The Pun Chronicles #5 - The Joys of Silent Jenny

Jenny Talbut sat, morose, in her room, facing the wall. Deaf and mute since birth, gazing at the blank, white wall was her way of shutting the world out, since she presented the only fully functional sensory organ with zero stimulation.

The world around her had degraded, Jenny thought. Or else it was her perspective that had refined itself to the point where she could see it. Everywhere, she was surrounded by false charity. People everywhere would feel sorry for her, but no one would befriend her. Because that would take a real effort. An effort no one was willing to take. One can’t post efforts on social media. Effort did not get likes.

And so, she sat with the sympathy of the world bestowed upon her, but the companionship of none.

But Jenny possessed one characteristic that no amount of seclusion could hamper, that no amount of superficiality could denigrate. Jenny had smarts. Forced to take an extra effort to experience the same things that others could experience effortlessly, Jenny’s brain had trained itself to be quicker, sharper and more resolute than most. She had grit, and an abundance of it at that.

This determination had given her the drive to clear her A levels and now, University awaited her.

University!

Just the thought of it sent thrills down Jenny’s spine. University would be the Eden that would morph all her malformities into likeable peculiarities. Universities, to Jenny’s mind, were a melting pot where all manner of queer and quirky people intermingled to create an intellectual miasma wherein everyone could be themselves and yet be no stranger than the rest.

There weren’t many universities that had the facilities to educate deaf-mute students in the field that Jenny had chosen. Careful research had whittled it down to two realistic options. However, as one of them required a significant investment in terms of relocation and tuition, all of Jenny’s hopes and dreams rested on one University and one alone.

She had written to them after months of concerted research and superhuman effort allowed her the confidence to send her essay in to apply for the scholarship. Now all that she longed for was confirmation. That email was to be her affirmatory glory. Her ticket to normalcy. Her mortar for the rebuilding of her confidence. Everything that she had worked for depended on that one mail. She had searched online for copies indicating the nature of the letter that is received by applicants that are accepted. From what she could find, the mail was an unassuming receipt, stating the tuition fee that the applicant was required to submit at the time of admission. Nothing more, nothing less.

Jenny Talbut’s mind leaped from fantasy to fantasy, from one in which she spearheaded the opening up of various avenues of employment to the deaf-mute, to another where she overcame her natural obstacles to nevertheless reach the upper echelons of her field of study. She did not dream small. Her imagination tolerated no boundaries.

Even as she dreamt of glorious victories, a letter dropped in through the slot in her door. The world stood still as Jenny recognized the insignia of the much sought after university. Holding her breath, she slit open the envelope and, pulling out the letter, glanced through the contents at the speed of light.

And what emotions ran through Jenny’s mind as she read the following text printed across the surface of the letter:

“Fee- mail: Jenny Tal.”

Mute Elation.

The Pun Chronicles #4 - Onomatopoeia

The clouds gathered menacingly, warning the languid strollers in Cubbon Park of the onset of the storm that was to change their lives.

Rajugopal stood amongst the bushes, clad in dark green clothes, hoping to camouflage himself as well as possible. The failing light aided his congruity with his surroundings. Directly in his eyeline stood two men, one of them hooded, the remaining area of his face hidden away beneath a beard and sunglasses. Next to him stood a mammoth, and a woolly mammoth at that. Bald at the top, the rest of him was covered in dense foliage. His beard, far more impressive than the hooded man’s, swayed impressively in the wind. He, too, wore sunglasses, though it was not sunny.

This strange behaviour only served to deepen Rajugopal’s suspicions. From the very first day, he had regrote allowing these two boys to live as tenants in his apartment. The hooded one was well spoken and knew the local language, and so had won his wife over. But the mammoth, he worried Rajugopal no end. He came from a strange, unknown part of the world. Rumors of extreme good looks and behaviour notwithstanding, Rajugopal was wary of foreigners. They were unpredictable.

He crept closer, careful to remain out of their eyeline. Their sunglasses prevented him from being able to discern the direction of their gaze and that discomfited him.

“Dude, there’s so much roughage around here,” said Hood.

“I don’t think that’s what that word means,” said Mammoth.

“No, no, it does mean that,” said Hood.

“You’re lying,” said Mammoth, “I think you’re a fib-re.” (24)

“You think I’m a fibre?” asked Hood, confused.

“A fibber! A liar. It was a pun, goddammit,” Mammoth exclaimed in disgust.

“You can’t get mad at me. You’re my caretaker,” Hood said.

The wind began to pick up, and the first smattering of raindrops began to descend. Rajugopal had had enough. This espionage was getting him nowhere. An espionaught if there ever was one. (25) He had to get closer to them, get them talking about what they were really upto. But they knew his face, he needed a disguise. Glancing back at them, he surmised that they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, and so he scuttled away from the bushes, back to his van in the parking lot.

First, he changed his clothes, donning an inconspicuous pair of jeans and a grey sports jacket over his green t-shirt. Next, he switched his sneakers for a pair of running shoes, in case something should go wrong. Watching himself closely in the rear view mirror, he attached a fake nose and, with a final flourish, donned a toupee to cover his bald head. He looked at himself from all angles in the rear view mirror and was satisfied that he had disguised himself exceptionally well. He had never looked so different. He was almost tempted to say that it was now a rare view mirror. (26)

By the time he got back, the wind had really picked up and was approaching gale force. Worried that the rain would wash away (27) any possibility he had of speaking to the two tykes, Rajugopal hurried towards their imposing figures.

“Ahoy there, goodfellas,” said Rajugopal.

“Did he just say ‘ahoy’”, asked Hood.

“I think he said ‘Hi’, he must be Bengali,” clarified Mammoth, helpfully.

“My name is Bhishnu Beliappa Bhaath, you can call me Bisi Bele Bath (27),” Rajugopal said, “I wonder if I could trouble you guys with a few questions?”

“Sure,” said Mammoth, “state your bisi-ness.”(28)

“You see,” began Rajugopal, “I’m new to Bangalore, and need to get a place to stay. Do you guys have any idea about good areas to live in?”

“Oh, we live in Indiranagar, it’s a nice place. Very chilled out, no sunlight,” said Hood.

“And no kids,” said Mammoth.

“And how is the owner?” asked Rajugopal, pointedly.

“Owner, ah. He is okay, but we can’t seem to come to an... agreement (29),” said Mammoth.

Rajugopal raged on the inside. Here, he had had sleepless nights, wondering what these boys were upto and the legal trouble he would have been in, had anyone found out they lived in his house without a rental agreement, and these boys were sitting there cracking jokes about it. However, in the interest of his objective, he maintained a cool exterior.

“Hoodie-baba(30), you live without rental agreement?” he asked, in feigned surprise. “Isn’t that illegal? How come you haven’t gotten one yet?”

“Ah, too much work,” said Hood, dismissively.

Suddenly, something within Rajugopal snapped. He had been brought up in a household with militarian discipline, and instilled with the values of toil and labour. Living those values, he had raised himself to the position of a landlord, and now here were two upstarts spitting in the face of all that was noble and respectful.

Slowly sliding his hand into his jacket, he wrapped his fingers around the grip of his pistol. Barring his wife, he considered his pistol to be the most beautiful entity on earth. At times, disturbingly, he was even aroused by it. It was a real Sex Pistol. (31)

The wind howled, mirroring the wrath that churned Rajugopal’s blood.

“Too much work. Too much work, it seems,” he repeated, over and over, under his breath.

Glaring at the two tenants, he pulled the gun out and, remembering that Mammoth was the caretaker, pointed the gun at him, first.

“What the fuck, man?” asked Mammoth, covering his beard with his hands, protectively.

“You boys deserve to die,” said Rajugopal, nostrils flaring. “And you will never know who it is that killed you or why. And the setting, the setting could not have been more perfect. The wind will cover the sound of the bullets, no one will hear you scream. You will die alone. And all this for a mere... disagreement. (31)”

Time stood still. Hood was stricken with fear, his hands trembling as he rolled a cigarette. Mammoth stared down the barrel at the piece of lead that was about to end his life. The wind gnashed its teeth, the rain poured down in lashes. All of the universe seemed coterminous with violence.

And then, Fate intervened. A gust of wind, slightly stronger than its predecessors, swept down towards the threesome and washed over them with particular severity. Mammoth was unaffected, due to his mammothian size. Hood was protected by his hood. But Rajugopal, who stood facing the wind, got the brunt of it and lost his balance. The rain had melted the glue that held his fake nose in place. The wind, finding a nook to exert pressure into, did so, and off came Rajugopal’s artifice. Mammoth gasped in surprise. That face looked familiar.

“Oh, no, where did my nose go?” bemoaned Rajugopal.

“God nose. (32)” replied Hood.

The next gust swept down and lifted Rajugopal’s toupee clean off his head. Hood and Mammoth stood aghast, confronted by their landowner. Rajugopal stood facing them, knowing his gig was up. Staring at them, his mind drew a blank. He collapsed to his knees, whispering to himself.

“Oh, no, my toupee... Ah.” (33)

The Pun Chronicles #3 – A Secret to Die For

“I tell yer, Huck, there ain’t no risk in it,” said Linus, voice quivering with excitement. “That ol’ shanty there’s been sittin’ like yer mama’s ducks, just there for the tak’n.”

“What’s my mama’s doctor got to do with anything?” Huck asked.

Linus and Huck had wasted away their teenage years chasing dames, mostly unsuccessfully. This was partly because an extended habit of chewing tobacco had wreaked havoc with the boys’ set of dentures, and partly because they had an annoying habit of cracking a joke every so often and clapping their audience on the back with an uncomfortably hard slap. Some lasses may go in for that sort of stuff, but there certainly wasn’t a surplus.

Now approaching the age where their parents were starting to get fidgety and were beginning to hatch plans to turn the boys out of the house to fend for themselves, Linus and Huck realized that they needed some sort of gameplan to provide for their luxurious habits, albeit temporarily. For weeks, their unimaginative minds had come up with nothing, barring a few brutish plans to mug passerby’s or to con the residents of the old age home into paying them for some ponzi scheme.

It was only now that Linus had spotted his opportunity and hatched a plot that would have put Mata Hari to shame.

“All right, let’s give it the ol’ run o’er one more time,” Linus said, “Do you got yer notebook on yer?”

“I don’t know how to write, Linus,” said Huck.

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Tom Finnigan’s star had been rising fast within the Police Department. He had everything going for him. He was married and settled with two kids, something the experienced Sheriff of that precinct always encouraged. He had a good, honest face and he could piece the puzzle together quicker than most. An all-rounder would be the colonial term for it.

At home, his wife was as satisfied as a wife could be in those parts. She had her hands full with the kids all day, and when Tom returned from duty, on the days he didn’t put in extra hours, he made sure to spend some time with her and the kids.

All, in short, was as well as could be hoped with his life. And yet, if one caught Tom in an unguarded moment, when he was unaware he was being watched, one would see a forehead wrinkling away to make way for his furrowed brow. One would see his eyes shift suspiciously, and hear a low, worried muttering. A stream of consciousness soliloquy aimed at oneself. A stream of self consciousness.

The reader would be forgiven for asking what cause Tom had to worry. The cause, as it so often is, was that Tom had dipped his pen in more than one inkpot. There was another woman, who, if the metaphor was not clear, was the second inkpot.

The “extra hours” he had been putting in were real enough, he had just lied about where he had been spending them. And he had taken to accepting bribes in order to account for the additional income that comes with working extra hours.

All these factors lay heavy on Tom’s conscience, almost as if they lay on his brow, weighing it down.

He was not worried about getting caught, he had made sure of that. He had found a neat, old shanty in the suburbs, sufficiently dilapidated from the outside to not warrant a second glance, or to not warrant a warrant; and sufficiently neat on the inside to avoid the second inkpot from spilling over with consternation.

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“Now, listen well, Huck. That shack over there has more to it than meets the eye. Why just yesterday I seen Tom Finnigan lug a dress’n table in there. And I tell yer, where there’s a dress’n table, there’s a woman, and where there’s a woman, there’s sure to be jools. And it’s the jools we’re after, Hucky boy.”

“But how are we to get inside,” Huck asked, “I sure as hell don’t know how to pick locks, and isn’t old Tom a policeman?”

“Now don’t you worry your wee noggin about tha’ ol’ chestnut, Hucky boy. Why, we have the dirt on Tom, now, don’t we?”

“We do?” asked Huck, uncertainly.

“Huck, youse is dumber than an inbred platypus that been smacked upside the head with a broadsword. What do you think Finnigan does in that shanty with a lady that ain’t his wife? I can tell yer they sure ain’t calling on the Lord, that’s for sure.”

The light of knowledge flickered on inside Huck’s head. His interest piqued, he now listened in earnest, eager to bring the plan to fruition.

“Now, as I was sayin’, there’s sure to be jools in there. But we can’t get at ‘em while Tom’s away, since none of us know a darn thing about lock-pickin’, and Tom sure as hell ain’t gonna appreciate us walkin’ out with the jools while he’s in the house. So what we gots to do is, we gotta spook ‘em outta there so quick they won’t have the time nor the wits about ‘em to lock the door behind ‘em as they make a run for it. Then we walk in, nice as you like, and get what we came for. But here’s the important part, Huck. Yer can’t let Tom get his eyes on yer. Get that fact wedged into your think-box. He can’t lay his eyes on yer. If that happens, it’s all over.”

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On that fateful day, Tom and Stacy, which was the name of his second inkpot, whom he thus affectionately called st-inkpot, met as usual at the shanty, unaware of the storm that was about to disturb the calm waters of their romance. 

The lovebirds had just sat down to dinner when they heard a large crash right outside the bedroom window.

“MAKE SURE TO GET A PICTURE!” shouted Linus, in an intentionally loud and artificially thick voice.

Inside the house, Tom and Stacy shot out of their seats in an instant, Stacy screaming incoherently while Tom strained to stop his knees from trembling as he saw his world crashing down around him. Stacy fled, pell-mell, in a state of undress, uncaring, unheeding and scampered down the street into the night.

Tom took the same approach, but in a slightly more sober vein, taking quick, measured steps towards the door. It was his calmness in the face of disaster that was to prove his undoing.

Linus watched with glee as Stacy reacted exactly as he had predicted she would, but his laugh died halfway as his eyes sought in vain for a glimpse of Tom Finnigan.

Huck, who had whipped himself into a state of frenzy, did not stop to observe these events, but ran, cackling diabolically, into the shack before Linus could utter a word of warning. Three steps into the house, he stopped short, having run straight into Tom, who was on his way out.

The silence was broken by a belated patter of footsteps that brought Linus to the door, confirming his worst fear.

With the situation as it was, Tom’s mind was swamped by a whole spectrum of emotions, thereby hampering his usually sprightly speed of thought. Huck, at the best of times, was never quite quick on the uptake. And thus it was that Linus’ mind was the first to jump into action and arrive at the solution.

“Yer gotta kill him, Huck. That’s all there is to it.”

“Huh?” Huck balked at such an extreme course of action. His mind was still recovering from the shock of seeing Tom Finnigan face to face.

“He saw yer, Hucky. You gotta kill him. He saw yer.”

Huck, still coming to his senses, asked, “Who saw me?”

“Tom. Tom Saw-yer.”

Once again, the spark of understanding flamed the haystack that resided between the ears of Huck. And, without a further moment of delay, he raised his pistol and shot Tom Finnigan.

Linus and Huck stood staring at Tom’s body. Once again, Linus’s mind reacted first.

"All right, all right,” he thought to himself, “Just a li’l snag, that’s all. We can still get what we came for. I’ll go in and start searchin’ around for the jools, and Huck’ll bury Finn.”

Refuge

With nary a warning signalling what you have in store
A sprinkled caress of a kiss, and then down you pour
I am with you now, and shall be forevermore
To laugh and cry amidst your storms, fair Bangalore!

Guide me to my strengths and hide my fatal flaws,
Be my perpetual shelter, deliver me from Misery’s claws,
Be my Muse eternal, Mother, humbly, this I implore,
Grief is a stranger to me when I am in Bangalore.

Chaos reigns around us, madness has seized mankind,
Amassed in a mighty mob to render the wisest of us blind,
Let me find my solace, Mother, turn me not from your door,
I will not find sanity elsewhere, let me live in Bangalore.

Fate lies a-waiting, Destiny has laid down her traps,
One mis-step and all I have built for myself will collapse,
Let me dock my weather-worn ship at your heavenly shore,
My thirst for life is sated, let me die in Bangalore.