over, until it would reach a crescendo.

I’d notice the familiar flicker in his eyes, as they lit up, sensing their prey. A quick, efficient movement would anchor the boat. With a gazelle like grace, his fingers would dance and weave in intricate ways on the control panel, culminating in a loud mechanical screech. A bear- like claw, awakened from its slumber, would stretch itself out in the sun. It would hover for a moment over the water, trying to get its bearings, before making a plunge into the dark abyss of the sludgy canal.

For a moment, nothing would happen. And then it would all happen very quickly. The claw would struggle, splashing around as it overpowered its prey, commanded by my brother’s experienced hands. A collective gasp would emanate from the gathered crowd. The skin of my arm would break out in goosebumps. The claw would emerge victorious with the prey dangling in its monstrous grip — a rusty, muddy bicycle, plucked from the depths of the Amsterdam canal.

And everyone would applaud.

The End Is Near – Chapter 1

Please steal a quick glance at your watches. That’s precisely when this story takes place.

We zoom into a fairly run-of-the-mill banana republic in East Asia and find ourselves inside a military command room. A control panel takes center stage. It’s studded with a bunch of glowing thingamajiggies, which radiate the most sinister intentions. A big, bright red button, sits in the middle of the console, daring itself to be pressed.

A group of people in military uniforms surround the control panel. They’re led by a small-ish, big-boned figure, dressed impeccably in a black two-piece ensemble, straight out of the latest issue of The Despots’ Weekly. All of them sport Nationally Approved Hairstyle #1 with flair. There is no Nationally Approved Hairstyle #2.

At this precise moment, a highly decorated General decides to let out a cough.

“Are you sure you want to do this, O’ Supreme Leader?” he asks.

Kim raises a displeased eyebrow in his direction.

“Of course you are, of course you are,” he flounders, and steps up to the control panel with haste.

The drama reaches its peak. One of the military men lets out a gasp. Kim shakes his head and makes a mental note to execute the bumbling lot when they’re done.

The General closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, prays to the Nationally approved God, and presses the red monstrosity.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Slowly, the control panel comes alive. A stream of characters flash on the large curved screen. The General peers in and reads them.

“Answer the security question to proceed: What is Hyun-Ki’s favourite flavour of ice cream?”

Everyone turns to look at Hyun-Ki. Then they remember. Then they slowly back away from Kim.

Hyun-Ki is the retired former Head of Defense who’d been sent as a diplomatic ambassador to a neighbouring country a couple of years ago, as reward for his years of service. He had been in constant touch with his fatherland, until sometime last year, when he sent out a cryptic message that read, “Have you heard of this thing called Amway?” No one has heard from him since.

Kim shoves the General away and enters one of the 15 million Nationally approved ice-cream flavours in the country. The control panel whirs for a minute, then begins to wail like a petulant child nearing naptime, before completely shutting down.

We zoom out of the bunker to avoid the imminent sounds of gunshot that would echo through it shortly, and zoom into an innocuous looking house in the suburbs of the city.

A girl sleeps fitfully on a tattered mattress on the floor. She’s awoken by the sound of her phone.

“Hello? Who is this? Oh, yes sir…yes, this is she. Yes…I did say that. Yes sir, given enough time and the right resources, I can hack into any computer on Earth.”

What if(but not really)

Priya looks at him. He’s just a stranger sharing the same blanket now. She lies awake wondering why she let Him go so many years ago.

She doesn’t know him is actually Him after he lost his memory and got plastic surgery to look like Him.

She’s always wondered why her name is spelt with three silent K’s.

The Noise

I’ve grown up in a very old house. You know, the kind where the floor, the wall, the cupboards…everything creaks. I’ve long been used to the creepy sounds they make. One interesting side-effect of growing up in such a house is that I’m never impressed by the so-called horror movies Hollywood churns out. If you really think about it, ninety percent of the scares are just that – creaky furniture. Hah. I’m not losing any sleep over that.

But, tonight’s different. I was jarred awake in the dead of night by something I’d never heard before.

Complete and utter silence.

When I look up, my eyes catch something pacing the room. Yet, I don’t hear the floor groan in complaint. It stops to scratch something onto the wall. But, the walls don’t screech.

As the silence becomes deafening, I slide back into bed, and pray for something…anything…to creak again.

The Heist – Short Story

“We need thirty-one of those,” Rahul pointed inside the store, “The Boss was very specific about that.”

A well-aimed brick sailed through the helpless glass window with a loud crash.

Rashi tiptoed in, her svelte figure deftly avoiding the glass remains. She picked up The Loot with her gloved hands and carefully stashed it away in an airtight container in her backpack. She wished she could contain her nervousness in a similar manner, but her trembling hands wouldn’t listen. After all, The Boss had personally asked for these. One mistake and her partner would have to deal with a gooey mess. Her hands trembled a little more.

“Nice job back there, Rashi. How many did we get?” Rahul asked between deep puffs of breath after they had put a decent distance between themselves and the crime scene.

“Thirty,” Rashi replied, grimacing from a mix of fear and pain. She knew that The Boss never settled for less, even if it was only one less. She also knew, a bit too late, that heels weren’t the most appropriate footwear for a heist. She proceeded to curse The Boss and every actress that had been part of a heist movie under her breath.

“Are you sure you haven’t missed counting one?”

Rashi nodded, massaging her traumatized foot.

“Not good.”

Rashi nodded again.

Rahul paused to catch up with some more of his breath and thoughts. The Boss still hadn’t approved his request for company conveyance and he was too old for these post-heist sprints. He brushed his hands through his graying hair, out of nervous habit, before looking at his mobile phone’s clock. It was two hours to midnight. Not only was he already too old, he constantly continued to get older. The last of his twenties would sail out of reach in a few minutes. He should have been partying with his friends, getting drunk beyond recognition, yet here he was, carrying out dangerous nocturnal heists instead. The thought of his friends jolted him out of his musings. It reminded him that most of them had been bumped off over the years because they had failed to carry out The Boss’ missions. He needed to focus, regrets could wait until he sponsored the next installment of his shrink’s obscenely generous pension plan.

“We must find one more,” Rahul said.

“But…from where? We just got every single one, didn’t we? We’ll have to wait until the next batch.”

“We can’t wait that long. We have less than two hours to get these to The Boss. He explicitly mentioned that he wanted them by midnight. He even had The Glint in his eye when he mentioned it.”

“Not The Glint, no,” Rashi backed away instinctively.

“Yes, The Glint,” Rahul assured her.

“Do…do you have a plan?”

“I do. We’ll need another brick.”

***

The second well-aimed brick of the night sailed through the Jaguar’s windshield, making the obligatory loud crash. The security alarm wailed into the night. Rahul and Rashi receded into the proverbial underbelly of a dark corner in the driveway and waited.

The Maker, as his patrons called him, stirred in bed. Years of paranoia, arising from a mix or real and imaginary attempts to steal The Formula, had turned him into a light sleeper. The frantic cries of his Jaggu did not go unheard for long.

The front door of the duplex house soon opened with a thud. Rahul waited intently behind the bush. A generous belly poked out of the door as if to scout the area, before being followed by the rest of The Maker’s middle-aged figure out into the adjoining driveway. He let out a scream as his eyes fell on the grisly remains of his Jaggu’s windshield, or at least tried to, before he was ambushed by an age-defyingly nimble Rahul. A quick tap on The Maker’s head by Rashi, using the multi-talented brick, brought the driveway scene to a close.

The Maker woke up a couple of minutes later, a little groggy, and tied to one of his own chairs.

“Give us The Formula, if you want to live,” Rashi growled on cue.

“Yes, give us The…um, no, that’s not what we want,” Rahul scowled back.

“No?

“No! What’ll we do with The Formula? He’s The Maker, not us. Only he knows how to make more of them the right way.”

The Maker, interjected at this moment, “Are you saying that you’ve broken into my house, at this ungodly hour, to make me make you a…”

“Yes, and it should be done in the next sixty minutes,” Rahul interjected.

“Impossible. What if I refuse?”

“That Jaguar of yours still has a few windows left, I notice,” Rashi replied.

“Nothing’s impossible for The Maker,” The Maker corrected himself.

Rahul untied The Maker and walked him to The Workshop.

“Now, don’t get any ideas. Just do as you’re told and no one or thing shall get hurt,” Rahul spelled out the standard threat.

The Maker rolled his eyes, “Who do you think I am? Iron Man? I assure you that I won’t create suit-of-war in there. Now leave me alone. I need to concentrate.”

Rahul stepped back with his hands raised in a mock gesture.

“Sheesh. This one has a temper, doesn’t he? I certainly wouldn’t want to break into his home again anytime soon.” Rashi said.

Rahul looked at his phone’s watch. Ninety minutes to midnight. They might just make it in time.

That’s when another one of the clearly overworked brick fraternity made its way through the workshop’s window. They knew how to make an entry, one had to give them that. They could have taught a thing or two to the burly men in masks, who ungainly followed the brick in, negotiating the remaining bits of glass.

The leader of the burly pack scanned the occupants, “Rahul? What are you doing here? You know you aren’t supposed to be part of this mission.”

“Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do, Sharma. You’re not the boss of me.”

“Well, no, but The Boss is the boss of you. Didn’t he explicitly forbid you to mess with this heist?” He paused before adding, “Oh, and thanks for outing my name, you idiot. So much for my disguise.”

“Right,” Rahul rolled his eyes, “The Maker now knows that his house has been broken into by one of the two million Sharmas in the city. You’re done for.”

“Yeah? Well…whatever,” Sharma retaliated as best he could.

Sharma looked at Rashi’s backpack and eventually two and two were put together, “Hold on. What’s in there? Is that The Loot? Were you responsible for the break-in at the Master’s store?”

“Um…”

Sharma pointed a gun at Rahul’s head. “I should have known. You’re always trying to one-up everyone in front of The Boss. Well, not this time. I’m not as stupid as poor gullible Verma. Hand the goodies over.”

“What happened to Verma?” Rashi couldn’t help but ask.

“Not now, Rashi,” Rahul snapped.

“Don’t want to tell her about Verma? I guess there is some remorse in there after all.”

Rahul gritted his teeth. “Let it go, Sharma.”

“Never. Verma and I had a bond that went beyond rhyming surnames. It still pains me when I think of what you did to him.”

“What…happened to him? He’s not dead, is he? Did Rahul kill him?” Rashi asked the most obvious question considering her present company.

”Dead? Hah. If only. No. Verma is very much alive. If you can call that a living.” he paused, trying to power through the pain. “He’s now a…a…soft…software developer,” he blurted out.

Rashi cringed. A sudden wave of nausea swept over her.

“And Rahul here was the one that told him he should become one. He even funded his education,” Sharma added.

“He was good at it! You didn’t see how his face lit up every time he made those Matrix-like things happen to his screen.”

“The things from the bullet scene?” Sharma interjected.

“No, not the bullet scene! I mean those green moving things…you know…the stuff hat…hack…hackers do?”

Sharma shrugged.

Exasperated, Rahul looked at Rashi, searching for support.“It was his calling dammit! Surely you understand why I did that, Rashi? He was not good enough to be one of us. He had…other talents. Surely, in this day and age, we can allow a man to live life as he pleases, even if it is strange and unnatural, without judging him.”

Rashi continued to give him an admonishing stare.

“He told me he wanted to become a full-stack specialist!” Rahul tried going all out in one final attempt at justifying his actions. “He said his idol was Bjarne Stroustrup!”

“Those aren’t real words and you know it,” Sharma interjected.

Rashi nodded in agreement.

Rahul looked crestfallen.

Sharma smirked.

Rashi took this opportunity to snatch the gun from Sharma’s outstretched hand.

“Son of a…,” Sharma began.

Rahul kicked his legs from under him in one smooth motion.

“…unnggggh,” Sharma ended as his head hit the ground, the impact knocking him out immediately.

Rashi cocked back the gun.

The rest of the group, displaying an alertness clearly lacking in their leader, quickly clambered out the window.

“Take your boss with you!” Rashi cried out after them, to no avail.

“Those guys were really bad at their job,” she said.

“Rashi, you must believe me about Verma…” Rahul tried again.

“I couldn’t care less about Verma,” Rashi stopped him mid-sentence.

“She is done,” The Maker announced as he walked onto the erstwhile battle scene.

He held up the finished product such that the tube-light glinted off its shiny edges.

“A thing of beauty. As usual,” he remarked, clearly satisfied.

Rahul snatched it out of his hands and added it to the contents of Rashi’s airtight container.

“Number thirty-one. We’re done,” Rashi said.

Rahul looked at his watch. “Fifty minutes to midnight. Let’s go.”

“Wait…what should we do with Picasso here?” Rashi asked.

Rahul thought for a bit, and replied, “Kill him.”

The Maker, petrified, took a step back.

Rashi looked quizzically at Rahul.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You should have seen the look on your face!” he laughed.

Rashi rolled her eyes. The Maker tried to stop hyperventilating.

“Let him be. He won’t call the police. He knows better than to mess with The Boss’ people.” Rahul said.

“He does, doesn’t he?” Rashi looked at The Maker. The Maker nodded between gasps of breath.

“And what about Sharmaji here?” Rashi pointed to the limp figure on the floor.

“Ugh. I guess we’ll have to take him with us. I think I saw a dumpster around the corner.”

“All right then. Pick a side and lift.”

***

The Lair had an air of celebration around it when Rahul and Rashi got there. Rahul spotted The Boss immediately. He was tough to miss, dressed in a crisp white suit – the staple of mafia bosses and fashion-challenged youths through the ages. Rahul went up to him and greeted him with perfectly executed pecks on the cheeks that would have made the author of The Dummy’s Guide to Mafia Etiquette proud. Rashi was too low in the organizational hierarchy chain to act as if she existed and decided to stand behind Rahul while resolutely staring at her feet.

“Aren’t you early? I thought The Secretary would have called you in a bit later,” The Boss said, surprised.

Rahul dramatically took out the container from Rashi’s backpack and held it up to The Boss.

“Tell me that’s not The Loot, Rahul,” he said, his mafia boss sense tingling.

Rahul shrugged.

“Damn it, Rahul. You know I had assigned this to Sharma.”

“I’m sorry for disobeying you. But this was the first time that you’ve ever asked Sharma to lead an important job instead of me. I may be getting older, but I’m still better than Sharma. I had to prove to you that I could beat him to it.”

The Boss let out a disappointed sigh before raising his hands to get the attention of The Secretary. She seemed to be in panic mode.

She came over when she saw the wave and began, “Neither Sharma nor Rahul is picking up my call. I don’t know what…” she stopped when she spotted Rahul and Rashi.

“Why aren’t you picking up my calls?” she asked Rahul, agitation writ on her thin, pointed eyebrows.

“I was…uh…a bit busy,” Rahul replied.

“Yes, he was busy getting us The Loot,” The Boss interjected, making no attempt to hide the exasperation in his voice, and handed over the container to her.

The Secretary took The Loot and inspected its contents. It caused her to stretch her already furrowed brows to the limit.

“What happened to Sharma?” she asked.

“Nothing permanent,” Rahul replied, with as much nonchalance as he could manage at the moment.

The Secretary shrugged her shoulders and walked away with The Loot.

“Wait here and don’t move,” the Boss gave the two of them a curt order and walked away in The Secretary’s direction.

Rahul and Rashi suddenly became very aware of the fact that The Lair was now empty. The gang hovering around them had disappeared at some point during their conversation.

“Should we be panicking right now?” asked Rashi. She had been watching the proceedings from afar and quietly evaluating alternative professions.

“Probably…”

The lights in The Lair turned off, plunging the entire place into darkness.

Rashi clutched Rahul’s trembling hand.

“Shhh…” Rahul shushed her, trying to listen, his ears sifting through the silence for danger.

Rashi reached for her phone in her bag in order to use its backlight.

“Don’t,” Rahul whispered. ”The darkness is a disadvantage for them too.”

“Them?”

“Yes. We’re surrounded. And they’re slowly closing in.” Rahul’s instinct honed by years of training which included playing dark-room with his cousins in his ancestral home, had notified him of the tip-toeing figures that had probably encircled them by now. He searched his lint lined pockets for something that could be used as a weapon. Rashi took out the pocket knife she always kept in her socks for emergencies.

The figures came closer.

The lights flickered back on. Rashi picked a direction randomly and flung her knife. An explosion reverberated through the air. Someone screamed.

“SURPRISE!!!” The figures yelled in unison.

The Boss led the cheer from the front. The Secretary appeared startled, one of the balloons in her hand had just exploded. She shrugged it off and joined the shrill rendition of ‘Happy Birthday dear Rahul’. No one noticed the knife sticking out of the wall behind her.

Rahul looked at his watch. It was midnight.

The Boss walked him to the table where The Loot was spread out waiting for him.

“There you go. Thirty-one cupcakes and thirty-one candles. Make a wish and blow out the candles.”

Rashi had snuck out in the meantime and removed the evidence of her heroics from the wall.

She looked towards the table as Rahul paused to make a wish.

“Why cupcakes?” she asked the goon standing next to her.

“Cakes are for sissies. And besides The Boss hates them,” he replied.

“Of course,” Rashi joined in the chorus.

Rahul looked at the offending thirty-first cupcake that had ruined his day.

“I’ve only turned thirty – why did we need thirty-one cupcakes?” he asked the Boss.

“Isn’t it obvious? The last one’s for good luck.”

“Of course,” Rahul let out a tired smile, before proceeding to blow out the candles.

 

The Novel Challenge

I’ve always loved to write. The inexplicable joy of reading your own writing a few months down the line while shaking your head in disbelief is reason enough for me.

My biggest literary undertaking began a couple of months ago when I decided to take part in the NaNoWriMo challenge. I wasn’t able to get anywhere near finishing it, but the process was a hoot-and-a-half. With encouragement from some awesome people(you know who you are!), I was able to get a miniscule portion of that story inside me, outside me, and onto the never-ending digital expanse of my word editor. Now, how’s that for imagery?

So, I give to you, humbly(with bowed head and everything) – the first chapter. Please, please, please, let me know what you think. I’ll post the second chapter next week(cue gasps!) if enough people think it’s any worth their time:

The Search

The Search

“I’m afraid there aren’t any Chefs available on such short notice” said the restaurant manager to the eager gentleman.

“Not even one?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, Sir. Not even one.”

“But I’m desperate! I really need a chef for my book!”

“Pardon me, did you say you needed one for your book?”

“Yeah, I’m writing a book – a novel if you please, which takes an in-depth look into a chef’s life gone awry. It’s gonna make me millions! Since I don’t know anything about chefs, I thought it would be nice to do a bit of research on them. You know how any writer worth his salt is supposed to research his characters to make his writing more believable? It’s called ‘getting under the skin of the character’–”

“Get out!” screamed the manager.

“Excuse me?”

“You want to hire a ‘Grandioso’ chef- one who is sought after by the biggest restaurateurs in the business, for some lousy two-bit book? It’s preposterous!”

“What? It’s not like I won’t pay him. In fact, he can have one percent of the royalties from the book sales, and an honourable mention in the book, although I can’t guarantee that I’ll use his real name. Makes it seem more mysterious, you know?”

“Security!”

“I’m going! I’m going!”

As he walked away, Vikram was still as determined as ever to get his writing career off the ground. He believed that he had found the easiest gimmick to get rich quickly – a writer was always only one best-seller away from becoming a billionaire, after all. And even though he didn’t know much about writing, he believed that ‘researching the character’ was absolutely essential. And since he was writing a mystery trilogy with a chef as its protagonist, he needed a chef!

Vikram looked around as he prodded on towards the bus stop. The street was chock-a-block with fancy restaurants with glass windows. His eyes lit up as he saw a sign on one such window. “Kitchen Help Wanted”, it read.

That amounts to a front row seat to a Chef’s performance, Vikram thought. What better place to observe a chef than in his kitchen.

“I hope you have the requisite experience for the position?” the manager asked him after the preliminaries were complete.

“I can boil eggs.” Vikram ventured.

“You’ve studied cooking at college, of course?”

“I boiled eggs when I was at college.” replied Vikram.

“I’m sorry, but you’re unsuitable–” the manager was interrupted midway by a voice from behind the kitchen door.

”Send him in,” the voice said.

“But Caesar, he doesn’t have the skills or the expe–” the manager began, but was
stopped yet again.

“Just send him in!”

“You heard the boss.” The manager shook his head and pointed Vikram towards the kitchen.

Vikram opened the kitchen door and walked in to see a man in a Chef’s hat chopping some vegetables on a slab. He strode out towards him and stuck out his hand in greeting.

“Hi, I’m Vikram. I saw your want ad outside and–”

“Tell me Vikram, can you boil eggs?”

“Done it all my life.”

“You’re hired,” Caesar said quickly.

Vikram scrutinized the kitchen. It was rectangular in shape and had cabinets at one end and washbasins at the other. A large marble slab encircled a pillar in the centre of the room where the major cooking-related activities seemed to take place. A bunch of wires were plugged into a switchboard near the washbasins. The other end of the wires vanished under a door to the side.

“Where is the rest of the staff?” Vikram enquired, looking around at the empty kitchen.

“What staff?” Caesar said distantly. He seemed to be busy scribbling in a small notebook he had just taken out.

“The cooking staff. You couldn’t possibly run a restaurant kitchen with just two people, can you?”

“Oh, we manage to get by.” His scribbling intensified.

“How?” asked a bewildered Vikram.

“I suppose I’d better tell you all.”

Caesar walked across the room to the door and opened it. Vikram followed him and peered inside with anticipation.

Vikram tried to make sense of what Caesar was pointing at, but all he could see in the room was a bed. A pretty bed. A pretty pink bed covered with yellow polka dots. A pretty pink bed covered with yellow polka dots that was nailed to the ceiling. He was about to utter a bunch of words in Caesar’s direction, mostly beginning with ‘wh-‘, but he had to stop himself. It had come to his sudden notice that the bed had turned into a human form and had floated down to face him. Caesar thought for a moment, decided that no answer from Caesar would be good enough for him at this point, and promptly fainted.

When Vikram came to, he found himself lying on a bed in an unfamiliar room. He tried to recollect how he got there. He looked down at the bed and thought that it reminded him of something but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He shrugged his shoulders and closed his eyes to go back to sleep. After all, he was tired and the bed was really comfortable. It wasn’t just comfortable, he thought, it was in fact the most comfortable bed he had ever slept on. He was making a mental note to go and seek out the owner post-nap and find out where he could buy himself one, when he remembered.

Caesar heard the loud shriek followed by the even louder banging on the guest room door. He allowed himself a little smile before turning to his companion. “He’s up. Let’s get ourselves introduced.”

His companion floated mistily to the drawing room door and waited patiently as Caesar opened the door and asked Vikram to calm down. He wondered if Vikram would be able to help Caesar out. But then he remembered the others that had come before him. This would end the same way too, he thought. Horribly.

“Morphy, meet Vikram. Vikram, meet Morphy,” Caesar said with every bit of nonchalance he could muster. He always enjoyed these first meetings.

“What is tha-that thing?” squeaked Vikram, as he pointed an accusing finger at Morphy.

“He’s an alien. And stop pointing, it’s rude.” Caesar slapped Vikram’s hand down.

“Nice to meet you, Vikram,” said Morphy.

“Uh,likewise,” was all Vikram could manage to splutter out.

“Maybe you should sit down.”

Vikram looked at the bed nervously.

“Don’t worry, that one’s just a plain old regular bed.” Caesar chuckled.

Reluctant, Vikram sat on the bed. I won’t able to trust any beds for a while, he thought, but was immediately conscious of what an absurd fear that was and tried to compose himself. He looked up at the alien and studied him properly for the first time. Morphy wasn’t very tall, in fact he was probably a few inches shorter than him. He had an perfect, round face and an even more perfect spherical nose to complement it. The other ‘human’ features were pretty run-of-the-mill too. He was dressed in a simple but smart striped t-shirt and long oxymoronic shorts. Morphy could almost have passed as one of us, Vikram thought, if he didn’t have just one eye. Of course, there was also the small matter of his skin being pink and yellow polka dotted and the fact that he can float.

Vikram was trying to sift through his limited encounters with science-fiction novels to remember whether Martians were supposed to be green or pink, when his thoughts were interrupted by Caesar.

“Let me try to tell you all. Again. Please try not to pass out this time.”

“It all started on April 20th, 2054. It was a bright and stormy night. With a full moon which was the cause of the brightness. I think I also saw a shooting star or two go by. Great set up, right?” Caesar began.

Vikram nodded.

“Yes, it was. I should have known something big was going to happen to me that night. I was engrossed in perfecting my signature recipes when I heard something crash… wait, this doesn’t feel right. A story like this deserves to be told–nay, experienced–better! Morphy, prepare the time machine! We’ll let Vikram see the events as they transpired that night in their full glory: in person.”

“I’m afraid the Sinetransmorgodor, or what you call the ‘time machine’, did not survive the milkshake incident. And since I cannot contact my planet anymore, the only recourse for us is to wait until your people invent inter-planetary travel so that I can ask the manufacturers to deliver the spare parts here.”

“How long will it take for us to invent it again?” Caesar asked with hopeful eyes.

“The same time as when I told you last. Five hundred and twenty-four more years.” Morphy said, glowering at Caesar. Vikram couldn’t help thinking that it was an impressive feat to achieve so effectively with a solitary eye.

“Don’t look at me like that! How was I to know that your alien technology is so susceptible to milk-based drinks? And why don’t they have a service centre in this part of the solar system? They’re the people you should be mad at!” said Caesar.

“You guys have a time machine?” Vikram asked.

“Where were we?” said Caesar, changing the subject. “Ah yes, the crash. It wasn’t very loud. I don’t think anyone except me heard it. I went to the back of the restaurant to investigate anyway. I opened the rear door to a sight out of a science-fiction movie. The entire area was covered in smoke and there was a small crater in the backyard. In the middle of that crater, lay what looked like a spaceship – black, orb-shaped, with smoke coming out of its various crevices.”

“It was a spaceship,” Morphy interjected.

“I’m telling it. Let me tell it my way!”

“All right. Go ahead.”

“In the middle of the crater was a spaceship,” continued Caesar while scowling at Morphy. “and before I could do anything, a small door slid open on one side, and a mysterious misty figure stumbled out of it.” Caesar paused for effect.

“It was me,” said Morphy.

“Why did you have to ruin it? Why?” thundered Caesar.

“It’s okay. I kinda guessed it was him anyway. Please continue.” Vikram tried to calm him down.

“Anyone else in my position might have been scared on seeing an alien walk up to them, but I stood my ground. He looked and walked kind of funny – in a sinister manner.” Caesar continued.

“I had just crash landed on an alien planet after travelling for days, maybe even months. I was tired and disoriented.” said Morphy.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your antennae in a bunch.”

“I don’t have antennae! Are you blind? I’ve warned you about the stereotyping before. If you do that again, I’ll–”

“What happened next?” Vikram intervened before the argument could escalate any further.

“I asked E.T. here where he came from. At which point he mumbled something incoherent and passed out. I had to drag his scrawny alien body inside and wait for him to come to. I kept expecting a knock on the restaurant door from someone in the government or the neighbouring establishments, but no one came. Luckily it was almost closing time and I didn’t have any customers to worry about.”

“By that logic, it’s always closing time here.” Morphy winked at Caesar, or he may have just blinked his eye. It was hard for Vikram to tell.

Caesar pretended not to hear the jibe and continued. “When he finally came to, after zoning out for a few hours, I tried to find out where he was from and what he was doing here. I was surprised to find that he could understand and speak English pretty well and–”

“It’s not that hard. My planet’s language had one million, five hundred and twenty eight thousand, three-hundred and twenty-eight consonants and vowels at last count. And I’m sure a few hundred thousand must have been added since I’ve lost contact. I was easily able to master hundreds of your languages, if you can call them that, during the journey.” Morphy said. “Oh, and I wasn’t mumbling incoherently before I passed out, that was Kannada – I was very well prepared.”

“You learned English and Kannada and hundreds of other languages during the journey. Right. That is, if you remember that part of the journey correctly, and I doubt you do.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Vikram.

“He says that because he’s a jerk, and also because I seem to be suffering from what you call short-term memory loss. I suspect it may be because of something that happened during the journey, but I can’t be sure.”

“Oh, how bad is it?” asked Vikram.

“He can’t even remember why he came to our planet.”

“All I remember is that I’m on an extremely confidential mission and my presence must not be detected at any cost. At any cost whatsoever.”

Vikram felt a small shiver down his spine as he heard that even though there wasn’t a hint of malice evident on Morphy’s face.

“You still haven’t answered my original question.” Vikram turned to Caesar.

“Ah, yes. How do we manage without any staff, you ask? We manage because no customer has set foot in this restaurant for weeks. Not since that cretin, Lily Legume, wrote that scathing review of my restaurant in her Bestaurant Guide.” Caesar clenched his fists. “Oh, how I despise that woman.”

“But, if there aren’t any customers, why did you hire me? How do I fit into all this?”

“Very snugly, Vikram. Very snugly.”

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