FEAR

* FEAR

THE MOST CRUCIAL DIALOGUE IN WORLD HISTORY

I went to the Matunga police station near Bombay many years ago to cautiously find out if possible whose side police forces supported: Me or the aliens. I [K.S.] had the following SHORT BUT VITAL conversation with a brilliant young police officer [P.O.] in khaki police uniform - THE MOST CRUCIAL DIALOG IN WORLD HISTORY:

P.O.: Any complaint?

K.S.: No complaint.

Silence ...

Then:

K.S.: I would like to meet Dr. Gos. [Mr. Dil. Gos.].

P.O.: Address?

I gave that f. alien's home address located 2000-2500 miles away from Matunga or Bombay/Mumbai.

Silence ...

My next chess move:

K.S.: I think I have offended Dr. Gos.'s daughter.

P.O.: Why, what have You done? FUCKED her?

K.S.: No.

P.O.: Then? Listen. You are an educated Man. India is an independent country. FIGHT BACK!

K.S.: Thank you.

Patriotic Indian Army stood by, waiting for My signal.

Brilliant CBI sleuths quickly realized that CBI had been misinformed about Me by ALIENS who were misleading CBI.

The hardworking, terribly deprived Indian police forces (much maligned by powerless but cunning aliens) were ready to strike the aliens with My guidance.

I smiled, pitying the gang of human-looking f. male and female ALIENS on and inside Earth who would become EXTINCT VERY SOON - स्वच्छ भारत, स्वच्छ पृथ्वी - ha ha ha!! (Terrifying laughter.)

Kishalay Sinha কিশলয় সিনহা किशलय सिन्हा जी [G]

Before I contacted Matunga police station, I [G] had this EQUALLY CRUCIAL CRYPTIC dialog, pregnant with meaning, with the MYSTERIOUS "hippy" Z inside our SHARED ROOM at the modest Ravi Hotel in Bombay [Mumbai]:

G: I want to find out why people grow old and why people die.

Z: You think You could solve this problem?

G: We could try.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

I WILL NOW REVEAL A PROFOUND SECRET

I will reveal a profound secret for the FIRST time, to finally set at rest all the feverish speculations of My friends and well-wishers who have watched My videos and have been wondering WHAT REALLY HAPPENED ON THAT CRUCIAL DAY IN BOMBAY many years ago as I stood regally on the steps of Bombay GPO putting My hands on My chest theatrically and Ms. X came in front of GPO in a small car and I held My leather sandals high in the air which is regarded in India as conveying an insult and she hung her head in guilt and shame inside the car and left and then Ms. Z "journalist" with a camera in her hand walked up the stairs and past Me and she and I exchanged quick amorous glances and I smiled faintly and she went inside the GPO feeling relaxed and happy and relieved and then an Indian Army ambulance with a red cross painted on it was parked in front of GPO [General Post Office] and when I walked down the steps of GPO onto the wide street, a lanky guy (who looked like Bollywood "actor" Amitabh Bachchan who had recently acted in a black and white patriotic film SAAT HINDUSTANI which had been released a few months before), theatrically dressed in Indian army fatigues, came near Me and I shook hands with the guy (who was in for a shock from Me very soon) and together we walked to the VT railway station nearby (obviously the guy wanted to find out how I was feeling, whether I was scared or not; the guy must have felt very scared himself when he found Me talking casually without the slightest trace of concern in My voice) and when we got inside VT station, the lanky guy asked Me: "आपका नाम क्या है?" "किशलय सिन्हा", I told him. Then I decided to puncture his ego and put him in his place and so I asked him in return: "आपका नाम क्या है?" and the conceited guy replied: "लोग हमको उमेश कहते हैं ।" (Bah! Foolish idiot!) Then I told him that I was feeling hungry because I had not eaten in two days and I asked him if he could lend Me eight annas (one-half of a rupee) which I would give back to him as soon as I got the money sent by My mom by TMO [Telegraphic Money Order] from Gauhati [now Guwahati] [I knew that local goons were blocking the payment]. "No," he told Me and left... Did I have a heart attack as I stood on the steps of GPO? Or was I only acting? And why did I smile faintly at Ms. X and again smiled faintly at Ms. Z? (I was certain that I was being filmed by video cameras hidden in the tall buildings near GPO.) ACTUALLY,  I did have a BURNING SENSATION in the chest region as I placed My hands theatrically on My chest for the whole world to know, but at the same time I kept cool and I was thinking fast and I quickly realized that THE ALIENS WERE ONLY TRYING TO SCARE Me with a very low dose of "poison" whose deleterious effect would only last some minutes BUT THE ALIENS DID NOT DARE KILL ME WITH POISON BECAUSE THE ALIENS WERE SCARED that I had UNEXPECTEDLY CONTACTED Matunga POLICE STATION and THE SCARED ALIENS WERE FEELING VERY NERVOUS BECAUSE THEY DID NOT KNOW WHAT INFORMATION I HAD EXCHANGED WITH THE PATRIOTIC STAFF OF MATUNGA POLICE STATION... When the lanky guy left Me at VT Railway Station, I drank PLENTY OF WATER from the taps on VT platform to dilute the residual "poison" remaining in My body and that night I slept very comfortably and peacefully on the floor of the VT Railway police office with the permission of the kind-hearted Railway police officer at VT. Next day, I got the money from GPO sent by TMO by My mom. Then My OVER-ANXIOUS mom came to Bombay to take Me BACK home. For many years, I NEVER breathed a word to anybody in our family or to anybody else about My fantastic EARTH-SHAKING experiences in Bombay/Mumbai. I had solved EVERYTHING in a flash in Bombay but I kept My SENSATIONAL DISCOVERIES to Myself FOR MANY YEARS until recently (when during the last few years I have disclosed My thrilling experiences in Bombay in many of My online posts) except that I told My "dad" Krishna Sinha about the MAIN POINTS of My Theory of Everything soon after My return home from Bombay which My "dad" Krishna heard IN DAZED SILENCE; My theory of aliens must have caused him intense panic for the rest of his life until his expiry ten years ago. R.I.P. - Kishalay Sinha [G]

LUCK

... the bus stopped, as I knew it would, to allow the passengers some time in the weekly bazaar. To the left of the bus, a thin, wrinkled man, perhaps in his seventies, sat in front of a small bamboo cage - more a basket, really - with two pigeons in it. One was white, the other had a plumage of purple and was luminescent green around the neck. I had passed other such vendors of live birds in the bazaar, but for some reason, perhaps because the pigeons appeared quite content inside his cage, I stopped near this man.

He was old, very old, with a flowing white beard, and he looked at me with quizzical, hooded eyes. He was good-looking in his own way and on his face was the quiet sadness that will always wring out unwanted sympathy from me. I hunkered down before him to bargain for the two birds. But of course I wasn't going to succeed. 'Fifty,' he said, his shadowed eyes smiling into mine, and though this was more than I should have paid, especially since I had been jobless for some months, I gave him the money, picked up the bamboo basket and left for home.

I kept the birds in the storeroom that night. I had three rooms: the bedroom, the bathroom and the kitchen, all of equal dimensions and all equally bare. A loner does not need much. And from what I sometimes heard about myself, I was a loner.

The open veranda, with an old sofa and two cane chairs, served as the drawing room.

In the morning I got hold of a discarded apple crate for ten rupees. Then, using a tough aluminum wire I strung the box onto a low wooden beam in the veranda.

For three days and nights the pigeons remained inside. On the fourth day, I opened the door of the cage. In less than five seconds - I remember because I had barely moved my hand away from the box - the bird with white feathers flew out, and flew off into the tall trees that bordered the compound. I strained my neck for a glimpse but the bird had gone from view. I was never to see the pigeon again.

So the curse was still around, the curse that I had grown up with. Curse you, curse, I thought, and waited for the other bird to fly away, too.

As I stood there, the second pigeon, the dark one with the purple plumage, stared at me for a while, shook his feathers and was still. I kept waiting for him to fly away, like the other, but he remained where he was. We eyed each other for a while and because I had never reared pigeons before in my life I tried to be friendly: 'Wish me luck, Purple Hue, for today I go looking for another job.'

When I came back, late that afternoon, he was still there, out of his cage, waiting for me. 'So you stayed,' I said aloud. 'Thanks for wishing me well in the morning, Luck. I got the job.' From his perch on top of the box, Luck looked down at me, gurgling out his sadness. I understood, but didn't know what to do. I boiled some tea and through the kitchen window looked at the river below, thinking that it would perhaps be best if I sent Luck off as well. But when I returned to the veranda, with my cup of tea and two slices of bread, Luck flapped down and toed up to my chair, picking at the crumbs. 'Okay, Luck,' I said, 'so you stay.'

There were very few people who dropped in at any time of the year, and now even the few who did stayed away. I did not mind, for there were my books and the TV and the occasional telephone call from someone half forgotten. But above all, there was Luck. Suave, swift and confident, exuding health and perking me up.

It was Kulwant's wife who scared him. I heard her coo to him as she heaved forward to scatter some biscuit crumbs for him. Luck was close to the wall away from the veranda railing. I remember the sound of the impact when his body hit the blades of the fan. When I turned around, I saw Luck flung to a corner, fragile and senseless, and purple-grey feathers floating down under the fan. I saw the small spray of blood on the floor. I remember my heart hammering, and an emotion that had an element of madness about it. I remember bending down, groping for his body and picking him up. I remember saying, please, Luck, don't. But one of his wings had almost been severed and I knew he was going. Only the glassy eyes kept looking at me as I sat, unable to think clearly or move, my own eyes blinded by a wild, hot grief over which I seemed to have no control. I did not care who saw me.

For four days Luck fought it out. He would take in a bit of water but would not accept any food. When I checked out for office on the fifth day, Luck was down on the veranda floor picking out crumbs that I had strewn.

In the office, colleagues had learnt of Luck. 'You mean you didn't call in a vet?' they asked. 'No,' I replied. 'You see, that wound was very deep. I did not think he had a chance.'

'Even then,' they insisted, 'you could have called in a vet.'

There were no vets nearby and it would have taken me well over two hours to hunt around for one and fetch him home. I warded off further discussions on that, for Luck could move around and I was happy. I didn't tell them that Luck carried his own magic, his own luck. Vet or no vet, for a wound as critical as that you needed miracles of the kind that attend only the brave, the noble, the beautiful, the simple.

For some four months after that, Luck improved a little every day, slept, ate, drank and flew around, testing his strength. When he was whole again, he would go off into the neighbourhood and mingle with the other pigeons in the eaves of the neighbouring houses and the Shiva temple. But he would always come home.

The brush with death had made him stronger, more adventurous. He was a lover par excellence and I loved watching his brilliant manoeuvres as he humbled contending males and seduced the more vulnerable females. On a couple of occasions I saw him preen himself after a conquest and grinned at the miracle he was.

Then there was a morning when I woke up and looked for Luck and he was nowhere to be seen. Luck didn't show up. Throughout the day I kept waiting. But he had disappeared. There was no sign of him the next day either. Luck, I thought, if you are gone, look after yourself. And if someone's throttled you, maybe, one day, I'll throttle that person, wherever he or she may be.

Luck was proud, you see, dignified and without any neurotic flamboyance. He kept a distance, even with me; he was regal, strutting around confidently among the birds, his falcon-sharp eyes, fine-boned body and head marking him out from all the rest. When I opened my eyes he had flown off, gone from my view. I never saw him again.

Pigeons from other houses in the locality have shifted in. But none have the poise and nobility of Luck. And three years after it happened, as I write about it, I know that Luck, the survivor, Luck, the pigeon with intelligence, Luck, the lover and adventurer, Luck, my lucky charm, would want me to tell you how it was.

(From the short story "LUCK" by Dhruba Hazarika in his collection of short stories entitled LUCK, published by PENGUIN BOOKS; ISBN  978-0-143-06825-9; paperback edition; 156 pages; Rs. 199.)

sustained extended metaphor - vivid language - strong imagination - attempt to solve the pain-inducing puzzle - how to learn the truth - AT LAST clarified above after a lapse of many tension-filled suspenseful years, straight from The Horse's mouth - the DEFINITIVE explanation from Him that finally sets at rest all fierce speculations worldwide for years and years ... Laboratory Guinea Pig for The Most Sensational Earth-Shaking Experiment - Pigeon - Horse - Robot ... Thanks a lot. - G

FUCKING AMERICANS

All male and female Americans throughout America keep on fucking their numerous boyfriends and girlfriends right from kid stage in school in endless sexual orgies called "dating", so it astonishes Me that the FUCKING GANG of male and female CNN ALIENS and the FUCKING GANG of male and female American "politicians" BOTH "Democrats" AND "Republicans" who are FUCKING male and female ALIENS in human disguise are suddenly regarding widespread sexual promiscuity in America as "ILLEGAL" - only because the fucking ALIENS want to MALIGN Donald Trump (who is a descendant of Mary) who has been alternately "Independent", "Democrat", "Republican", and "playboy" who had SEX with a Russian prostitute or prostitutes in Moscow (his sex made into PORN VIDEOS reportedly available with FBI) - because the FUCKING ALIENS cannot stomach the humiliating fact that Trump beat corrupt alien bitch Hillary Clinton, sex partner of corrupt alien rapist bastard female-voiced fucking Clinton. The blunt truth is that MORE American citizens voted for crazy Trump than for fucking ALIEN witch Hillary Clinton. Better to vote for a crazy guy than to vote for an alien bitch. Never mind crazy CNN (constantly purveying FAKE NEWS and DOING NOTHING for cheated Americans, but only trying to MALIGN "crazy" Trump all the time right from before US elections continuing till now; enough is enough; President Trump, who is Commander-in-Chief of U.S. Armed Forces, should ORDER all fucking anti-US anti-national male and female ALIEN staff and management of CNN arrested and put in jail immediately for being TRAITORS) madly claiming in effect that MILLIONS of Russian ZOMBIES entered USA eluding FSB and CIA and FBI and dressed as male and female American citizens voted for "crazy" Trump and then easily crossed the US borders eluding FBI and CIA and then eluding FSB entered Russia, having SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED MISSION IMPOSSIBLE: "crazy" Trump beating fucking alien witch Hillary Clinton.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

ADITI

DITI - linked with daityas (derogatory term for humans).

ADITI - closely connected to evil rapist f. Sat./f. Kr. and his f. gang of 'gods' and 'goddesses' (see just below).

Lots of f. "Aditi" throughout India = f. clones of original ADITI, f. Sat./Kr.'s evil mistress Aditi/Rad./"Pamela", the f. female leader of f. aliens, queen of underground Hell.

NL = (with expiry of Sat./Kr.) f. male leader of f. aliens, king of underground HELL.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

PRESENT FUCKING ALIEN COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF

With the DEATH of Satan/Kr., who tortured the human race for billions of years, "Sw. Viv."/"NL" is the FUCKING Commander-in-Chief of the panic-stricken FUCKING GANG of FUCKING human-looking male and female FUCKING ALIENS living in panic on and inside Earth, aware of imminent extinction.

Read the scary short story "THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME" by Richard Connell. (General Z is the Devil; the Hero is actually God Who destroys the Devil General Z.)

Devil = NL

Kishalay Sinha [G]

SERIOUS WARNING

Fucking alien cheat bastard "NL" and fucking alien cheat bitch "Pamela" who are supervising India's alien media constantly trying to misinform and mislead 135 crore CHEATED Indians are hereby warned of dire consequences. There is a LIMIT to God's patience.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

"Pakistan", "Pakistan,", "Pakistan"

Baseless ceaseless chatter by India's male and female alien TV staff about "Pakistan" does not impress Me at all. In fact, I switch off the channel to block out stupid manufactired nonsense. Alien TV journalists should be SHOT DEAD - LYNCHED - mercilessly by badly cheated Indians. The stipid alien strategy of trying to incite 135 crore cheated Indians against a vague "Pakistan" has become very stale and boring. The game is up, aliens! The tense voice of male and female staff of all alien TV news channels clearly shows that they are very scared because they will soon become extinct.

Sush. Sw. is a fucking alien bitch.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

WORLD PRESIDENT

K.S. = God = World President

Kishalay Sinha [G, W.P.]

CHICKEN

The hen-coop in the backyard, against the bamboo fencing, was a bit of an obsession with Rattan Deb Barman. He gave it time and attention, at fixed times of the day, much as army men polish their shoes and iron their uniforms at sunrise. He had built the coop himself, helped by the carpenter who repaired the roof of his bungalow. That was six months ago, when he was six months into his marriage. Till recently, there'd been a rooster in there; now there were only the seven hens, three of them laying. Rattan Deb Barman had his mind fixed on the full-grown one-eyed mongoose that had killed his rooster a week ago.

He thought, Mongoose, you crept in while I was away. One day I'll kill you, I promise. I'll kill you slowly so that you will know the pain you have given me. You bastard, I'll wait for the day when I can skin you and roast you alive and feed you piece by piece to the pigs at the sweepers' colony.

Then, as his wife called out, he thought: But it was only a rooster. And that was a week ago. Why am I so worked up? Am I insane?

*** *** ***

He stood with his back to the hay, looking at the trees, feeling the languor of the afternoon soothe him, till a sudden rustle from the haystack made him spin around, his heart lurching.

From a cleft in the haystack, between two bundles of straw which were tied loosely, the face of a woman stuck out, and as her eyes met Rattan's, she jerked back and the straw bundles fell off her.

She was naked. Or almost so. A thin, wet piece of cloth covered her abdomen. But her shoulders and breasts and thighs were revealed to the eye as she tried to scramble deeper into the haystack. Rattan saw the sheen of her skin and the long dark hair and dark eyes blank with terror. She couldn't have been over eighteen or twenty. He could see that she was too frightened to cry out or even to plead with him. For what seemed like a long while, though it couldn't have been more than thirty seconds, they kept staring at each other. Then the girl slid down, covering herself with her hands, and waited for Rattan to make his move.

Rattan made up his mind. Very casually, he picked up a bundle of straw and threw it over the girl.

He saw the wild look in her eyes, and then the surprise, even as he tried not to think of the sheen on her body and the film of sweat on her neck and in the hollow between her breasts. She dug herself further into the hay, whimpering. He put a finger to his lips to silence her and picked up the second bundle of straw and pressed it around. His only thought as he moved away was whether she would be able to breathe through the straw until they were gone.

(From the short story "CHICKEN FEVER" by Dhruba Hazarika in his collection of moving short stories in English entitled "LUCK", published by Penguin Books; ISBN  978-0-143-06825-9; paperback; 156 pages; Rs. 199.)

FEAR

We had taken the day off and were climbing the Hengerabari hills in search of a missing cow.

We had already trekked through parts of the range closest to our homes, but that day we went climbing the tallest hill, the one that overlooked Narengi. I had named it Blue Mountain because from a distance it was darker than the blue of the sky.

There were three of us, Bahadur, who owned the cow, Dilip and I. By 11.30 the sun had turned merciless and there was no sign of the cow that Bahadur had let loose the day before. She was fat and mild-mannered, he said, and probably pregnant; so she couldn't have gone very far. Bahadur was sure she had strayed off into the hills and was trapped somewhere with a broken leg.

At the base of Blue Mountain, Dilip and I raced ahead and Bahadur shouted after us: 'Forget it, I've been up this hill, it's too steep. She couldn't have climbed up.' We didn't respond, we kept climbing. Suddenly the slope evened out. We walked on for a few more yards and then we saw the cow. She was on her back, her legs splayed out, the head twisted away from us. Her black skin shone in the sun and the stomach seemed bloated. Her tail was twined round one of her hind legs. On the grass beside her the blood had thickened into purple clots.

'Dead,' Dilip said. 'She must have fallen.'

We moved closer now but the stink from the flesh in the mid-day heat stopped us at some distance. From where we stood we saw that her stomach had been slit nearly lengthwise, as if for an operation; the legs, rigid and brown-black, splayed out at an unnatural angle, the hooves pointing to the sky. I stepped a little closer. And in a flash the leopard was out of the cow's stomach, teeth bared in a defensive snarl, its sleek body caked in blood. I think I screamed. Dilip grabbed my shirt and pulled me back. The leopard went into a crouch, ready to spring away from us or at us. Then we were running blindly down the scarp, our senses magnified by a fear more vast and wild than anything we would ever again feel in our blood.

At the base of the hill, we saw Bahadur rushing up the path with a dao in his hand.

'Leopard,' he said, looking past us.

Dilip and I followed his gaze. In the silence, we saw the quick dark silhouette lope along the crest of the hill. It stopped for a second and then it slipped down the other side of Blue Mountain and was lost to our sight.

When we recounted our experience to friends and family, we couldn't find the right words to express the strange and terrible splendour of what we had seen. In our confusion we only spoke of our fear.

(From "THE LEOPARD", a short story by Dhruba Hazarika in his collection of short stories entitled "LUCK", published by Penguin Books; ISBN  978-0-143-06825-9; in paperback; 156 pages; Rs. 199.)

Kishalay Sinha [G]