A Killer Script

He was of below average stature, small-framed with long hair, an unkempt beard and introduced himself to the class as a Yoga teacher. The thing I remember about him most vividly is that he usually wore a black T-Shirt (not in this picture though) and was the only one with a Macbook Pro for taking notes, while the rest of us used old fashioned notepads. Other than that he made absolutely no impression on me - I’m not sure if we exchanged any words at all during the course of the week. Even if we did, they must have been inconsequential. 

It was an interesting mix of students. There was the young doodler with remarkable talent who I always shared a desk with and had long discussions about films. There was the writer for documentaries who I never got to know very well during class but became close friends with later. The playback singer for Tamil films who moved to New York and with whom I attended a Martin Scorsese workshop. The model-looking engineer/MBA graduate, unhappy with corporate life, happiest as a drummer. The engineering student, the home-maker, the IT professional etc.

Oh and let me not forget, the murderer. 

During the course of the next few years some of these students joined film school, began working in television, quit their corporate jobs to make independent films, joined a band, while others continued with their lives as usual. And then there was one who decided to murder his girlfriend and stuff her body into a freezer. Who would have thought that we had a future killer in our midst, learning the technicalities of script writing?

From the introduction you may have figured out that it was the Yoga teacher. An individual you would expect to associate with serenity, calmness, spiritualism turned out to be the one to strike his girlfriend with an iron rod, attempt to hack her into pieces, stuff her into a freezer and continue to live with the body in his home for 18 days along with his wife (yes there was also a wife in the same apartment!) after the deed was done. Either the guy was remarkably smart or his wife, despicably stupid. 

How does a fight between two individuals end up with one of them dead? I get the screaming, shouting, throwing stuff at each other, hitting, slapping, crying. But killing? On the anger-meter how angry does one have to get to be able to justify to himself during that split second that its okay to take a life? And then the seeming lack of remorse. The fact that he didn’t turn himself in to the authorities and hoped to go about his life as usual seems fairly mind blowing. 

‘The Following’ a television show about a cult of killers is not only squeamish and creepy, it is disturbing on so many levels. The cult seems to be made up of people you and I would meet in our daily lives. It’s a show I avoid watching last thing at night because it gives me nightmares. Such people must exist. You know what they say about truth being stranger than fiction.

And while crime shows are my favorite genre on television (not because I love to watch people die, but because I like to use my detective skills to solve the case!), I had never really thought that a nondescript man sitting at the desk in front of me would make headlines for all the wrong reasons. 

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? The next time you’re at a conference or a party, interacting with people you’ve never met before, be aware that there may be a murderer in your midst. Hopefully it isn’t you that’s the target.

And hopefully you're also not the perpetrator.

Memories of Another Rain

Staring at the rain falling in a consistent pattern, I was glad to be indoors. Not being one of those people who love to get wet, I find being outside in the rain quite annoying. Which isn’t to say that I haven’t had more than my share of getting soaked. Whether it was Calcutta or New York, I’ve been caught unawares in a downpour innumerable times, seeking shelter for a while and then finally giving up and walking to my destination, feet wet through my canvas shoes or sandals, my wavy hair turning flat and my glasses wishing they had tiny wiper blades.

I do like the part where I come across other walkers in a similar situation, exchanging a knowing smile which says ‘I guess we may as well enjoy it’. A momentary connection with a stranger that will be forgotten in a flash.

I love the rain so much when I’m simply a spectator, protected by a roof over my head. Looking at people running for shelter or picking up pace under their umbrellas. The folks on motorcycles and bikes coming to a sudden stop for cover. We’ve seen so much rain but it’s always miracle-like for me - the Heaven’s turning on their sprinklers, making the dry moister, the air cleaner and the green greener. Washing the dust off, it feels like laundry day. 

A short while ago I was watching two little girls who got off their school bus. It was drizzling but they refused to get under their mothers waiting umbrellas. Kept running around, giggling, completely deaf to their mom’s screaming at them. I was sitting by the window, not being able to contain my own laughter and wished later that I had taken a picture.   

A favorite childhood memory is associated with rain. Growing up, we knew everyone in our neighbourhood. Not just the people living on our street, but the one past the main road, the parallel streets as well as the perpendicular ones. 

I was probably all of 1o years old. It was another one of those Calcutta rainy, monsoon days when you feel like you’ll never see the sun again. Stores were shut and the streets were empty. The rain had been falling incessantly for the past few days and life had pretty much come to a standstill. People were starting to get stir-crazy when someone must have had the brilliant idea of having a very wet picnic. My older sisters and I were standing on our balcony, probably bored out of our minds as we had even lost power, when we saw a group of people coming towards us. It was mostly their friends and a few of mine. They were going around the neighborhood, having everyone come out of their homes and enjoy the rain. 

There must have been at least fifty ‘kids’ and the group kept getting larger as the word spread. We went to the local park which was full of puddles and played there for hours. I distinctly remember the laughter, the unending laughter. The peals of laughter each time the drizzle would turn into a heavy downpour. The constant smiles and giggles as we’d splash water on each other, knowing that we couldn’t possibly get any more wet. The jumping in the puddles, every single one of us soaked to the skin, our mother’s probably worrying about us getting sick and knowing that they could do absolutely nothing about it. 

There was no food but it was definitely a picnic. I don’t know if I can transport you there with my descriptions, but as I write this I can’t stop smiling. These memories were of a much simpler time. When it was people and not possessions that made us happy. When laughter came without a price. And when the monsoons were also a time to have a picnic.