Binoo’s hand hesitated over the form. Rather, Binoo hesitated his hand. The next detail he had to fill in was what he wanted to join the armed forces of Banal Nasality as. He hesitated not because he didn’t know what he was, but because he was not sure if they would understand it. After two more seconds of hesitation, Binoo put the pen to the paper, and wrote, “Monkey Pilot”.

In a week’s time, Binoo had received a reply in the post.

It was a regal looking envelope. It smelt of regality and bananas. Rather like regal bananas. The envelope had gold emroidery and silver stamps and the Royal Seal on it, which was rather like a big deal. Binoo’s hand hesitated over the envelope. Rather, Binoo hesitated his hand to open it. He did not want to ruin such a pretty envelope by opening it. Still, he knew that just like friends must be friends, and friendship must be friendship, envelopes must be opened, otherwise we will never know the many truths of life and facts of friendship. So Binoo hesitated for two more seconds and then opened the envelope. Inside was a paper. The paper was regal-looking and official-looking. Rather, it was regalo-official looking, or officio-regal looking. Binoo would have said officio-regal. The paper was printed with the print of the ink of a typewriter. Rather, it was typewritten. But neatly. No eraser marks and overtyping and all that messy stuff that usually happens when typewriters are used by amateur typewritists. Strange, Binoo thought, the typewritist who typed out this letter must have filled in the same form that Binoo had filled out, only, instead of writing “monkey pilot”, he or she would have written “typewritist” instead. Then that person would have received a similar officio-regal-looking letter that would have been typed out by another typewritist, who would have also filled out the form at some point. That got Binoo wondering – who was the first typewritist?
But Binoo knew he had no time for questions of history and philosophy, or rather historico-philosophy. He knew he must read the letter right away, for it might be important and urgent, and every second wasted was a wasted second.

So he read it. “Dear Binoo,” it said, “Thanks for applying to the Banal Nasality Air Force, yaar. We are in serious need of monkey pilots especially since it seems like we might be going to war with the Fundraiser Nation of Boring Drivel, machan. War is scheduled to begin next week, da, so it would be helpful if you turned up at the Banal Nasality Air Force Headquarters sometime before then. We assume, of course, since you filled in “monkey pilot” and not “monkey pilot trainee”, that you won’t require any training, dude.”

Binoo squealed with delight. Rather, he let out a delightful squeal. It was rather delightful. All his life he had trained to be a monkey pilot, and here he was, about to be one. He decided not to report at the Air Force HQ right away, as he might come across as being overenthusiastic and needy and it might be interpreted by some as a tactic for garnering attention and brownie points. He did not want to report at the very last minute, either, for that might make him come across as rather unenthusiastic and lackadaisical, and Binoo was not one for lackadays.

Binoo reported at the HQ three and a half days later. Rather, he reported exactly half a week later, thereby seeming neither overenthusiastic not unenthusiastic. However, he did not foresee that people at the Air Force HQ would see his reporting at exactly three and a half days as being overly calculating. Anyway, the Banal Nasality Air Force was in dire need of monkey pilots, so they did not say anything to Binoo.

The Air Force HQ was like the typical Air Force HQ – it had planes, pilots, mechanics, and other people who looked very militaristic and official. Rather, very officio-militaristic. Binoo decided he must go and see and see the man in charge and tell him that he had arrived and was ready to go to war and fly across enemy lines and bomb enemy targets. Rather, the targets would be the enemies, not the targets of the enemies, because if he were to bomb the targets of the enemies, he would be bombing his own country, and that would not at all be nice.

“Binoo, you say?” the Colonel said. His name was Colonel Walonel and he looked like a cross between an elephant, a horse, a chimpanzee, a woolly mammoth, a tyrannosaurus rex, a giraffe, a praying mantis, and an atlas moth – and of course a human, because that was basically what he was. He had a big quivery moustache that quivered whenever he pleased. Rather, he quivered his moustache whenever he pleased.
“Yes, sir, my name is Binoo,” Binoo said, stating his name.
Colonel Walonel went through a number of sheets clipped to a clipboard, for that is what clipboards are for, for clipping sheets to. “Binoo what?” he asked.
“Binoo Peepee, sir,” Binoo said, stating his full name.
“Ah, Binoo Peepee, yes, your name is here. We have been looking forward to your coming. As you know there is a serious dearth of monkey pi…” Colonel Walonel looked at Binoo quizzically, and back at the sheet with an equal amount of quizzicitude.
“…lot?” Binoo finished, hoping the Colonel would be pleased with his helpfulness at finishing words.
“There must be some mistake, no? It says here that you are a monkey pilot,” Colonel Walonel said.
“No mistake sir. I am a monkey pilot, to be sure.”
“Is this some sort of joke?” Colonel Walonel asked, not sure whether he ought to be angry or quizzical. Rather, he was in a mixed state of those two feelings – of anger and quizzicitude, that is.
“No, sir, this is some sort of monkey pilot,” Binoo said, pointing at himself.
“But you are not a monkey, Binoo! How can you call yourself a monkey pilot when you are not a monkey? You are a human, plain as can be! You are a human, full of humanity! A human is a human, like a tree is a tree! What you are certainly not is a pilot monkey! Rather, monkey pilot.”
Colonel Walonel sometimes talked in rhyme.
“But sir, I am not a pilot who is a monkey, but a pilot who flies monkeys. I thought that was what was known as a monkey pilot.”
“Alack!” Colonel Walonel said, in deep, deep sorrow, “Had we kn0wn there were such things as pilots who flew monkeys, perhaps we would have won the war years ago. This is the first time I am hearing of such a thing, Binoo. Alack! we do not have a separate division for pilots of your kind. For this reason, I shall put you along with the monkey pilots, that is, the pilots who are monkeys. Do you have your own monkey to fly, or will you be needing one? I pray that it is the former, for we have no flying monkeys with us. Rather, we have no monkeys that can fly without planes.”
“Don’t worry, sir, I do have my own flying monkey. It is a rare flying monkey from the land of Oz,” Binoo said, lifting a winged monkey out of his bag. The monkey seemed to be unconscious.
“But how will you fly on that?” Colonel Walonel asked, “Is it not a trifle small for you?”
“This is the collapsible model, sir,” Binoo said, unfolding the monkey to reveal that it was much larger than it seemed. “Right now it is sedated for carrying purposes, but I shall awaken it with some smelling salts.”
Binoo took some powder out of his pocket, and held it near the collapsible flying monkey’s face. It instantly awoke. Then Binoo injected it with some injection and it fell asleep again.
“Wonderful, Binoo, wonderful! With this flying monkey, you will win us the war!”

Binoo beamed from ear to ear. He was filled with feelings of courage and warfulness.

To Be Continued

Next time on Binoo The Monkey Pilot: Binoo The Monkey Pilot Goes To War! A delightful tale about the horrors of war. Rather, a delightfully horrific war tale!

The premise of the movie is interesting – something strange is happening that’s causing people all over Northeastern America to start killing themselves. It’s not that people are increasingly depressed about their lives or that suicide rates in the region have gone up by 20%. People in seemingly random pockets stop dead in their tracks, start talking funny, and then proceed to kill themselves by any means available.

In the midst of all this is the high-school science teacher Elliot Moore (Mark Wahlberg), his wife Alma (Zooey Deschanel), his colleague and best friend John (John Leguizamo), and his daughter Jess (Ashlyn Sanchez).

Near the beginning of the movie, Elliot explains to his students that there are some things in nature that we cannot understand and simply cannot be explained.
There is speculation that the reason for all this strange widespread suicidal behaviour is a neurotoxin that is being released in the air. First everyone thinks its the work of terrorists, but a horticulturist warns Elliot that he thinks the neurotoxin is being released by plants. Through the course of the movie Elliot becomes more and more convinced of this. Elliot, Alma, and Jess conveniently land up in the countryside, where it’s slightly hard not to be in the midst of grass and trees.

This movie has no twist ending. It’s all buildup and no payoff. Absolutely nothing new is revealed in the ending, except for the fact that Alma is pregnant, which is one out of a thousand totally irrelevant elements in the movie. In the end we watch an interview with a scientist who says that it was probably the plants who released the neurotoxin, but how they did it, or why it was confined to Northeastern America cannot be explained, because there are some things in nature we cannot understand – meaning that the ending of this movie has already been handed over to us at the very beginning of the movie. It’s an absolute cop-out of an ending. Shyamalan explains away all the deaths by saying that it’s fundamentally inexplicable. Brilliant.

Chekhov’s Gun is a narrative device, or rather a rule to be followed in any narrative – it’s something like this – if you introduce a gun in the first act of a play, it must be fired by the last act. In other words, don’t introduce unnecessary elements into the narrative. It’s more of a guideline than a rule, and a sensible one, too. J.K. Rowling uses it in almost every Harry Potter book. In the Philospher’s Stone, for example, Hagrid’s mysterious package and the Mirror of Erised are two huge Chekhov’s Guns. She introduces both and arouses the reader’s curiosity in these objects. Later on in the book, the significance of both objects to the plot is revealed.

Shyamalan violates this rule with no good reason. It’s one thing to have some red herrings in a plot, but in The Happening, every element introduced is a red herring. Let me make a list of the totally unnecessary and irrelevant elements in the movie.

1. Jess, the little girl – she has almost no dialogues in the entire movie, but the amount of screen time she gets makes you think she’s going to be the one who solves the crisis in the end, or at least does something important. She doesn’t. All she does is run wherever Elliot and Alma run.
2. The mood ring – Elliot has a ring that changes colour depending on the mood of the bearer. It’s evident that it’s very important – to him, at least, because he says so. It also serves no purpose.
3. The two teenage boys – I forget their names, but they join Elliot and Alma and Jess as they run (from what is anybody’s guess, although sometimes they run from the wind) through the countryside. Shortly after they are introduced, they are killed by a man who shoots them with a shotgun through his window shutters, because he thinks they’re terrorists or something.
4. The man who shoots the boys – after he shoots them, we never find out who he is. One unnecessary element introduced to finish off another. If this were JAM, I’d buzz Shyamalan on Time Wasting Tactics.
5. The tree swing – Jess swings a little bit on a little wooden swing that hangs from the branch of a tree. Shyamalan spends 1-2 minutes of screen time on this, showing us menacing angles of the tree, the branch, and the swing, with Elliot shouting “get away from that thing” or something to that effect. Nothing happens.
6. The weird old lady – Elliot, Alma, and Jess spend the night in an old lady’s house in the middle of nowhere. This woman has isolated herself from the world and doesn’t want to know any news of the outside world, even if it’s about a killer neurotoxin. As we get to know her, she comes across as more and more paranoid, and thinks that the three of them are out to kill her or steal all her property. She’s a scary old woman, but after she tells Elliot to get out of the house, she leaves the house (don’t ask why), and inhales the neurotoxin and proceeds to kill herself by smashing her head through all her kitchen windows.
7. The suicides – when people start killing themselves for no apparent reason, there has to be a better explanation for it than having inhaled a neurotoxin. People could just as easily have dropped dead right there instead of committing suicide, and it would make no difference to the plot. The suicide thing is clearly for shock value.
8. The movie – I seem to be thinking of more and more irrelevant elements as I make out this list, so I think it’s better I just stop with this. The entire movie is filled with such irrelevant elements that the plot makes hardly any sense at all. It is so full of flaws that the movie itself seems like one big flaw.
The acting was bad, the dialogue was terrible, there are hardly any special effects to talk about – the only thing Shyamalan succeeds in doing is making you jump in your seat a few times, but that’s the best thing that can be said about this movie.

I can’t believe the same guy made The Sixth Sense and Signs. I just cannot believe it.

I would have picked it up if it weren’t for what was lying next to it. The slab of dark chocolate that lay next to the Orange dark chocolate was quiet, reserved, and content. It appeared secure, confident of its own quality. Unlike the Orange, it didn’t clamour for attention. The colours on the cover didn’t contrast. They were very different, but they melded into each other, almost as if there was a deliberate attempt not to contrast.
Despite its quietness, its almost meek nature, once I noticed it everything else seemed to fade away. The red on the cover seemed to burn, to glow – not brightly, but with the kind of intensity that indicated the point where warm turned into hot.

I had to have it.

I did not intend to try it immediately after purchase. I put it into the packet, deciding to save it for the time in the day when I craved chocolate the most, or at least when I had some orange juice at hand.

To say it beckoned me would be inaccurate. More than inaccurate, it would be incorrect. It did nothing – it just sat in the packet with an air of nonchalance. It seemed to ignore me, totally indifferent to the fact that it had just been bought. It made me angry. If it wouldn’t acknowledge my presence on its own, I would have to make it.

I grabbed the slab of chocolate, tore open the cover, broke off a piece and put it in my mouth, curiously awaiting the mixed tastes of dark chocolate and chilli.

I chewed and chewed and felt cheated. The dark chocolate was certainly divine – I’d expect no less from Lindt – but the flavour of chilli was disappointingly and mysteriously absent. I resigned myself to the thought that I’d become the victim of bad product in good packaging.

And then I swallowed.

It was only a few seconds later that the chilli surfaced. It subtly lingered on the back of my tongue and in my throat in the aftertaste of the dark chocolate.

And it became the best dark chocolate I’d ever tasted.
(Which will be overtaken by Banana Dark Chocolate once I taste it.)

One evening, Amma made seven sweet kozhakattais, filled with coconut, oozing with jaggery, flavoured with cardamom and steamed till they gleamed.

One was for Kannan,

One was for Komu,

One was for Kuyil,

One was for Karthik,

One was for Kausi,

One was for Kumar and …

One was for little Kutti.

Seven gleaming kozhakattais on a shining steel plate!

Fourteen greedy eyes stared at them – Kannan’s eyes, Komu’s eyes, Kuyil’s eyes, Karthik’s eyes, Kausi’s eyes, Kumar’s eyes, and little Kutti’s eyes.

‘I’m going to visit my sister,’ said Amma. ‘Don’t eat the kozhakattais till I come home. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ said seven voices, through seven drooling mouths.

But as soon as Amma left, Kannan crept into the kitchen.

He took one kozhakattai and popped it in his mouth.

He smacked his lips, licked his fingers, wiped them on his shirt, and crept out of the kitchen.

There were six gleaming kozhakattais left on the plate.

A few minutes later Komu crept into the kitchen.

She took one kozhakattai and popped it in her mouth.

She smacked her lips, licked her fingers, wiped them on her paavadai and crept out of the kitchen.

There were five gleaming kozhakattais left on the plate.

Then came Kuyil, Karthik and Kausi. They crept into the kitchen. Each one took a kozhakkatai, popped it in their mouth, smacked their lips, licked their fingers, wiped them on their clothes and crept out of the kitchen.

There were two gleaming kozhakattais left on the plate.

Kumar crept into the kitchen. He took one kozhakattai, popped it in his mouth, took a deep breath and bit into it.

The kozhakkatai burst open, coconut juice and jaggery oozed from it and filled Kumar’s mouth. He closed his eyes. He could smell the cardamom, he could taste the jaggery, he could feel the coconut juice on his tongue. Mmmm, it was the best thing he had ever eaten in his life. He swallowed, smacked his lips, licked his fingers and opened his eyes.

There was one gleaming kozhakattai left on the plate.

Before he could think, Kumar took it and popped it in his mouth. He smacked his lips, licked his fingers, wiped them on his shirt and crept out the kitchen, when …

… the lights went out!

Kutti crept into the kitchen. It was dark. She groped around until at last she found the plate. She moved her hand all over the plate. Where was the kozhakattai? Suddenly her hand touched something soft. She picked it up and was about to pop it into her mouth when— the kozhakkattai moved!

Kutti was startled. How could a kozhakkattai move? She must have imagined it. She held it tight and ran her other hand over it. She was wondering what it was, when she heard Amma’s voice:

“I’m home, children!”

“Amma Amma,” called out Kutti “Does a kozhakkattai have a long tail?”

“No Kutti,” answered Amma.

Amma! Amma!

My kozhakattai has a long, long tail!

It has teeth, sharp as my fingernails

It has a wet nose… an ear! … an eye!

Amma! Is this my kozhakkattai?

Amma! Amma!

My kozhakkattai is soft as my cheeks

It has whiskers – and oh! – it squeaks

It wriggles around, I don’t know why!

Amma! Is this my kozhakkattai?

Just as Amma dashed into the kitchen, the lights came on.

There stood Kutti, with a little mouse in her hand.

AAAAAAAAAA screamed Amma

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa screamed Kutti

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa screamed six other voices.

Terrified with all the noise, the little mouse took a flying leap off Kutti’s hand and scuttled away.

“My kozhakkattai! It has run away,” wailed poor little Kutti.

“Don’t worry, Kutti,” said Amma, pulling out a jar from her bag, and opening it. It was chock full of kozhakattais!

Kumar reached out for one and gave it to Kutti.

“Sorry, Kutti,” he said. “I ate your kozhakattai.”

Kutti popped the kozhakattai into her mouth, smacked her lips, licked her fingers and wiped them on her sleeve.

“That’s the tastiest kozhakattai I’ve ever eaten,” she sighed.

Then they all sat down—Kannan, Komu, Kuyil, Karthik, Kausi, Kumar, and little Kutti—and feasted on kozhakattais!

Now comes the fun part

ALTERNATE ENDING ONE

“My kozhakkattai! It has run away,” wailed poor little Kutti.

“Don’t worry, Kutti,” said Amma, pulling out a jar from her bag, and opening it. It was chock full of kozhakattais!

“And coincidentally,” Amma said, reaching into her bag, “I just happened to buy something for our other little ‘kozhakattai’.”

From her bag, Amma pulled out a cake of rat poison.

ALTERNATE ENDING TWO

Just as Amma dashed into the kitchen, the lights came on.

There stood Kutti, with what looked like a fat piece of string dangling out of her mouth. By the time Amma realised that it was not a fat piece of string but the tail of a rat, Kutti made a huge slurping sound and swallowed.

AAAAAAAAAA screamed Amma

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa screamed six other voices.

Kutti was a little bewildered. She did not know what all the screaming was about.

“Amma, that’s the tastiest kozhakattai I’ve ever eaten,” she sighed.

ALTERNATE ENDING THREE

Just as Amma dashed into the kitchen, the lights came on.

There stood Kutti, with a little mouse in her hand.

“Please let me go,” said the little mouse to Kutti.

“Why should I let you go? I should just gobble you up now!” Kutti asked, in her loud, booming voice.

“If you let me go, then perhaps, someday, when you are in need of help, I will help you,” the mouse squeaked.

Kutti let out a peal of thunderous laughter.

“You? Help me? You pathetic little rodent. Do you know how many years of evolution separate my species from yours?”

The poor mouse trembled in Kutti’s hand.

“Very well,” Kutti sighed, “You have amused me, so I will let you go. Besides, you would make a poor substitute for kozhakattais.”

Kutti let the mouse loose and it scurried away into a hole.

Then there was a knock on the door. Amma opened it without looking through the eyehole or asking who was at the door first.

Now you must understand that Amma and the children did not live in what you would call the best part of town. So when Amma opened the door, she was greeted by two men in masks brandishing knives.

“Stay quiet and nobody gets hurt,” said the taller of the two, his knife dangerously close to Amma’s throat.

“Just give us all your kozhakattais and we will be on our way,” the shorter one said.

“Never!” Amma shouted. “All the kozhakattais are over, and even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t give you ruffians anything!”

“So that’s how it is, is it?” asked the shorter one, grabbing Kutti threateningly. “Then I guess your children’s lives are in danger, madam.”

Suddenly there was a loud squeak and the shorter kozhakattai thief was screaming and clutching his ear and running in circles. The little mouse was gnawing on his ear!

The man shook his head violently and the mouse fell to the floor. He did not want to try and fight this mouse, so he ran out the door.

The taller man had musophobia, or the fear of mice, so when he saw the little mouse, it did not take anything else to frighten him out of his wits. He too bolted for the door.

“Thank you, mouse,” Kutti said to the mouse.

“We are filled with gratitude,” Amma said. “How can we ever repay you?”

“I really would enjoy a kozhakattai or two,” the mouse said.

“Done!” said Amma, beaming, “I will make a fresh batch of kozhakattais for everyone, and the little mouse can eat as many as he pleases!”

Note to self: always be sure of destination address before leaving home.

Note two: always charge cell phone before leaving home.

I’d ask someone if only there was someone around. This road could sure use some streetlights. Darkness doesn’t help the fact that I’m lost.

(Dictaphone off.)

(Dictaphone on.)

Why is no one home? There are no lights on in any of the houses.

(Dictaphone off.)

(Dictaphone on.)

It’s been like fifteen minutes since I took that left at 23rd cross street. Streets are still dark and empty and I’m still lost. Can’t even trace my steps back to 23rd cross.

(Dictaphone off.)

(Dictaphone on.)

Right… while I’m trying to find my way through these streets…

Subject’s name is Dr. Vinod. Astrophysicist. Claims to have made contact with… aliens. Apparently he found their signals. Going to interview him on how exactly this happened and the implications. Most probably just another alien hoax, like the ones we’ve been getting reports about all month… but this guy’s a hugely respected astrophysicist… either he’s lost his marbles or he’s actually found something. Either way, it’s a story the readers will lap up.

(Dictaphone off.)

(Dictaphone on.)

I really need to get out of here… this is freaking me out… it’s almost been an hour and I can’t find my way out… there’s no way this can be happening… I haven’t seen a soul in an hour… the lights are all off… aaahhh… I seem to be getting more lost with every step I take, in whichever direction I go… this is goddamn scary… why the hell didn’t I charge my phone?

(Dictaphone off.)

(Dictaphone on.)

Light. There’s a bright light coming from somewhere ahead of me.

(Heavy breathing)

What… on… earth…

There’s… there’s a whole bunch of people here… and the light… it’s coming from… this is insane… it’s coming from a… a… spacecraft.

Wait! A door or a hatch or something’s opening.

It’s some kind of creature… definitely an alien. Looks like a cross between a lion and a… monkey… with six legs…

Vaidyanathan! Will you stop messing around with that bloody Dictaphone and get back to work? You’re a journalist, not a science fiction writer!

Yes, boss.

(Dictaphone off.)

*

I wrote this at short notice for the flash fiction section of my hostel’s lit-soc creative writing competition submission. It’s quite predictable, but I thought I’d post it anyway.

Amma made seven kozhakattais on Thursday

One for Kannan,

One for Komu,

One for Kuyil,

One for Kittu,

One for Kausi,

One for Kumar and….

One for Kutti.

After Amma had made the kozhakattais and offered it to Ganapathy, the elephant god, she told her children:

“I have made seven kozhakattais. One for each of you. Wash your hands before you eat. I have to go now to Paru Athai’s house. I will be back in one hour. Be good.”

“Yes Amma, we will,” said the children.

As soon as amma left, Kannan dashed into the kitchen.

Seven kozhakkattais glistened on a plate.

He took one and quickly put it into his mouth.

Yumm!.

Kannan smacked his lips, licked his fingers, wiped them on his shirt, and left the kitchen.

Six kozhakkattais glistened on the plate.

Then came Komu. She took one, smacked her lips, licked her fingers, wiped them on her paavadai and left the kitchen.

Five kozhakkattais glistened on the plate.

Kuyil, Kittu and Kausi went into the kitchen next. Each one had a kozhakkatai, smacked their lips, licked their fingers and wiped them on their clothes and left the kitchen.

Two kozhakkattais glistened on the plate.

Kumar came in next. He saw the two kozhakkatais left. He took one, put it into his mouth and bit it. The kozhakkatai burst in his mouth and the wonderful juice from the coconut and the jaggery filled Kumar’s mouth. He closed his eyes. It was the best thing he had eaten all his life. He swallowed the last bit, smacked his lips and opened his eyes.

In front of him was the last kozhakkatai. It was for Kutti. But Kumar wanted it very badly. He reached out, put it in his mouth and ate it quickly.

At that time, a little white mouse ran into the kitchen. Kumar caught it, put it on the plate where the kozhakkatais had been and closed the plate with a lid. Just at this time, the lights went out.

Kutti who had just returned home after playing, went into the kitchen to eat her kozhakkatai. She washed her hands just like Amma had told her to, and looked around for her kozhakkattai. It was dark in the kitchen and Kutti could not see clearly. She opened the lid and took the little mouse in her hand. She felt something moving.

Kutti ran her hand over the little mouse. She felt its long tail.

“Amma Amma,” she called out “Does a kozhakkattai have a long tail?”

“No Kutti,” answered amma who had just returned from Paru Athai’s house.

“Amma Amma,” Kutti called out, as she ran her hand over the mouse’s wet nose, “Does a kozhakkatai have a wet nose?”

“No Kutti,” answered amma, slightly confused.

“Amma amma,” Kutti called again, “is a kozhakattai soft and furry?”

“No Kutti,” answered amma, wondering why she was asking such strange questions.

“Amma amma,” Kutti called once more, “does a kozhakattai move?”

“No Kutti,” amma answered. “Why are you asking all this?”

Amma Amma my kozhakkattai has a long tail

Tiny teeth that nibble at my fingernail,

A small wet nose, two ears and two eyes,

I’m sure it also loves French fries.

Amma amma my kozhakkattai is soft and furry,

It has whiskers that are ticklish and funny

It has four short legs that move incessantly,

And it does not smell all that pleasantly.

Hearing this, Amma burst into the kitchen to see what was in Kutti’s hand, bellowing, “NOOOOOOOOO!”, and knocked the mouse out of Kutti’s hands. At that moment the lights came on and the little mouse scurried away.

Poor Kutti did not know the dangers of handling household rodents. You see, mice and rats are not exceptionally clean creatures. They live in all sorts of places and eat all sorts of things and often carry all sorts of diseases. However, the mouse that was in Kutti’s hands was actually quite a clean little creature and had lived an impeccably hygienic life until that point. How it got there we do not know. There is presently an enquiry into the matter.

Poor Kutti did not understand what was happening.

“Amma Amma,” Kutti asked, wide-eyedly, “what are you doing?”

“Kutti,” Amma replied, breathing hard (not hardly, haha), “that was not a kozhakattai! That was, contrary to what you believed, a little mouse!”

“Mouseaa?” Kutti asked.

“Yes, a mouse is a small animal that belongs to one of the numerous species of rodents. The best known mouse species is the common house mouse Mus musculus.”

“Oh,” said Kutti, “perhaps that is why you did not wish for me to eat it.”

“Yes, indeed, Kutti,” Amma said. Amma was a biology teacher, that is how she knew all these things.

“Then, pray tell, where is my kozhakattai? Did the little mouse eat it up?” Kutti asked, bewildered.

“A likely theory,” Amma replied, “but I think it is much more plausible that your kozhakattai was eaten by one of your siblings. Only the greediest, most conniving, thieving little rascal of a son of mine could have done this – and that is Kumar.”

Amma bristled with anger. Kumar would have to be taught not to take things that did not belong to him.

“Kumar!” she yelled, “Come here at once!”

Kumar appeared there, looking all innocent-like.

“You ate Kutti’s kozhakattai, did you not?” Amma asked.

“No, Amma! To be honest, I did not! The little mouse ate it!”

“You lying fiend!” Amma shouted, “How did you know of the existence of the little mouse? For this heinous crime, there is only one fitting punishment. You will have to catch and eat that mouse.”

“No, Amma,” said Kutti, the voice of compassion and pity, “do not make the poor mouse suffer for a crime it did not commit. Instead, I would have you have Kumar regurgitate the kozhakattai he so unfairly ate.”

“So be it,” Amma said. “Now Kumar, get regurgitating.”

I suppose a column where ridiculous answers are given to ‘reader’ questions is not a particularly original idea in the first place. MAD Magazine has constantly been full of such things, and MAD has definitely influenced my writing over the years.

However, I was quite shocked when my friend pointed out the evident resemblance between Dr. Boli and Dr. K’s styles of answering questions.

This after the resemblance (in certain elements, not in theme), as Jayashree pointed out, of my last poem to Pink Floyd’s Time, which, I’ll admit, I was constantly listening to in the weeks leading up to my writing of that poem. That cursed subconscious of mine.

Trapped in identities
we’ve created for ourselves.

Identities we hate each other for.
Identities we love each other for.

I won’t say we’re the same,
We’re as different as you and me.

You’re a unique little snowflake,
but just as unique as everyone else.

Uniquely trapped in prisons
that we built with our own hands.

Different combinations of the same elements
that limit the human race.

The human race is running tirelessly
and climbing higher and higher.

On a growing tower of its faeces
towards the burning sun.

One day the tower will fall
or the sun will finally burn us.

And it will all be over and we will ask
what was the point of it all.

And nobody will remember
who fired the starting gun.
Nobody will remember
if God ever told us to run.