Social Justice Warrior

Petty things oft affects those who seldom understand its meaning.

It appears out of nowhere and strikes almost immediately, leaving behind a myriad casualty.

Whom to blame? Whom to berate? The naysayers repeat, till a response is heard, one that’s not quite what they seek.

Unsatisfied yet determined to be proven right, they come together to express their disgust.

Their voices reach earth’s every corner, spreading like an uncontrollable virus.

‘Unite! Unite! Unite!’ Is the message being sent, ‘Let’s Fight! Let’s Fight! Let’s Fight!’ Is what’s being heard.

No sooner than the last message was gone, out came rushing the voices of dissent.

Armed to the teeth, with their hands on the trigger, they released a barrage of hate on Twitter.

Hashtags and DMs to everyone they knew, followed by a petition on Change.org too.

The culprit who seem unfazed till now, didn’t even bother to comment or blog.

How could this be? They wanted to know, was their strategy wrong or was the enemy too strong?

New recruits were brought in, an armchair activist and a loud mouthed journalist.

They questioned, they argued, even threatened if wanted to.

The enemy didn’t budge and went about his way.

Till the maniacs joined in the foray.

Assaulting and wrecking everything in existence; the purpose of their fight lost in the rising tension.

Scared for his life and at his wits end, the enemy finally was seen raising the white flag.

The naysayers cheered while common sense jeered, as the culprit was taken away to spend his life in prison.

Justice was served but only to the fool, while the wise and the intellectuals could only fume.

The mockery was made and many memes popped up, when the entire world came to know what it was all about.

 – A Facebook post on why he preferred cats over dogs. 

Math, Not Even Once

Maths, a subject of curiosity and debate amongst the world's most exceptional minds; it is also the subject that had befuddled me throughout my student life.

It's not like I can't do maths, it's just that I really can't get my head around it.

And clearly, it's the reason why I pretty much despised my school life.

The thing is, in school you're brought up to believe that maths is the only subject you need to do well in.

If you did well in literature, geography or history for that matter, no one would give a damn.

But damn you, if you ever flunked in maths.

Then your teacher, your parents, even that one nosy relative, would be up in arms questioning you. 

Till primary school, maths was of no concern to me, since all it had was simple calculations. 

My real struggle was the complex stuff that came in high school.

Stuff like algebra, the equations, and what not. 

The one thing I liked out of those was geometry and only because it involved drawing triangles and shit. 

But since it was maths, even geometry had calculations, and that I didn't like one bit.

My parents would make me attend classes after classes, just so that I could improve in maths.

However, it was all a waste cause my grades showed no signs of improvement even after all the effort I put in.

When it came to studying other subjects, I had absolutely no problem.

Maths was my Achilles heel and I secretly used to wish that I didn't have to study it.

I never shared that same sentiment for literature, which I loved the most.

Science felt tricky but only to a certain extent.

What made it worse was that my sisters were good at it and always set a bar that my parents hoped I would one day surpass.

I was unfazed by that until a certain incident happened when I was in sixth grade or so.

It was the start of our new school term and on the first day, my class was introduced to our maths teacher.

She began by asking who had older siblings in this school and many raised their hands, including me.

Then she took my sister's name and asked who was related to her, this time only my hand stood raised.

She looked at me and asked the same question again, as if trying to ascertain if it was true.

I didn't give it too much thought and nodded my head.

However, it all started when during her classes she directed all her maths problems to me, hoping I could solve them. 

And me being me, I couldn't.

It was a lot puzzling to me and she too felt the same; later she completely gave up on expecting me to solve any problems.

I guess she might have figured out that not every genius student has an equally genius sibling.

I still wish I had understood her intention so I could've made that fact clear to her from the start.

As my school life got over, I did wonder what I would in my future since maths was that one enemy I had to face in any career path I chose.

I was safe in my junior college since maths was an optional subject and I stayed as far as I could from it.

But it bounced back once again to bother me in my first year of degree college.

I nearly failed that subject in my first term, all because I still felt I couldn’t do it.

My mom insisted me to take classes or risk failing in maths, again.

However, I said to myself, that this time I had enough.

I started spending less time playing around and more time studying maths.

Then the second term exams came and I was completely prepared.

I did well and I passed the subject, something I was proud of, something I was dying to do in my school life.

It wasn't just hard work or dedication; it was simply my own will power to prove that if I put my mind to it, I could do anything.

And that is something I still believe to this date.

Though, if anyone ever asks me if would want to study maths again, I'd totally respond by saying, "Maths? Nah bro, not even once"

Curiosity

It asks too little, yet begs to know more.

Lost in an ocean of questions with no sight of reaching the shore.

It begins every sentence with an array of never-ending why’s, how’s and what’s.

The answer it seeks seem to boggle the minds of everyone.
  

From Newton to Michelangelo and everyone in between, its presence has been acknowledged throughout the pages of history.

Denial its enemy and rejection its nightmare, its only savior lives in the palace of creativity.

Curiosity was the name it took, an identity created to save itself from being misunderstood.

Many became its followers, some even worshipped it daily.

All united to solve the mysteries beyond their understanding and what lay beyond meaning.

Unknown to the followers was an enmity being brewed by the shrewd minds of the neglected few.

Their numbers rose and soon they had a voice of support.

The perpetrators were none other than denial and rejection.

Hate and violence was all that they understood, slaying down anyone who spoke of good.

Cries of war grew louder, between imagination and deception, perception and misconception.

Thousands died, many left wounded but it was curiosity that was left astounded.

It tried to intervene, put an end to it all.

However, things took a turn for the worse when curiosity entered; striking down both, its supporters and oppressors.

The winds of change came as soon as the last one was felled.

The victim was neither the enemy nor friend.

Those who witnessed it were left stunned, silenced by what lay in front.

Years went by and all that remained was a simple question.

The answers to which were either in speculation or in contemplation.

Did curiosity killed the cat or was it the other way around?

THE COFFEE STAIN (Short)

Every day at exactly 11.00 am he would sit at the corner table of his favourite Irani Café and read the morning paper while sipping on a hot cup of coffee. It was a ritual he never missed for the past 40 years.

  The cup would stay idle, steam pouring out of it as if trying escape from something. Then his hand would come, firmly grasping the handle of the cup which would then go up to meet his lips.

  The first few sips are just for checking if the coffee is of the right temperature. If not, he will carefully place it on the table, leaving behind a stain which never is at the same place.

  At 12.30 pm he leaves the café, the newspaper carefully tucked under his right arm.

  After he has left, the cleaner comes up to clear his table, picks up the coffee cup and proceeds to clean the stain.

  It’s always that same spot, the same stain, thinks the cleaner as he wipes away all traces of the table being occupied before.

  However, getting rid of years and years worth of coffee stains is not easy, with many cleaners before him already having given up on cleaning it, and he too does the same.

  The next day he comes back at his usual time, only though this time, it’s not the warm cup of coffee or the waiter that greets him, but locked doors and a notice that says ‘Closed’.

  Others, who had come before him, were making their way back, mumbling about how this was bound to happen, the owner dead, no one to take over the business.

  Though he didn’t show it, but from the inside he was overcome by grief, as if a part connected to him was just broken off.

  As he made his way back home, wondering what he will do from now on, a familiar scent made him glance at the corner.

  He walked towards that scent, which started to grow stronger as he came nearer.

  The origin of the scent was from an old café that seemed totally out of place, in a locality surrounded by new and plush eateries.

  He stepped inside the café, which reminded him a lot about a similar one he had once visited with his dad, but was unable to recall when.

  Once inside, his sight went to the old man sitting the counter and towards the vintage radio that soothingly played music from an era gone by.

  He sat in the corner near to the counter and asked for a cup of coffee from the ageing waiter, who nodded and went inside the kitchen.

  The waiter came back with a cup that eerily resembled the one he used to drink from at the Irani Café. He brushed off the thought admitting that it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

  After he was done, he got up, made his payment and left, while the waiter went over to clean the table, unaware that the coffee stain he left behind will never be erased.

THE END

The Snoring Doesn't Start Until 11

As the famous saying goes, it's not the destination but the journey that matters.

Travelling to any place in India by the Indian Railways is something one has to experience at least once in their life.

For me it has been the primary mode of travelling, whether I was visiting my relatives or going to a new place.

I've travelled by flight as well, but the things that you get to see on an overnight train journey is totally incomparable to the experience of flying.
Yes flying is comfortable... sometimes... well, unless you're travelling first class.
And it does save a lot of time too, but on the downside, it punches a big hole in your wallet.
As a kid, I used to eagerly await the day my family took our annual trip during my vacation.
It meant travelling all the way to Mumbai Central, in a taxi of course, getting a glimpse of the iconic Maratha Mandir cinema and entering the gates of the station where amidst all the greenery, a toy engine greeted you.
It's a scene that has been imprinted in my mind over the years and is one of the few things that I'll never forget.
Those were the times when people used to check their reservation number on the chart hung up at the platform, instead of their smart phones.
And I always hoped ours was there too, because, honestly I thought it would be such a downer to come all the way, only to find out our seats weren't confirmed. 
I dreaded that I wouldn't get to sleep on a bed and instead would be made to sleep on the floor of the train.
Obviously that never happened, but the thought of it still scared my 10-12 year old self. 
The thing about travelling on these trains for me as a kid meant that, it wasn't a train that took you from point A to point B.
It was about bringing out my inner Indiana Jones and set on exploring the whole train.
I remember always darting ahead to our seat where my spot always lied near the window and dare anyone else who sat there.
The journey also came with certain perks for me, like:
Getting a whole bottle of water to myself, though I knew I'd never drink it all, but I also knew that no one else could drink from it too.
Anxiously waiting for the evening snacks to come and finishing it all off, without leaving any for later. 
Then drinking the tea/coffee, again as a kid there were few instances when you could drink 'adult' drinks like these, and this was one of them. 
After all that was done, I would set out to explore the train.
I wanted to see how far I could go, and at times I would get pretty far enough to forget my way back. 
Around 8 O'clock, I would be munching on bread-sticks followed by warm soup. 
At nine, dinner was served and I tried my best to finish the whole thing, only to see myself give up after having half of it.
Then ice-cream would come and despite my stomach being way too full, I'd manage to finish it as fast as I could.
Once the whole thing was done, then came the time to sleep, and boy did I love sleeping on these beds.
You see these weren't your ordinary bunk beds, they didn't have normal ladders, but what they did have was metal bars, welded on the corners of the seat to form a ladder for one to access the upper berths.
And pretty much everyone who has ever travelled in these trains as a kid, knew they weren't just ladders, instead they were a platform to show-off our acrobatic skills.
I loved sleeping in the upper berth, which was like a totally different world, cut off from the rest.
Though now, I prefer the much comfortable middle one and hate the thought of climbing any further up.
The lights usually were out by 10:30 and by 11 everyone was fast asleep.
Now as kids there were certain things that didn't bother us or probably we didn't give a damn, but as adults its a totally different story altogether.
One of those things were, snoring.
It didn't bother me as a kid, but as the years added on, it kinda did.
And there's a huge difference between snoring in one's home and snoring in a train.
When you're sleeping at home and you snore, it's obvious to others that you're the one snoring.
In a train, you have no idea, is it the guy above you or the lady opposite you or someone else in the next seat.
I for one at times, didn't have an idea whether it was someone snoring or actually growling in their sleep.
Snoring probably isn't a bad thing, but when you're travelling in a train overnight, its pretty much the only sound you get to hear, apart from the chugging sound of the train as it moves.
And for some reasons unknown, the sound of snoring in a train is amplified to the point you hope that sleep comes to you faster.
I already have some difficulties falling asleep faster, unless I'm really tired then I doze off instantly.
The thing is that at night while I'm in my bed, trying to get some shut-eye, it's the exact time when my brain decides to wake up and question the mysteries of life, universe and everything beyond.
But even in the train, those questions would get interrupted by all that snoring reverberating around me.  
Did it help in keeping my brain from questioning my existence?
Yes.
Did it help in letting me get some sleep?
No.
Did I ever sleep in the end?
Yes, though I don't know how.
Anyways, then morning would come and all those sleepy heads would rise, not by any alarm but by the aroma emanating from the morning cup of tea handed to them by the server.
I would look at all these faces, trying to figure out how the heck could these people sleep so soundly, whereas I, throughout the whole night tried to block their noises just so I could doze off.
After the morning ritual, it took just a few hours of wait until our destination would arrive.
Then came the signal from my mom and dad to start getting our luggage out, meaning we've reached the station.
The younger me, used to feel happy to reach the place and sad too, because it would be a whole week when I'd get to travel in it again.
However now, all I want is that journey to get over and hope that the week could somehow extend to more than just seven days.