I reached the seafront where the noveau-rich purchased respectability by acquiring residential flats. A friend of mine who was making promotional films for MNCs was having his office-cum-residence there. He was a bachelor and I used to visit him once a while during weekends. We would go together for a play. Occasionally he would reciprocate the gesture by paying a visit to my place when he would always remove his footwear before entering my room. He was the only one to do so.
I was down and desperately wanted somebody to listen. Luckily he was there.
I’m being harassed by certain evil forces. I complained.
|george martin - Yo Tambien|
He gave me a patient hearing and asked me to stay overnight. I had a shower and felt relieved. Classical music soothed my nerves. At some point of the night, he asked me to stand at a particular spot of the living room and invoked some kind of mantra. I felt the foothold on the floor warm and a certain heat was traversing through my legs upwards. I started running zigzag. A mouse ran across the room. My friend had a tough time settling me on a chair. I didn't know that I had already transformed into a different persona. A tanpura was kept at the corner neatly packed. I made fun of my friend on account of his new-found interest to sing. He had a smile, obscure rather. He guided me to the old spot again and asked me questions one after the other. One of the questions was about Nitya Chaitanya Yati.
Is he real or an impostor?
I must say that I was not fully out of the world when I heard his question. I must also say that I weighed my answer for a while. Memory was blank since then. When the question-answer session was over, my friend guided me to his bedroom and he asked me to keep the door opened. He slept elsewhere. Though the flat was air-conditioned, I was not feeling comfortable. My faculties were fully awake and sleep was evading me. Did I hear any noise from the toilet? Unlike other parts of the flat, the spacious toilet was filthy and chaotic. I had a sudden wave.
Beware! The man is an occultist.
He has used me as a medium first. Now he is indulging in black magic hiding in the toilet. Bloody gun. He doesn't want any obstruction in the path and that is why he has asked me to keep the door opened.
My hands moved rhythmically in the air. Not mere gestures. They had a definite meaning. The demons emerging out of the occult got lured into my smart hands and got entwined with my fingers. I squeezed them, humbled them and threw them out one by one. Surely, they might have learnt a couple of lessons. My fingers could feel the pain of those spirits. I was overjoyed. On a plane inaccessible to humans, I understood the feelings of evil spirits.
|george martin - wrecked|
My friend barged into the room and switched on the light. He seemed to be a bit worried.
What’s the matter? What’s happening?
I looked at him with burning anger.
So, you’re the root-cause, your true colours are now out.
I inserted the middle finger of my right palm into my mouth
and made an obscene gesture. My friend didn't take it very kindly.
Bastard, behave yourself.
I spat on his face. That was the limit. He got furious and slapped me on my cheeks. Suddenly I was jolted back to my senses. I lied down. Next morning two of my friends turned up to pick me up. The magician friend might have made a lot of frantic calls in the dead of the night. Subodh, a mallu who was seeking a break in films came forward to take me under his wings. He had tried his luck with Free Press Journal , not really moved ahead of cub-reporting and was knocking at the Bollywood’s door. Frankly, I didn't want to be under his patronage. Who was he to control me? A Double agent? Working for Showbiz and Satan at the same time!
I can always identify you, Subodh
I said to him. He was unperturbed. I began to suspect everyone who had come in contact with me. Subodh, no doubt, was devil’s most trusted lieutenant. I kicked him out of my quarters several times, but he kept on coming back. Once he enticed me getting into an auto-rickshaw and was taking me to an undisclosed destination. I gave him a slip and jumped out. Subodh followed closely on the heels and caught me. I was losing the fight anyway. I didn't turn violent though. I choked my grief in dance. Every night I danced while Carnatic or Hindustani music played in the background. Sometimes when the dancing was at its peak, Subodh would break in, annoying me to no end. On such occasions I turned my back to him literally by exposing my bottom before his eyes. Subodh, however, kept his cool. He was like an eagle hovering over my quarters for surveillance. I wanted to get away from his gaze, but helpless like a new-born chicken.