The Jungle

Hundreds of thousands of insects were making hundreds of thousands of noises. They all combined into a single noise that can be called as ‘the voice of the jungle’. The birds chirped away. A large herd of spotted deer was grazing near the lake. The adult females formed a protective circle around the young ones, while the adult males kept watch. Accompanying the deer was a small herd of nilgai. The monkeys were upto their usual jumping around on the trees. A typical day in a typical Indian forest.
Then a monkey screeched loudly. The whole world seemed to come to a standstill. The nilgai and spotted deer stood at rapt attention, a dozen pairs of eyes looking in a dozen different directions, while the young ones continued grazing. The monkey screeched once more. This time, many others followed suit. The treetops were now filled with screeching and screaming noises. The deer sniffed the air around them. There was danger lurking somewhere.
The tiger had crept up to a stretch of tall, drying grass near the lake. His dark yellow coat and the black stripes on it blended perfectly with the colour of the dry grass and the shrubs. He moved his eyes over the entire herd, searching for the easiest possible prey. Having failed to knock down a wild boar in his last attempt and not having eaten since two days, he had to think carefully and decide. He singled one out. Now all he had to do was to create panic among the grazing animals and isolate his target.
He waited. Patiently, he waited for the right time to strike. Then he made a dash for it, his sturdy legs carrying his bulky body at a really good speed (although this speed can be maintained only for short distances). The daunting sight of the King himself charging with a look of hunger in his eye threw the entire herd into disarray. The animals ran helter-skelter, trying to stay together and keep the fawns safe. However, the nilgai that the tiger had singled out was not able to keep up and got separated from the herd. The rest of the herd could only watch helplessly as the young tiger grabbed the nilgai with his sharp claws and dug his teeth into his neck.
When you see a tiger crush its prey’s spine with its four-inch long canines, or see a leopard bite into the snout of a galloping gazelle, you can almost feel the gruesome power these beasts possess. No wonder the big cats are such a dominating presence and the bigger ones among them are called the kings of the jungle. But merely wearing their skin won’t give you the qualities that they possess, the qualities because of which they are feared. The most fearsome thing at present is that soon there will be no such thing left to be afraid of. And since fear is the key to survival on a number of occasions, it is about time that we understand this to be one of those occasions. It is time to put in some more effort to save these fascinating felines. There are just around 1400 tigers left, and the countdown continues…

The Spark

He gently pushed the door with his sinewy arm. The hinges creaked, trying unsuccessfully to offer some resistance. He slowly entered his room. The curtains were drawn. The fading light of evening made the room even darker. The darkness in his room was merely a shadow of the darkness that had been tormenting him since the last few years. He wasn’t blind, he had 20/20 vision. But it was the things on his wall that numbed his mind...
A photograph of him and his schoolmates proudly displaying the gold medals they’d won in the national interschool hockey tournament...a photograph of his parents proudly embracing him after the achievement...and then a date he had carved into the wall. He ran his fingers over the engraving and looked down at his wheelchair. A storm of sorrow and pain raged in his mind. That fateful day...his brand new suit...the small velvet-coated box in his hand...his widowed mother looking forward to happy times...the torrential rains... the failed brakes...the broken barrier of the railroad crossing...opening his eyes in a hospital bed surrounded by his college buddies...they seemed to be etched into his mind just like the deep carving in his wall. He remembered her accompanying him to his parents’ graves, her hand on his shoulder...
Her...he remembered her...her presence seemed to inject fresh hope into him...she was there right beside him at that very moment, wearing his ring on her finger, her hand on his shoulder...
He turned around slowly, his wheelchair wheels squeaking a bit, and looked into her eyes. She was the spark that ignited the cold, black coals of gloom and despair surrounding him and provided a fire...a fire that gave him warmth...a fire that gave him light. This fire breathed life into him, and she was the one who he lived for...

Two Minutes

I got back on my feet after falling on being elbowed in the face. Pleased with the advantage that the situation had provided, I hardly worried about the nosebleed. The position was perfect...it was within what I describe as 'my freekick territory'. I took my position and looked at the goal, the 4-man wall and the keeper. The clock was ticking away...only two more minutes to go. It was now or never...

A strong wind started blowing across the goal. I waited for a moment and worked out how and where to hit the ball to make the most of the strong gust of wind. I started my run-up, swung my boot at it, and it bulged the net while the keeper stared helplessly. We had taken the lead.

The referee blew his whistle, they kicked off again. Half a minute to go. Their winger tore down the left flank at top speed and crossed the ball in. I climbed above their forward and headed it to safety. My teammate took possession. Our fullback took the ball and ran forward, looking for someone to play it to. I called for it and got it. I did a quick 360 past their central midfielder and accelerated into the yards of open space that lay beyond.

As I saw their huge centreback rush at me with a look of desperation in his eyes, I realized that for that instant, I didn’t care about losing possession…what my mind was fixed on was getting out of the way of the pair of solid legs flying at me with unimaginable recklessness. I jumped, but a little too late. Both his legs caught me full and square below my knee, the solid plastic studs digging into the soft flesh at the sides of my calf muscle. Just one moment of madness.

I collapsed...the pain was excruciating. Not even as much as a whisper emerged from my mouth, let alone a loud scream of pain and agony. As I lay there motionless, surrounded by my teammates, I mustered enough courage to have a look at my leg. At once I wished I hadn't. The same foot with which I had dealt a killer blow to the opposition moments ago, was now in shambles...completely destroyed...

The medical staff stretchered me off the field. My vision became hazy. I saw a red object shining in the referee’s hand. Their centreback was sent off, but the damage was done. The fourth official showed the added time. Play continued, but I had no idea of what was happening on the field. The blurred figures of players running around on the field slowly disappeared into darkness...

My velocipede

My bicycle, to put it in easier words. It's something that I'm addicted to, something that's beneficial for health, something that's quite inexpensive and something they wouldn't think of having rehab centres for. Poor thing's probably thinking when I would give up on it. I won't. Going out for a bicycle ride is something I really enjoy. Here's an account of one of my trips.

I started off around 6 PM, sometime in winter. Not quite the best time for cycling, especially when the route goes through some really crowded areas. I reached a park near my house. The lane going along it looked to be a good place to practice for one of those rough-terrain racing competitions. Then I reached one of the city's busiest, and equally, if not more, undisciplined intersections. It took me quite some time to get through the mayhem. My route took me to another equally chaotic intersection, but this one had traffic signals (and yes, they worked and surprisingly enough, were obeyed).

An autorickshaw driver created space out of nowhere by virtue of his 'driving skill' which was seen in the form of his vehicle's diagonal movement across the street. Quite used to these sights, I waited for the signal to turn green. I then proceeded towards the bus stop in the market area, where a bus was getting loaded. It occupied more than half the available space on the street. I squeezed through whatever was left of the remaining space and sped through the clear stretch till the railway underbridge. As I manoeuvred my way through the traffic, I was momentarily caught in the wrong position on the road, with a bus to my left, and this prompted patient honking from the car behind me. I made my way out and turned left. A few yards on, the vegetable market made its presence known to my nose. I rushed past, pedalling fiercely through the crowd. I reached an intersection where a flyover had been under construction since times immemorial. I turned right, and carefully negotiating the traffic at a Y-intersection, took the right-hand fork. I rode along the long, straight avenue, occasionally looking at the numerous hotels and commercial establishments that thronged either side of the street. After a relatively uneventful stretch, I was crossing a garden and that is where all the trouble began.

A cool gust of wind gave me a fresh feel as it hit my face, but it brought along a fair amount of chilly powder (and something else) from a nearby roadside stall. Only a few seconds passed by before high-velocity bursts started emerging from my nostrils at regular intervals. My eyes became watery and I could sense my skin becoming hot. I used up all the water in my water-bottle to wash my face. I called a cycle-rickshaw puller for help. Some onlookers had a few minutes of entertainment as they watched us experiment with various positions to load both me and my bicycle into the rickshaw. We finally did it, and as we set off, I closed my eyes for a few minutes. When I opened them, I saw that we were approaching the lake. I soon got down and we unloaded my bicycle. I bought some water and washed my face once more before setting off again.

I soon realised that I would soon be approaching the familiar stench of the vegetable market, and that it would be hard on my nose. So, I pedalled into a network of lanes in the opposite direction, dodging my way through bovine barricades and emerged somewhere near the bus stand. A peach of a bottleneck. As the buses used their size to get their right of way, I waited for the congestion to clear and moved on.

As I crossed an abandoned railway track, I felt raindrops. Damn...this wasn't the time for it to start raining. I checked my watch... at least 15 minutes to get home from here. Thankfully, the rain hardly intensified and it stopped raining quite soon. Moments later, I saw a bus charge at a crowd that was going perpendicularly across the street through a divider break. It worked without causing any kind of damage. Ironical that this should take place at a spot only a two-minute walk away from a crematorium. Then I crossed another railway underbridge, made my way through a very familiar network of lanes and reached the traffic signal in front of my house. Just a few feet to go, but not before being yelled at by an autorickshaw driver for stopping at the red signal. Unbothered, I stayed there and equally unbothered, he rushed through the approaching traffic. Moments later, the signal turned green and I reached home intact after yet another outing.

As the smoke-billowing traffic continues to rise and the level of their source of power continues to fall with equal intensity, it may once more come down to human and animal power. It seems more of a question of 'when' rather than 'if' if you think of increasing domination of bicycles, bullock carts (and maybe even horses... I'd certainly love that). Sadly for my poor, battered bicycle, it isn't over as yet...