story of my assassins : page no.326

Story of my assassins
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These college boys , sons of influential parents, played basket ball. They were full of quick feints, loud abuse, and aggresive elbows. Some were accompanied by ripening girls. At the end, they sat huddled together and shared cigarettes. I wanted to slap their smug, confident faces. These were kids for whom, India was just a vast amusemetn park, set up by some earnest gold geezers after kicking out some whte men. they all neeed a fucking craxsh course in the Vedanta and a stint in the Army. Three months in Siachen, and 6 months in Imphal. Then, they would gain a perspective on the fadeaway jumper.

( Page 293)

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( After Chini's first adventure of stealing a woman's hand bag ; the gang leader Dhaka, after seeing the items rolling out of the handbag : remarks philosophically )

" There is no difference between a woman and her hand bag. The exterior may have no relation to what is inside! "

" From the many stomachs, small and big, of the bad emerged a mountain of jumple. Kaalia pulled up each item with seremonial slowness and held it up for all to see.

" 3 sticks of Lipstick. Red,Pink and Pinker.
A round handled hair brush with a plastic teeth.
A small , mud brown bottle, its cap, stained, its sharp smell, pleasant.
2 plastic ball pens. One short pencil.
A slim book of thick paper leaves, which, Dhaka explained them, can be exchanged for money ( cheque book).
A small yellow towel.
A pair of pale dark glasses.
A nail cutter, a nail file , and a fat, multipurpose knife.
A small , maroon color , leather diary , held together by a string.
Many thick black rubber bands.
A soft white cotton pad, with a bullet of a Tampon.
A Shining compact of a face powder.
An eye liner pencil.
A small beautiful tottle of sweet perfume.
A foil of some tablets, old and battered.
2 thin silver bangles. 2 thick glass bangles.
A tiny tin of some creams.
A lump of white cotton in plastic pouch.
A bar of chocolate and a fistful of toffees.
A thick paper card picture of Goddess Lakshmi.
A pair of silver ear rings.
A brown tube of cream.
A tube of some sweet white liquid.
A disposable safety A razor.
A litter of coins.
A pack of condoms in black plastic casing.
And finally, a bag within a bag, containing,
credit cards, debit cards, photo of a man and
2 children. Seven hundred and seventy two rupees !


( After a number of items that come out of that stolen handbag of a woman, Dhaka says ; sagely, like a philosopher ) : " A woman's handbag is like her Pussy. It's so small, Prima Facie, that you think only piss can come out of it : but then, one day, it throws out a whole fucking baby ! "

( page no.326)

"assassins " page 131 --> 293

Page : 131 ( tope the chaaku)
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" The true measure of things.
The tyrant after the court has vanished :
the policeman shorn of his uniform :
the man who is no longer is minister :
the school master in the Bazaar :
The tormentor bereft of his trappings :
The molester leached of his tumescence.

Nothing to make the juice rise, nothing to inflate the mind and the flesh with power and passion.

To strip Bhupi of his conceit - all it tok was a knofe ! A Rampuria. Not the size, not wealth, not numbers. Not caste, not creed, not class. Just a knife !

( page 134)
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" The hallmark of a robust relationship is - knowing how to act in a crisis without anything being said. There would be no time to talk. "
( page 132)
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" Chaaku told his uncle, he knows how to use his weapon in a way that married meance with restraint. He would slice skin, never artery : he would put in the fear of life, never take it. People wrongly assume that , men are either fearless or fearful. The turh is, like most thinkgs, courage has many degrees. Chaaku did not, yet, have the nerve to kill.
( page 136)
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" Chaaku learnt that, almost all the world lived in colossal and constant fear. Afraid of everything - the police, officials and courts, the thugs, criminals and mafia ; afriad of the establishment and the anti-establishment : afraid of failure and of criticism , of being humiliated and of being mocked, of being ugly and of being bald, afraid of cockroaches and of cats, of the seas and the skies, of lightening and of electricity : afriad of priests and phuysicians : afraid of dying and of living. More than hope, people's lives seemed to be defined by fear. Most hope, it seemed, was only about somehow being able to negotiate fers successfully.

( page 157)
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" Most businessmen who came to visit us had this quality - an ability to walk into a space and intuit the true lay of the land. A quality of contained watchfulness, of shrewd assessment - vested in just their eyes - which saw them give away very little while soaking everything in. Of a piece with a commercial metabolism : always letting LESS flow out , than was flowing in. And each one had his own pattern of mono-syllables. "
( page 179)
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" These successful businessmen, these were all, the men of the world. These men existed outside the grand vocabulary of state and governance and citizenship and the ideas of privilege and responsibility. They were all worldly wise - uncontaminated by any sense of larger agency or of greater good. They were driven , each moment, by self-interest, by the primal need to protect and expand their turf and that of their families. It was very basic stuff, with narrow and insular horizons, and yet, I could see , these were not men, to be dismissed : they shaped the world by the simple act of continual endeavour. Not one of them, I thought, would ever hit a state of stasis, or be crippled into inaction by the size and scale and unknowability of the universe. And with them, Jai struggled to find the language that would connect him to them. "
( page 179)

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Bhall snubbing both of them : " Everything in this country is ' insider trading '. What do you think politics in this damn city is ? What do you think your fucking journalism is ? There is no truth in this fucking country except for the poor bastard on the street who has to carry the load of all of it, and of you and me ! Have you ever really looked at this poor bastgard ? next time you are fucking around on the roads, look at him ! He knows everything is insider trading ! And he knows he's outside of it ! And you know something ? He's happy for it! He knows all of us great inside traders are doomed ! We are busy scribbling out our misery ! He's fucking happy, the Universe is on his side ! He knows - the joke is on us ! "

( page 183)

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" The kind, gentle, Tiwari sahab, the head warder in the jail, used to say, " In the world , there are only 2 kinds of people , the jailor and the doctor, who know the truth - that most men are punished for no fault of theirs! "

( page 258 )
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Story of my assassins page 94

If Sara had listened to the inheritance of her blood she would have known the world does not need to be fixed, it only needs to be balanced !

And the Art of Aalance demands - you tread lightly, not leap about in a continual frenzy.
The art of balance demands -- you know your designated role in the game of life, not start muscling in on everyone else's.
The art of Balance demands - absence of panic, a rippleless internal calm.
The Art of Balance demands -- knowledge of timelessness, of birth and death and rebirth.
The Art of Balance demands that - you know the world cannot be fixed, it must be endured : it must, simply, be kept forever in splendid play !

But, Sara wanted to Fix the World !

She wanted - action, answers, victories,solutions, resolutions, liberty, equality, fraternity. She wanted final solutions !

Story of my assassins - upto page 84

Sara said, " Wystan's telling us that fascism is creeping up all around us, and we don't even know ! He's telling us that, we suffer from the Illusion of Normalcy. He's telling us that the worst horrors take place around us while we go happily about our everyday lives. Just because the newspapers keep coming, the televisions keep humming, the planes keep taking off, the trains keep running - just because our daily crap goes on deosn't mean all is well. My dear phallo-foolish friend, Icarus has plnged into the ocean and is drowing while we are chattering away merrily on the sailing ship ?

( page 24)
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( Mr.Lincoln Meets Frock Raja)
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At each stage Jai had addresses the staff as if he were Abraham Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address, assuring them that immortality and the turnaround would bothe be theirs, in fact, were just days away. All, each of us had to do , was to resolutely stand by our posts and keep firing. At what, he didn't say. The fucker was so eloquent, with his burning eyes and waving arms, that even I fell for his talk ! Each time, when the trance broke, I thought : ' through millennia, men like him have led thousands to their untimely graves !
(page 52)
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Guruji said, the covenant of spiritual power was unchanging, and clear : he could protect others but not himself ; he could always enrich others but not himself ; he cold heal others but not himself . He alone could take care of the multitudes ; but the multitudes, collectively, needed to take care of him.

It was the answer I would have given to the cynicisms of Sarah and Jai , if I could be bothered about them. The vanities - and limitations - of reason.
( Page 59 )

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Guruji : ' the wise traveller uses any horse to rach his destination. He doesn't agonize about who owns the animal. He only thinks about the pleasure of riding it, about getting it to take him where he wishes to go.
(page 69)
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I didn't want to enter an argument with her - about
you didn't call !
why didn't you call ?
where are you ?
With who, are you ?
do you feel ?
what do you feel ?
you don't care !
Why can't you come ?
why can't we go ?
why can't you say something ?
What are you saying ?
you only want ' that' ?
you don't want anything ?
whre is this thing going ?
this si going nowhere !
I thought you were strong !
I know you are strong .
You are making me weak.
I am not weak.
you dont' want to change.
You have changed !
you make me sick !
you are sick !
you don't really love me.
I really love you.
How can anyone love you ?
actually you hate me !
actrualy you hate yoruself.
Actually, I hate you !

I had discovered, over time, that the workable cycle of an affair was about 16 weeks. 2 weeks of wooing ; 4 weeks of passion ; and 10 slow and painful weeks of disengagement. By the time it ended there was POISON everywhere, with every fine feeling in tatters.

When the last lingering tendon was finally snipped, with one of us, saying something so barbaric, that could easily have gone unsaid, there was a euphoria not dissimilar to that of weeks of passion.

Some times the process was less corrosive, whe she too understood , like cops and doctors do , that the world is what it is, ephermeral, luneven, to be squarely dealt with, and not to be conjured out of weak romantic novels.

But FEW seems to possess the gift of leaving the room while the laughter was still in the air and the spirits high. For the most, everyone seemed to be committed to creating a heap of debris before walking away from it !

( page 84)