The Name of Action

[reminder of theme: something to do with a question]

"This comes 15 sentences before a sentence with the word 'contumely'", the quizmaster had begun.

"Do you know this?!", hissed Sunny. As soon as the quizmaster had spoken, Samit knew it would be coming his way. Of course, he was assuming Arjun would miss it. Seated three teams ahead, he saw Arjun looking pensive. Three years of observing the city's best school quizzer had given Samit good antennae for knowing when Arjun knew. When he knew, which he did (painfully for Samit) most of the time, Samit could tell.

He could sense Sunny glaring at him. Samit always regretted the fact that his parents pulled him out of LMS and into Sardar Patel's ("they have better board results"). LMS were much better at everything else that mattered to him: football, quizzing, dramatics. There, he had also spent one year quizzing with Arjun, who even then towered over the others on the circuit, winning everything that year. After that tragic move for the sake of intangible prospects, he'd watched over the years as Arjun and partner (always rendered anonymous) won a music system, a box set of Ruskin Bonds, and even geared cycles.

"19 sentences before 'quietus'..."

"Shit-yaar-re, even Arjun doesn't know this", squealed Sunny as the quizmaster shook his head at Arjun's attempt. "You will say something or not? Anyway, even Arjun gave up, man."

There was a straightforward explanation why someone as trivially challenged as Sunny was in the team: he came first in History and English. In the opinion of their class teacher, this demonstrated sufficient acumen to deal with quizzes. Samit found it galling to have to qualify via a written test each year for the 'privilege' of partnering that bony ranker. Think, think, think, he tried to persuade himself.

"...which is followed immediately by 'bodkin' and 'fardels'."

Samit was aware of being incensed. At the collective injustices thrown at him, both by those close to him and those forced upon him. He was not a temperamental child and was given to slowly steaming on the fires of quiet contemplation. He wished he could hold his head and somehow thrust it into a pool.

As usual, the quizmaster was stuck at the Stuts, which is what everyone else called the team that unusually had both a boy who stuttered and a girl who lisped. Sympathetic extra time was always available to them. Sunny slumped back in capitulation.

Without any warning, a fleeting memory of his maternal uncle appeared. The uncle who was never spoken of in the family because that poor man had overdosed on sleeping pills, on purpose. Samit was always aware of a persistent sneer issuing from his father whenever any hint of that unfortunate man's former existence made its way into embarassed conversation. We don't suffer cowards, said that sneer, and anyone who turned the lights off permanently just because he couldn't face the darkness didn't deserve to live. One day in the future, Samit would find himself trying to think of every subliminal utterance from his childhood to blame all his troubles on, but right now he simply squirmed, unable to concentrate.

Forget it. If Arjun could not, how can I? (I think I know this.) I can't do this anymore. I'm never going to be good at this. (Go on, say it.) I'm never going to be good at anything. (The quizmaster had walked over.) I wish I could be elsewhere. ("Any answers?"). I wish I could close my eyes. ("C'mon, don't wanna try?") To die, to sleep, to dream.

Said Samit aloud: "To be or not to be, that is the question".

His Fear of Heights

"So the reason why Housing Department Secretary Fred Carson..."

He was on the ground floor for three hours, waiting for McNeil to show up. McNeil arrived, surrounded by lackeys, and entered the elevator. A sidekick pressed '15'. McNeil, fittingly, had an office right on top of what was the city’s tallest building.

Mr. Fred squeezed in as the doors closed. McNeil paid no attention. Fred knew this was his only chance. He thrust himself in front of McNeil. The lackeys moved in with menace. But McNeil called the hounds off.

Encouraged, Fred wasted no time. ‘I have a script’, he explained. As Studio Head, McNeil was always being accosted by wannabes, and usually dismissed them remorselessly. But he was amused by this little middling man in grey. 'Really?' The flunkeys sniggered. Displeased by their boorishness, McNeil told old man Fred: 'you have until the top floor'.

Twelve floors remained. Fred launched into his story about Cowboy Jim whose New York aunt leaves him an urban fortune. Fred knew his story both by heart and by soul. That it had a slow beginning, under the open skies and plains. But eventually, it would pick up wings and soar. It was Fred’s ticket out.

Mr. Fred wanted McNeil to show a flicker of reaction. But McNeil had weathered thirty years in the business and had a face of the finest oak. The lackeys were quiet too.

The elevator halted. Fred still had the last one-third left. The best third. McNeil exited. ‘Thanks, but this isn’t what we’re looking for’.

"...never permits a new building in his jurisdiction to exceed fifteen floors was the fact that he had rejected the addition of five floors to that same building when it was being made."

The Silence of Doom

In that cold room on the night of the new moon, I respectfully closed the eyes of the Rajah Sahib with my palms. I looked at his grieving family and shook my head. Surya Mahal was now in mourning for its head.

I noticed the prince-in-waiting Nakul Hans gesture in my direction, so I followed him out of the deceased Rajah’s bedroom. The Ranee Sahibaa silently wiped her tears, clinging to her last moments with her husband and her vermillion. Nakul’s younger brother Vardhan knelt beside his mother and put his arm around her. He paid no attention to us.

"Thank you, Dr. Indraneel, in this hour of grief, for attending so patiently to my father", Nakul said outside, his voice faltering.

"Please, I implore you not to say so", I said, a tremble in my whisper. "It was all I could do. His time had come. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it any easier for him."

"I’m sure you gave it your best shot, Doctor", he said, regaining the crisp command that spoke eloquently of his public school education.

"About that other matter?" I ventured haltingly.

The latest successor to the estates and titles of Daalipore considered this carefully. "Let us go upstairs", he said.

Nar Bahadur, Nakul’s faithful retainer, was summoned for torches. We walked up those four flights of steps to the Mahal’s South Tower. Bahadur was dismissed at the ante-chamber to the Tower, a place that I had grown familiar with in the last three months without once feeling accustomed to its musty and dank chambers. She lay in the corner.

This may come as shock to you, dear reader, so I will try to expound on our odd visit, the latest of a series of visits which I had now been performing for three months. You see, I have also been treating the Banshee of Surya Mahal all this while. She was resident in these dark Tower chambers. You must excuse the pride that regrettably creeps in my voice when I recount these episodes. I have been sworn to secrecy by the Royal Family and may my throat be slit if I have ever breathed a word of this to a fellow being before. But the fact that I am surely the only Indian doctor in Her Majesty’s Raj to have the rare privilege of actually administering medicine to a living banshee stirs up an equally rare vanity in my soul.

Like most of my fellow countrymen, I had never heard of a banshee. However, in my last year as a medical student at the University of Edinburgh, my Professor of Anatomy, to whom I had endeared myself, had opened new doors of medicine to me. To me and two other favoured pupils, he introduced the magical world of the banshees, these fantastic creatures who attached themselves loyally to households and wailed when death was imminent there! However, on return to my native land, I had set aside this memory when confronted with the more mundane ailments of my fellow-men, whose cholera and malaria had cured me of all my fancies.

However, six months ago, Nakul Hans came to visit me with a question concerning the health of his family’s banshee. This came as quite a shock to me. The scion of the local kingdom, he put forth the facts before me. His grandfather had obtained the banshee from England, but had kept it a closely-guarded family secret. Now, folklore says that banshees shriek when any member of the household faces death. Little does anyone know that this death need not be inevitable. It can serve as a forewarning of doom, which can be held at bay if precautions are taken. Living constantly with the threat of external aggression and internal intrigue, as the royals and their forefathers did, the banshee became a valuable harbinger that had saved some lives. But one must also bow to the wishes of the great Almighty above, so when illness or old age came knocking at the doors of Surya Mahal, the family could prepare for the worst once the banshee had spoken.

The death of the Rajah a few minutes ago was the first time in 75 years that the Banshee had not moaned in warning when death had come on its dark journey.

The banshee cowered in the corner as I approached her. Her mouth was open and she was clearly making a desperate attempt to call out. But only silence rushed out to meet the air.

"So you’ll be able to reverse the condition now?" whispered Nakul.

"I will, sir, er, Your Highness", I said, as I held the poor creature firmly and shone my torch in her throat. "As I have told you, I must confess that I have never done the procedure before, but the literature does cover it in great detail. I have no reason to doubt its effectiveness, since the earlier procedure worked so well".

"Indeed, doctor. You do realize that I must have her by my side now that the Rajah, may the gods bless him, is no more. Vardhan has been suspicious and I have reason to believe that in his last days, my father had started to agree with him. This despite the discretion of the highest order."

"Do not worry, your highness. You have some very discreet men in your employ. Like me".

He smiled that quick smile, which reminded many of a tiger’s smirk. I must be careful with this man.

"I hope so, doctor. By when do you think she’ll have her voice back?"

"The texts say 2 weeks should be sufficient."

"Hmm. Make it a month – it would be extremely odd if the banshee were to regain her voice so soon after my father passing away. I’ll just have to be a little more cautious during this period, but that should be a price worth paying."

"As you prefer it, sir."

I stood up as Rajah Nakul Hans flashed his torch at the banshee whose features were contorted in rage. I did not know she could do so!

You may, O reader, wonder whether a doctor ought to readily sacrifice his scruples. But please consider my position. Nakul would have arranged to poison his noble father even if I had not acquiesced. By silencing the Banshee, I obtained the fortunate prospect of observing this fantastic beast at a microscope’s length away. Perhaps my book on the banshees will one day be on the shelves of stores in London and be studied at Bart’s. The onward march of medical science has always demanded a few human sacrifices. As a token of memoriam, I shall dedicate my book to the Rajah Aryanath Tejatman Singh of Daalipore, who died this nineteenth day in December, 190x, of natural causes. May his soul rest in peace.

---

[Note from me:

* Have steamrolled past word limit like the German army looking for land in the East.

* Could not pick up familiarity with the vocab of the era, so did the following: eschewed modern usages wherever possible, used slightly more flowery/old-fashioned words, used brit-style spelling for some entities, used Doyle's prose as a reference.

Takeover

[Submission for Lab 4]

Pardon me if I'm making a mistake, but I do believe a man of my age deserves some luck when he needs it. Therefore, I may be excused for having fled to the seaside today. I could not face another day there - where nothing I do can find appreciation. This must be what rebellion feels like.

I know, I know. Tomorrow, I will be back at my desk, insults and payscales left by the wayside. By then, the ember of revolt would have died from surprise at being given a life. But today, it spends a day by the sea.

I'm on my toes. I look to the left and then to the right. No one in sight. Just like everyone else, the sun is also earning its pay. It is delivering a performance of a lifetime. No surprise that I'm the only grain of sand on two feet.

After an hour, I spy someone walking towards where I am sitting. He seems to carrying a tripod, a pot, and a briefcase. I look back at the vessel of shimmer in front of me. He stops near me, saying nothing. Instead, he pulls out a flier and hands it over with a smile. He starts to unpack. He pulls out a robe.

If he's an artist of any confidence, he has chosen with care. I'm open to all kinds of ideas today, so I open the pamphlet. The contents are shy and do not demand my attention. Without fuss, it says: Hello. I'm 'K the Redeemer'. To prove it, I shall perform a miracle today at 12 noon at the beach, and hide the sun for 15 minutes. Please do come and watch. Thanks.

All he's asking for is my time. I'm any performer's dream today.

It's only 11, but as you would expect of a god and a pro, he's set the stage and is prepared for everything. Though, I don't see Murphy's Law kicking in. It's not as if the power will go out and ruin the show.

Half an hour later. We've been talking and it looks like he's got no worries about the lack of turnout. His publicity has been limited to some fliers and an newspaper insertion buried amidst people trading machine parts. The sole concession to the demands of stagecraft is his robe studded with stars and crescents. He bought it for 200 rupees and admits to being drenched in sweat.

It's time. He walks over to the pot and lights a flame under it. Fragrance surrounds us. A seller of peanuts stops to see what these two idiots in the middle of the beach are upto. The sun waited above, from its vantage point.

He smiles, he waves his hand, he mutters. I look up, and yes, the sun's gone. Yet, there's light, so you wouldn't notice the ball of fire was missing unless someone pointed it out. However, you might wonder why you were not perspiring.

He turned to me, smiling. The vendor could be seen fleeing in the distance. Gone nuts, you might say. It looks like we have a god in our midst after all.

Thirty minutes later, we walk away together. He'd shed those garbs and I was carrying the pot (what an aroma). Things had changed. Oh, and it does seem that we meek will inherit the world. That is, if it isn't a lot of trouble to the rest of you. We apologise for any distress in advance.

eff 'em, err.., all

At the end of it, everyone was mostly fed up. Einstein was wrong when he memorably said that he didn't know how WW3 would be fought, but WW4 would be fought with sticks
and stones. Memorable quoting was all that he did, if you ask me. We've still got enough of the deadly stuff to mess around for atleast four generations. We've all just moved on to other pastimes, thank you. Ah, that Einstein. What luck he'd had passing off such elaborate dung as that relativity theory for 2 centuries!

"Hmmm... I think it's time you popped out and had your hair cut", she said, lazily running her hands through his curls.

"My locks of hair, talismans so rare, my maiden so fair..."

"Oh no... not in the morning, I beg of you - I admit bad poetry is much easier to digest in the night. Seriously, go."

"Yup."

***
He gazed at the ceiling. Blank.
"Sri - either you get yourself tidied up tomorrow or don't come. That's about it. I have neither the patience nor the need to come mopping up after you. Those Japs come in tomorrow - so tie, haircut, black shoes. Shave. Pinstripe - if you own one".

Of course he didn't. You cooked your own skin on a slow roast in those, so it made sense to wear them only if you were a masochistic anthrophage.

He had to get up. Too hungry not too.

An apple later, he hopped over across the road to the saloon. In his fervid imagination (the part they wanted to repress), he could never think of that word without half-expecting a gunslinger in sepia to rush out. He realised it was also the news report. Perhaps it was the relative lack of concern among his fellow men. No disaster movie scenarios, no mass panic, no actor rushing against the crowds looking for his sweetheart or his pet iguana. Guess everyone felt the same way - if the rest of the populace didn't think anything was wrong, why should I? It was an infectious line of thinking.

Both chairs were occupied so he settled down. The lack of chirping there was very evident. So not everyone was unconcerned - even the not so news-savvy head hairdresser. Who looked at him sans his usual froth:

"To aapanE nyuuz sunaa? Kyaa kyaa hotaa hai naa saab. Par sach kahuu.n kyaa, apanE jaisaa logo.n pE kuch khaas difference nahi paDhanEwaala."

"apaNe jaisaa"? Was he included in it or was it the ilk of the lower middle classes?

"kaun kambha.kt kehtaa hai" that he wouldn't have any "far.k" happen to him? Perhaps all you needed to do was to do it to yourself.

"15 minute aur lagEgaa saab - abhi start kiyaa hai."

He threw a hand over his long curls - it had taken him the best part of 25 days and a little-known concoction to get them in this state. No, it had taken him 25 years to muster up the courage to grow them up in stiff violation of a life-long family code of never deviating from the boringly straight, the incessantly cautious, the strictly sober. A cantonment life in place of Brylcreem and zero cuts scything through any hairs that his father could grasp in one clutch of a fist. She wouldn't have liked it - she preferred his close crops though she always liked to tease him about his smooth looks.

She never goes away, does she? It had been 3 years 2 months since he stopped trying. But she lingered on, appearing in cameos in his mindspace each day, for varying times, with the most unusual associations. Oh, the ribbing he'd given her when she got her flowing tresses cropped - she took it rather well. It gave him a sense of importance, when she vowed never to repeat that again. Important at being able to influence such decisions in her life. Not all decisions though.

He felt a little warm. He needed to stretch out and think. With a "me.n baahar huu.n", he stepped out.

People don't realise it, but conformity is a disease - a social one. It spreads through contact, imposes its fangs pandemically and kills silently. Think for instance: what else explains such incredibly foolish trends such as bell-bottoms in the First Cold War Age, or those elaborate Victorian puffs and wigs, or if you go right back, the first rags covering the early Homo Sapiens (if they were conscious of being so haute couture). Similarly for weapons: Heads of State just had to have what everyone else had - sticks, then arrowheads, then cannonballs and so on. It never occured to them how easier it would be to not conform - all that wasted time. For we are a dying species and have always been.

He pulled out his IdCore to check all his messages. Part of the withdrawal symptoms was learning to live without the hope that she would pass by, physically or electronically. It must have been the result of the day before, for there it was. News.

"Do you know she's back in town? Had been [d|w]ining at Kings and who should I see checking in?". So read a message from a school friend. One of their school friends.

It was 9:30 am. In an hour was the bus that took him and fellow drones into the comb. To buzz with bees from a different comb. A bigger, sweeter comb to his queen.

It was easy to see why he was back home in within the next quarter of an hour, furiously clicking through to look for the Kings number. It took him the better part of the next hour to muster up the courage to dial. (Why? Who wouldn't have the guts to call? Especially when half the waking world was calling up each other to discuss yesterday's news? What will we do? Can it be true? What rot, I say! And here he couldn't whisper "Free? I'm coming over".)

Perhaps it was all that cowardly delay, for in response to his "... do you know which room she's in? Then may I please be connected to 6-1-1?", all he got was "I'm sorry sir, she's out at the moment." Crappy diem was all that he could muster today. 6 plus one plus one was eight. Never was his lucky number. He spent another hour rooting out the psychic nuances in the number system applicable to the situation.

Six hours later, he was rolled up in a lounge chair at Kings. He had figured it would be the best place to lay in wait - even if it smacked of desperation. He no longer needed to work at the protective sang froid. It had been quite a while since he realised that he'd not given a moment's thought to work. It never occured to him again in the rest of the day.

Lord Krishna lived for some hundred years. So informs us the Mahabharata. Methuselah put in more years of work than most people put in 5 reincarnations. Just because we live much lesser than them doesn't mean that those were merely myths of someone's fervid imagination. Perhaps we did live that long once. Maybe our genes had just lost the ability along the way. Not that implausible today. Perhaps Nature in her infinite common-sense had finally figured out that the best way to rein in our parasitic tendencies was to turn the screws on the longevity dials. id est, stop trusting Ebolas and Falciparums to do the job. Only she got beaten to the post.

He hadn't seen her return, finding that out at 8:30 pm when he asked the reception. Not bothering to call up or to smoothen any strand of his dishevelled head, he found himself tapping her door and walking in, in response to her call.

She didn't seem to be too surprised, just a touch of amusement. She opened her mouth in preparation to speak, when he interjected:

"I don't care who you're seeing, if you're married, if you don't plan on staying, if you don't fancy me, if you'd like us to be friends, if you have other ideas. I don't, we don't, have a lot of time. All I'd like to do is to be with you. As long as I can."

A beat. She spoke. "I don't like what you've done to your hair. It will have to wait till tomorrow though".

Nature was beaten, finally, by our inbuilt promise of self-destruction that kicked in eventually. Pity that the Einsteins and Vernes and Clarkes in all their clever scenarios of the future never thought of a future-less present. When your present isn't big enough, what good is your future? So when we launched gene-mutating chemicals insidiously into each other's water and air (the two entities that don't respect any geographical boundaries) and ended up reducing the average human lifespan to a petite 35 years, what do you expect people to do? Beat chests and complain? Do you think we have the time? It took us 20 years since the end of the Third big war to explain the symptoms and since then we've been scrambling to live, not merely saving it up for a post-retirement time table.

Today all geniuses remain merely precocious. Teenage sports sensations don't have to look to a future of anonymity. The vast majority of us continue to remain in the shadows. Like the poet said, "Obscurity has its tale to tell. Like the figure on the studio-bed in the corner, out of range, smoking, watching and waiting". Only we aren't waiting any more.

I just don't have the strength to "research" the effects of all this on human civilisation for your benefit. I only have about a thousand sunsets left in the account, and I'd rather be counting them than talking to you.

[Note]
As is probably obvious, I *did not* enjoy writing this, or even righting all that went awry! I struggled to weave all the four mandatory elements and it might be visible. I don't know how it has turned out, I'm too exhausted to have an opinion. Perhaps the story idea hasn't come out very clear - let me know and I'll elaborate :-). Soon after beginning this exercise, the only goal, like the Marathon Man's, was to finish (hopefully with all my teeth intact ;-), which I have.

If none of you are planning to put in your efforts, can we (*spluttering*) move on to the next lab (*last gasp*) please? (*droops*)

Icarus

"Now you remember what I've told you, don't you?"

[Voice raised] "YES! I've heard it, I've heard it!"

[Voice raised too] "You don't understand! Shouting at me won't make you right."
[Quieter, but with controlled effort] "See son - don't be foolish, that's all. There's a lot at stake here. I know you - you'll get too high up. You've always done silly things like that and..."

[Interrupting] "Yeah, I'm the one whose always doing stupid things. I got into trouble with King Minos, didn't I? I was the one who got us imprisoned here.

[Irritatedly] "Oh come on, what do you know about the affairs of the world! You're too young to unders..."

[Again interrupting] "I'm always too young, I don't know anything, I'm too immature - that's all you ever say! I'm surprised you're taking me with you - why don't you leave me to rot on this island?"

"This is not the time to quarrel. It is almost daybreak. It's the best time to make our leave. Don't be irksome, I beg of you. Prepare to leave."

And they do. He carefully, lovingly fastens the last of the feathers on to his son, checking not once or twice, but five times. He could feel the warmth of the sun on them, and he could feel freedom's flame beckoning.

"You're sure you won't fly too low or too high? Don't be rebellious as a son is wont to do. Please, for my sake."

Again irritatedly "Oh father, I'm sick of you talking to me as if I were a mere infant!"

[Whispers] "It is your nature, my son, I know it well - you see none but yourself, and are lost in your own image of exultation. It is perilous to be lost in your own self."

Seeing his child's impatience, he thought it was best to leave at the earliest.

"I'll lead the way - remember, stay close behind"

They leap off the cliff and flap their new wings, blinking like a fledgling would. Soon Daedalus was off. He keeps looking behind anxiously to chart his son's progress. The sun kept glinting in his eyes and he couldn't see clearly...

Some time later...

[Thinking to himself] "I can't believe this! I'm actually flying. I'm a bird! I'm soaring! Look at father flapping away, all in dread. Oh this is so joyous! I wish he'd soak in this warm air, its currents."

He flaps a little more and it takes him higher. He sways a little at first but slowly learns how to control his flight. He gets better every time.

"I can get a little higher - just to show that old man you don't have to be such a coward. I'm not going to get too close, just a little.

His enormous wings slap the air about and thrust his body upwards, rushing a surge of excitement through him. Then a little more. And then more. Unbeknownst to him, a little drop of molten wax falls off and plunges into the water way below him.

[Singing] "I am flying... to heavenly abodes... I'm dreaming... of silver roads..."

Which is when it happens.

WHAM!

Stunned by the impact, Icarus loses all balance and drops wildly. He lashes out in search of a hold, but comes up with air. He cries out to his father, but no words will come. He careens away and some of the feathers drop off.

Icarus stops falling. Someone has plucked him off and stopped his fall. He loses all concept of time and space...

Icarus blinks. His vision is a mix of sights. He is on ground, he can feel it. There is someone peering at him. He is all confused. He can see the little figure above him looks like a monkey. He closes his eyes trying to regain his obviously impaired eyesight.

A pause later, he opens his eyes again. It is a monkey.

[Shrill, boyish voice] "Sorry about that, elder brother. I didn't mean to bump into you that way."

Icarus blinks.

"I've just been a little silly, actually. You know that orange, round thing in the sky? I thought it was a fruit you see. I really like to eat and no one would give it to me. I asked for it so many times, no one would pay any heed to me. So I leapt up to get it. I didn't know I could fly so high! No one told me that either."

"So as I got closer, something hit me. I don't know - someone didn't think I should have it. It didn't look like a fruit when I got nearer - it was all hot. By the way, your wings are coming off."

"I think I don't know my own strength, don't you think? My father always tells my mother: 'Anjana, this child will hurt himself one day'. He is the Lord of the Air, but even he can't be around all the time to keep watch on me. But lucky I could catch you before you fell too much."

Icarus sits there and simply massages his head.

[Sorry for this very, very late submission guys, but I had to clear some mental buffers before being capable of doing any useful writing. Let me know what you think.]