The Scarecrow

I am a scarecrow in the middle of the field. I have skinny limbs and can’t stand without support. I have a twenty four hour job and can see in the dark too. The wind is my friend. He helps me nod my head and wave my arms. I can’t do anything with my legs. I need to keep my balance.

I can’t speak but sometimes A croaking sound comes out of my throat as the wind blows around me.I usually sport a large turban; three bands of sacred ash are mandatory on my forehead. Shiva’s third eye in the centre band  wards off the evil everywhere around me. My hair flows long like a Sadhu from Benares.

My responsibilities are great. They sit lightly on me though. I can’t help nodding my head; I can’t help waving my arms. These come naturally to me. I love my job.

I wave and nod to keep the undesirables away or more correctly keep them at bay. What fire does to the wolves and the bears I do for the crows and the sparrows and the pigeons … I scare them away. I like to think that small boys, girls and thieves are in awe of me.

If I did not wave they would stop, and then we would not have harvests. The farmer would have no grain and all would starve.

Babies and kids would exhaust themselves crying. Cattle would have ribs and dogs would steal poultry. Calves would have no milk and the cock would be slaughtered.

Only the crows would be happy and they would invite the vultures too. Then they would have a right royal feast. Calves, chicken, ribbed dogs and cats, and silent large headed babies with open eyes as the light dies out slowly.

I am the scarecrow in the middle of the field. I wave things on. I know my responsibilities and I never stop.

Sometimes when the wind helps me I look to the sky and the birds they know that I am watching, the aero planes think twice about landing here and the clouds too move on.

They must not stop they must not fall.

I just give them a look and a nod and they understand.

I sometimes wonder what my son would do without me…I haven’t seen him for a while now…but I suppose he would understand.

———•———

Today while I was minding my business two guys came on a motorcycle. They stopped and looked at me.

I gave them a look and tapped the rider r gently, “move on” I mouthed, he looked at me intently for a moment. The second stranger who looked like my son kept scanning the horizon behind me…

The rider spoke to me. “You look tired old man, don’t you want to rest? But not to worry, soon you will have a long rest.”

Some people in the field stopped to watch us. I waved them on. If they stop then we will have a smaller harvest and then we will starve, then the crows will have a field day and invite the vultures along.

The man put his hand in my pocket and took out some nuts and jaggery. I always keep some nuts and some jaggery.

I like to feed babies and kids even as I like to scare them a little at first.

“You know you should get some rest now old man” he says while popping some nuts into his mouth. “Everyone wants some rest now and then and I‘ll help you get a long rest. Would you like to rest old man? he asks. I nod my head…I wave my arms I want them to move on…they don’t seem to understand.

Close your eyes, the man says to me.

I close my eyes. I feel a sharp prick on my arm.

                                                                      ———•———                                     

The men carry me on the bike.

As we move slowly on the rutted road, I dream my dream. It is always the same dream…

I am supine, and the crows descend, they are followed by the vultures which hover over them, a couple of dogs sniff around me keeping the crows at bay. The crows hover over aiming to devour me once the dogs leave the scene. Babies cry and women scream. Men come running and stand in a circle around me.

I want to tell them “keep moving, otherwise all would starve; the dogs will develop ribs and the babies’ big heads” but not a sound escapes me.

———•———

I wanted to open my eyes but the man had told me to keep them shut. As I open them I feel a sharp pain on my arm a second time.

And then I dream a different dream

I am lying on a stretcher placed in a palanquin. The air is suffused with the warmth of the sun and there are no clouds. The palanquin moves slowly and gracefully, and my nostrils catch the smell of jasmine, marigold and rose. Somewhere a bell rings and a priest intones the names of God.

I wave at the few people who are travelling with me. They have come to watch me, and they seem relieved that all is well.

After the dream is over I open my eyes.

———•———

The motor cycle man is next to me and looks at me quizzically. Are you at peace now he seems to be asking?

A stranger who looks like my son is speaking to him.” How is he ” he asks, the motorcycle man pinches me…I feel a slight pain and then nothing.

I want to tell the stranger who looks like my son  that all is well but no words come out…I look to the sky and find it devoid of clouds, there are no crows…

I try to get up but find I cannot move, really I do not feel like moving at all.

The motor cycle man pinches me once again and although I feel a little pain, I say nothing  “old man, rest in peace he says” and moves away.

———•———

It is late afternoon now.

I am the scarecrow in the middle of the field. I have my job to do.

A few clouds move slowly into my line of vision and I try to wave them. I find I cannot move so I try to blow them away.

They look different now; come to think of it this is a different field. Somewhere close by I hear the sound of a train engine …. It seems to be coming closer. Can’t really do anything about it but I must blow and nod it away.

If I do not wave, the engine would stop and the people would stop by, and then we would not have harvests. The farmer would have no grain and all would starve….

As the growl of the train engine grows louder I see the motorcycle man and the stranger who looks like my son come near me….They look at me and the motorcycle man pinches me again.

The two of them shake hands. The stranger who looks like my son seems pleased. I will arrange for the property papers next week. We need to close this deal quickly.

As they move away I keep blowing away, I have my job to do.

The Mint Master

Read at the October Readmeet

*

The PA rose as Qurban Gul walked in after lunch. “Gul Sahib, there is a letter for you from PMO.”

“You don't have to tell me. I know what it contains.” he replied, as he took the letter and walked into his cabin.

He sat down, unlocked his drawer, and pulled out the cipher key. Then he opened the letter, signed personally by the Prime Minister, and sat down to decode it.

“Ya Ali! Another batch? Lahaul bila. When will we ever print our own currency?” he thought to himself, as he reached out for the phone. “Please call Ahmed Walid.”

Qurban Gul hated this job. Becoming Master of the Government Mint should have been a great achievement. But Ah! How naive he was in those initial days, when he thought this would be the stepping stone to becoming Governor of the Reserve Bank of Randomistan. But all he ended up was as master forger.

“Yes, let Walid Mian in.” he replied into the phone, and clicked the button that would open the door.

“Walid Mian, why do I never understand? This Mint is meant to print Randomistan's currency, but it spends more time counterfeiting Whateveria's currency. Why?”

“Because it is printed in a mint, Gul Sahib, with access to the most sophisticated currency printing technology, the Whateverian Police find it exceedingly difficult to spot genuine from counterfeit.” replied Ahmed Walid.

“Why do all of this? That too at a time when our national debt is rising. We cannot keep borrowing from Alwayzatwarica.”

“To weaken Whateveria's economy till the country collapses. Then our tanks will roll into the Valley, and it will be liberated, and the destiny of our country fulfilled!” thundered Walid Mian, his voice rising to a roar.

Qurban Gul sighed in resignation. “Not my business to ask why. But why is it that we must use our mint budget for this? Why not a separate mint, or at least more money?”

Walid shrugged his shoulders. “You know our government better than me, Gul Sahib.”

“This means I will have to order more of those dyes. Such a large order cannot be fulfilled without fresh dye. That will leave us with little money to order dyes for our own currency. Why, oh why, does nobody understand this?”

“Our currency can wait. The liberation of the Valley is more important. And everyone must do our bit. Yours is to order more dye. Mine is to print more notes. Our nation's destiny calls us!”

By now Ahmed Walid had worked himself into a state of frenzy.

“Calm down, Walid Mian. I will call the dye-making company for more supplies.”

“Borodin Purple 78 – 6 litres, Frunze Sea-green 234 – 20 litres, Dark Blue 25 – 3 litres. That's all isn't it?”

“What about Invisible White 44? Do we have enough?” asked the Mint Master.

“No, but we have plenty of Invisible White 43.”

“Will not do, Walid Mian. Invisible White 43 is used for printing the watermark of Randomistani Rupees. The watermark of Whateverian Rupees is made with Invisible White 44. Any difference will be caught immediately by their currency checkers.”

“6 litres of that then, Gul Sahib. I'll call Rusbrenty Corp. straightaway.”

As he rose to go, Gul called after him.

“No, wait. Don't call Rusbrenty Corp. directly.”

“Why?”

“If we order exactly the same dyes as Whateveria orders, and that too in the same proportion, someone or the other is going to see through the game. For all I know, Rusbrenty will start blackmailing us. A more subtle plan is needed.”

He beckoned his assistant nearer.

“Like what?” Ahmed Walid bowed forward, intrigued.

“Find out similar shades of purple, sea-green, and blue they have, that too in short supply. Order those. When they can't, settle for a compromise wherein they give us what we want. It will then seem they gave it to us, and not we asked them.”

“Wow! You should be in the SIS.”

***

A few months later, a letter arrived from the Finance Ministry. Substandard & Rich had downgraded the country's rating, and sovereign default was nearing. The only way out was to print more currency and inflate Randomistan out of its obligations. The Government and Reserve Bank were ordering the printing of 5000 crore Randomistani Rupees in various denominations.

“Walid Mian, we have a crisis on our hands. We cannot print 5000 crore Rupees. We don't have enough budget.”

“Oh no! What do we do now?”

“How am I to help? Just last week we printed 4 crore Whateverian Rupees. I don't have much money left over. The current order will need 50 litres of Ingot Green Dark 65, 40 of Sybarite Yellow 44, 60 of Jekyll Green Light 56 and 20 of Invisible White 43. And these dyes cost crores.”

“We can print as much as we can.”

“We have a total of 50 lac Rupees. We'll go bankrupt, and the debt situation will simply not improve.”

“We'll ask the FinMin for more money then.”

“Ha ha ha! Try, Walid Mian. No harm in trying.”

But the reply from the Finance Ministry was a sorry, no budget available. The mint retorted saying that it could do nothing. A stalemate and a blamegame ensued, till the matter went to the PMO. Not that they could do anything. No ministry had any surplus that could be diverted. The only government entity that had any surplus money was Intelligence. And they were placing a massive order for arms destined for freedom fighters in the Valley. No money to spare.

The 50 lac was spent, 20 crore worth of rupee notes were printed. But the bond markets didn't respond, and yields touched 32% instead. Temperamental had joined Substandard & Rich in downgrading the country's credit rating to junk status.

Banks were writing back to the Reserve Bank to release more notes to avoid bank runs. The currency was crashing as FIIs rushed to pull out whatever dollars they could salvage before the default. ATMs were being ransacked. Already in Diwanistan, people were breaking the law and refusing to accept Randomistani currency preferring Sandistani riyals or Camelistani dirhams. And in several parts, counterfeit currency was being freely circulated.

The Reserve Bank wrote to the Finance Ministry, the Finance Ministry to the mint. The mint wrote to the Finance Ministry to ask for money to buy dyes. The Ministry asked the mint to buy on credit. Rusbrenty refused to allow any such thing. No cash, no dye.

Bond yields rose to 65%. Randomistani debt was now trash.

Factories were beginning to close down, as liquidity dried up. People were laid off. The cost of imports rose exponentially (Randomistan made nothing but guns for the Valley). Soap, that last year cost Rs. 60, now cost Rs. 8000 a cake, not that anyone had any cash to buy with. The price of wheat, if mentioned loudly, could trigger violence. Government diktats had frozen the prices of several items, and they had disappeared off the shelves. Excise raids were everyday uncovering secret hoards of cooking oil, food grains, and above all, cash. Cattle and poultry were being smuggled across the borders to Camelistan and Whateveria.

“Walid Mian, we have another order from the SIS. They demand 500 crore more of Whateverian rupees. Their method of ruining that country's economy is working. Because of excessive counterfeit currency circulating, inflation had risen from 5% to 7.5% in Whateveria.”

“Is that all, Gul sahib?”

“Not all. Chaos is taking over. The people are out on the streets demanding the resignation of the current government and fresh elections. At this rate, in a 130 years, Whateveria will disappear from the map of the world. What a victory, Walid Mian!”

“Ha! What a victory indeed! What about the economy here? Our currency has become worthless. Our country's trust in the world is zero. People are using Monopoly game money instead of the real notes.”

“Walid Mian, you speak like this? After all, you are the SIS agent here at the mint, and responsible for overseeing the printing of Whateverian currency. You should be proud of your achievements!”

“Is that earnest or sarcastic, Gul sahib?”

Qurban Gul shrugged. “Anyway, get on with the printing, Walid Mian. There's plenty of ink left over for that.”

“No, Gul sahib. I will not. I will write to SIS that this cannot be done. If necessary, I will lie that we have no more dyes. It bleeds me that when our own people are starving, the SIS is trying to make holes in others' plates.”

So the mint said no. There was a secret SIS raid, but they could not find a millilitre of dye. Walid Mian pleaded helplessness. The SIS demanded more money from the government. There wasn't any.

The new PM, installed overnight, could not find any either. There really wasn't any money. The treasury had been emptied paying off debts. The only solution was to print more.

“Walid Mian, you and I have been summoned to the PMO. The letter says the currency situation is entirely the mint's fault. Say your prayers, and tell your family. I hope you lived a virtuous life.”

“May the Almighty stand by us, Gul Sahib.”

“Gul Mian, we really need to find a way out of this. We'll have to print new currency, and as I see now, 6 lac crores of Randomistani rupees. I'm sure that can be done.”

“I'm sorry, Wazir-e-Azam Sahib, it can't be done. The cost of scaling up equipment, and procuring fresh dyes is several crores. You have already indicated to us that there isn't a paisa available.”

“Look, the situation is dire. Even as we speak, we are on the brink of our first ever sovereign default. Our public has started rioting. We have already lost control of Diwanistan.”

“Did we have any?” asked Ahmed Walid.

“Debatable. But thing is, I am willing to sell off government assets to pay for the printing. Please do what is needed.”

“I'll need 85 crores, at the least.”

“I'll sell the Liberation Gun Factory.”

“Oh no! Then where will the freedom fighters in the valley go for guns?”

“The Valley can go to hell.”

“Very well, then. In three months time, you'll have all your notes ready.”

The PM fell off his chair. “Three months? In three months, I'll be a dead man. For all I know, Randomistan will be in utter chaos by then. We need stuff within the week, Gul Mian.”

“There is one way. Declare that Whateverian currency will be legal tender henceforth. We can print loads of that very fast. Plenty of die, dye etc available.”

“I thought the SIS didn't find any of that.”

“Don't worry about that. Say yes, or no.”

“Certainly no, Gul Mian. That will tantamount to us ceding economic sovereignty to Whateveria.”

“Can't be helped, PM sahib. Whateverian currency is all we can print.”

They returned to their office, the situation unresolved.

“Gul sahib, just a minute before you came in, there was a call from PMO. He wants you and Walid Sahib to go back.”

“What has happened now? Have they found the money?” asked Ahmed Walid, bitterly.

“Gul Mian, if we change the design of the notes, using the existing dyes, can we print currency quickly?”

“One month, while the dies get cast.”

“Why so long?”

“Watermark, PM sahib. Dies for stamping the watermark bearing our Quaid-e-Ala's face must be made very carefully, to avoid counterfeiting. Then we need dies for stamping the state coat of arms, the national animal and the national flag on the notes. And then of course, there is the question of when the new designs will be ready.”

“We don't have that time. Next week, the Alwayzatwarican troops will have overrun us for having defaulted on our bonds.”

“You tell me, what to do.”

“I'll just call the Finance Minister and see what we can do.”

***

“Walid Mian, why do you look so upset.”

“Gul sahib, are we really a sovereign country?”

“Why do you ask? Did we not take sovereign decisions and rescue our economy? We did not have to go to World bank or IMF for anything. We rolled out new currency, the Reserve Bank has issued them to banks, ATMs and wallets are full again. Ships are docking in our ports, and shop shelves are loaded with goods again. Bond yields are 16% now and Substandard and Rich have upgraded us to BB+.”

“But Gul sahib, what a sacrifice we have made. Overnight, our national flag has gone from the familiar dark green and yellow to blue, purple and sea-green. It looks like the Whateverian flag upside-down. Our national animal is now their langur, instead of our rhesus monkey. And worst of all, in the name of celebrating a universal leader, our notes bear the watermark of the Father of Their Nation!”

“Cheer up, Walid Mian, atleast people have real Randomistani money in their hands now.”

“That's what worries me, Gul sahib. I have just heard that a cache of fake notes was nabbed at the border. Apparently the Whateverian mint is now faking our currency...”

***

2201 words.

Tween Fiction: Mehtavian Maths

“Nasreen Shaekh!”

Mehta ma’am…no, her voice, ricocheted off the classroom walls, like bricks.

“Yes’m”

Shaniya squealed, in a fake voice, just as another voice rang out clearly,

“Present, teacher!”

The class giggled, holding up their textbooks in front of their faces. Mehta ma’am looked up, suspiciously. Her eyebrows pressed into the bridge of her spectacles, forming an angle as sharp as an arrowhead.

“Nasreen?”

she repeated, her cautious snarl hanging in the air, waiting to settle on its victim.
Nasreen stood up and said her PresentTeacher again. The Mehtavian unibrow reached its pinnacle. Then it flattened as she moved on to Nilesh Shah. Nasreen hissed ‘You idiot!’ in her direction and sat down. Shaniya’s cheeks flushed. She hadn’t even realized that Nasreen had come to class. That’s why she had attempted to give a proxy attendance for the first time in her life. On top of that to risk it in Mehta ma’am’s class….she would only have done that for Nasreen! They were best friends and partners, after all. Why would she call her Idiot?
Her gaze shifted to Nasreen and the group sitting with her. They were smirking while Nasreen muttered something only they could hear. The blood drained from Shaniya’s cheeks. She looked at the friendship band still brightly coloured, on her wrist. She was very fond of it and made sure it didn’t look raggedy the way friendship bands got after awhile. Nasreen had an identical one but Shaniya could see she wasn’t wearing it now. Her eyes prickled but she sucked her breath in and held it till the surge subsided. She wouldn’t let those awful girls get the satisfaction of seeing her cry!!
The attendance taken, Mehta ma’am picked up the textbook. Shaniya opened her exercise book. Seeing her homework ready and correct (she knew it was!), made her feel a little better. Maths was her strongest subject. So she had never had to endure the Mehtavian unibrow, which routinely pointed at weaker students and tore into them like a giant claw.

“Children, have you done your homework?”

Mehta ma’am demanded.

Shaniya turned the pages of her book, waiting. She wanted to smile smugly at the group that had laughed. She would have all the right to!! No doubt, most of them wouldn’t have done the homework. And those who had, would have gotten most of them wrong. But she kept her eyes on her book. The unibrow jutted towards the third row. Ravi, its intended victim, shriveled under the force of Mehtavianism. While he was under fire, Shaniya felt the desk shift and turned to find Nasreen back in her seat. What was this now?? She stared but she didn’t dare ask, while the unibrow was still on fire.

They did the rest of their sums in silence as Mehta ma’am raked the rows, poking holes into their classmates, left, right and center. The neighboring row all got a unibrow attack. By the time she reached the group that Nasreen had left behind, it had turned into the Terminator.

Mehta ma’am was even more diabolical than Shastry sir who exploded even more often than the chemicals in his laboratory! BOOM! PACHAK!! Chemistry was always like that. But Maths was unpredictable. You could never tell what Mehta ma'am would do. Today was extra horrible. Three students (all of those who smirked when Nasreen glared at Shaniya) were sent to the princi’s office. Two were made to stand next to the blackboard on one foot (Each student on a foot, not two people on one foot).

Shaniya sneaked a look at Nasreen’s book, while Nasreen’s back was turned, watching the explosion in horror. Nasreen had many of her sums wrong!! But Shaniya had no time to warn her, before Mehta ma’am turned into their row. The unibrow was much flatter and the Mehtavian breathing smoother as she approached.

Nasreen was sitting next to the aisle so it was her turn first. She stood up and began to read her answers out. Shaniya could see the unibrow getting pointier and pointier. By sum 4, Nasreen panicked and paused. Shaniya knew she was trying to look into her book. But instead of moving it slowly her way, she looked up. Nasreen caught the full blast of the Shaniya scowl (as it would come to be known). She stammered and lost her place. Still, Mehta ma’am didn’t say anything (Shaniya had been expecting a punishment by this time). She suddenly realized that the teacher wasn’t paying attention. So Shaniya began mumbling the answers instead. Nasreen started to repeat those answers instead of the ones in her own book (everyone knew Shaniya’s would be the right ones).

“270 degrees….Angle a and Angle b….7 cm…”

At sum 10, Shaniya closed her book. Nasreen, repeating the prompted answers continued,

“Corresponding angles…..45 degrees…Line YouIdiot.”

The unibrow turned into a dragon (no, it didn’t really). But Mehta ma’am’s screaming voice was heard for the first time in that class. And Nasreen Shaekh got to be sent to the princi’s office. As Mehta ma'am said, no one had ever dared to call a teacher an idiot before!! Shaniya smiled to herself as she shut her exercise book (with all correct answers). Mehtavian Maths was her best subject.

~O~O~O~O~O~O~ 

This is my first attempt at a short story for young readers. I'm looking for feedback on how well it does, under the Tween fiction/Young Adults genre. This story has been posted here earlier. - Ramya Pandyan

Mihir

Mihir was used to the glances. He walked into the mist of the bar. Inhaling every moment, every sigh. “We want more of that,” the bureaucrat snarled. Mihir fluttered his lashes at him and went on to sit atop his lap. His faux fur in pink lightly touched the man’s eyes, lips… and all of a sudden, Mihir startled the man by pulling him in to a lip lock.

Mihir laughed, then demurely pushed him aside, straightened his wig and walked on to the stage. The fat man could do nothing but wish he was more alert and had savored the kiss just a little more. A few others tried to pat their laps in anticipation that Mihir would mount them.

But no. He had no such plans. Mihir looked like an angel in disguise and he knew it. The audience roared. Mihir, as light as a cat, sprang onto the stage and took his position next to the pole, in one svelte move and classily draped the fur over his shoulder. He then arched himself around the pole, in another deft move to softly skateboard his body across the floor, lifting his toe up at the end in poise.

Another round of applause, hoots and whistles echoed through the room. How he loved the attention. He looked at each man who in turn eyed him with hunger. They lifted their beer mugs to him and started ramming on their tables.  A noisy bunch, concluded Mihir.

There were important men sitting there – business executives, bureaucrats and top officials from various companies. They cheered him to continue his act and Mihir was only there to please. He tormented each man sitting there until they cried out in want. The speaker was belting out "chikni chameli" and Mihir danced to its tunes, first demurely, then a little bashfully and then cocooned himself again into the mystic form, one that men could never get enough of. There was marijuana, liquor and smoke flowing through the air and most were inhaling a concoction of god-knows-what. 

A couple of boy artistes joined Mihir on stage and he pulled out his whip. He lashed the boys as they surrendered to him and behaved at his will. Mihir laughed. He felt every bit the part of a performer enthralling his audience. In fact he was doing things to his audience that made them the act. He could see a few men kissing each other, someone shagging in the corner and men crying like kids to get more – and more of the piece.

As the act drew to a close, most men were done – really done and out. Some had to be escorted out by the bouncers to waiting cabs, the rest were packed off in their saloons and sedans.

Mihir bowed after the final song and blew out kisses to the men, who were no longer conscious of where they were.  He went backstage, walking like a wild cat that has beaten its prey. There was a bag full of money waiting for him, stashed in by the contented men in stupor. This was Mihir’s tip for the night. He zipped up the bag, a few notes stuck or tearing in the zipper.

He then sat at his table staring at the long mirror – at his own reflection. He carefully removed his wig, the lashes and lenses. Unknown to him, a black tear started from the corner of his eyes, down his face – to be joined by more, smudging his small white face. He didn’t pay it much attention. He wiped it with a cleanser in soft round motions and kept staring at what he saw of him.

His beautiful eyes looked back without blinking and he saw the soft edges of his face, his elegant neck, and the rounded shoulders that could never flare. He undid his croquette top and the tight leather skirt as they obediently fell to his feet. He lifted his left arm gracefully, and stood up on his toes poised like a ballerina. The angel lightly sashayed and swayed around the vanity room – bare naked. There was no music – at least there was none to hear. But the dance had rhythm – it had soul. Mihir took strides around, at first slow, with assured moves of a danseuse and then the tempo in his mind became faster and faster. He went round in circles, spinning and spinning – losing sight of space and time- to an inevitable fall.

The vision of beauty sat exhausted after the final act and pulled out a cigarette. He saw an ethereal vision of a woman in the mirror, spent. As the smoke enveloped the room, he could see wings of smoke around his shoulders – a spell of magic. Very dark. Yet so clear.

A beautiful night – he surmised, puffing at the stub.

But as the night turned lighter, a little man awoke from his slumber, ironed out the creased notes, counted them methodically, put on his clothes and stepped out into the day.

Posting to this blog

Hi!

If you're here reading this, that means you attended the readmeet at Manisha's on Saturday, 12 October 2012, and are an author of this blog. Please post your piece to this blog, and then the others who attended can go through it in leisure and give their comments.

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