As a little kid still walking on all fours, more out of choice than an inability to walk properly, Sinha had spent many a dedicated evenings listening to his father sing. Not that he had much choice, with his supposedly rich lifestyle leaving him no friends to play around with. That given, he adored his father’s voice – growing up to believe that no person could express grief, glee, love and remorse and the entire relative gamut of emotions as well as his father.

This one evening, it rained like it never had, like it really wanted to rain. The prodigies, both followers and disciples of each other, sat around a fireplace clearing their throats. Mutually, they had decided to sing for their mothers tonight -a simple song, no difficult notes, no elaborate aalap, just the first two lines.

‘Aye Maa, teri surat se alag

Bhagwan ki surat kya hogi?’

Both mothers in anticipatory attendance, the sons sang. The son hit every note perfect, as he always used to. The father faltered, choked, paused and broke down in inconsolable tears. Sinha smelt victory for the briefest of moments, then saw it being snatched away. For the rest of the night, the better part of tomorrow and most of his years – as a child, as an adolescent, as a boy and as a man, he wondered what happened that evening. He wondered how his father, the greatest singer of all, could falter at two of the simplest lines he had ever sung. He wondered why he cried. He wondered why HE did not. He wondered.

And then, he met Saraswat.

How paralysed are we, as a generation? For how long can we keep fooling ourselves, trapped nauseously in this drudgery of dependence – on people, brands, MTV, tabloids, on love, on war, on George ‘imbecile’ Bush, on humanity? Whatever little is left of this proclaimed revolution, which by the way, is a total fallacy, a gimmick if you please, has been stripped off its very identity by this unwanted abundance of halogen lights, voicemail, public transport, 1000 rupee notes, mp3 and most of all – the fucking internet.

Around me, dazed and spineless, sit these idle heads wondering pointlessly what it is that they are here for today? Is it a congress of men and women, who go green, red and amber at the sight of each other but are too formally correct and polite to say so? Is it a cheap fashion parade where each looks like a shallow portrait of the other, talking precariously to their celebrated genitals, in a world where eye contact or spiritual connect of any sort is, at best, secondary?

I wonder if the walls in this ‘digital fortress’ are alive, living as much, if not more than the uninspired souls that occupy the large platinum thrones inside. Maybe, just maybe, these patchy white walls are the ones that somehow hold the sanctity of this godforsaken place intact. What if they have had enough? What if they refuse to stay mute witnesses to this dead Poseidon? What if they explode, breaking free of all the tyrant clutches that entrap them, taking down with them the anarchy that prevails?

What if?

P.S: I post this on my Web Log. The irony!

P.P.S: Are you any better off?

The way I see it, most Indian men/women pay their first visits to Agra with their parents. It is a phenomenon, unexplainable by any realm of logic. My father did so and so did his father. With him on the wheel and me on my mother’s lap, three generations now had the same stories to tell.

Once we stepped into the Mughal capital of old, we were frighteningly surrounded by a strong floral scent locally called attar. For the uninitiated, Attar is a perfume extracted from flowers, a beloved indulgence for Muslims and as I then noticed, for Agra folk. For the curious kid in me, the city had much to offer. Yes, the Taj Mahal was an aesthetic delight. Like everyone else, we rushed in with impatient curiosity, trying to beat others to it but were forced to stay put, stunned and dumbfounded at the sight. Young and old alike, stood dazed and appalled by its simplistic magnificence. As we walked closer to the Taj - past the gates, beside the fountains and above the stairs, paces fell and walks slowed in sheer disbelief.

That said, Agra was essentially, a land of story tellers, each unique and conflicting, but with an inherent quality of spreading joy. Before we knew, we had stories seeping in from just about everywhere. From the Taj Mahal and the Agra Fort to Fatehpur Sikri, fascinating anecdotes followed us. At Sikri, another Mughal Capital once, we came across a story so often repeated it was deafeningly resounding. It so goes that a soldier once tried to escape the capital through the infamous tunnel in Sikri. As he got out in wait of a free life, he was welcomed by none other than Akbar himself, in a virtual canopy of soldiers surrounding him. The emperor bend forward calmly, looked at the soldier and asked him in a father-like tone, ‘Humari khidmat ne tabiyat-marz kar diya, janab’? It finds you wondering whether to laud the historic tunnel more or the tale woven around it.

The story, most heard is the one where Shah Jehan, ordered the limbs of the chief architect of the tomb stone, to be cut off. Most people would take that as a co-incidence but this story would inevitably be followed by two other stories. The first being, a story about how the emperor desired to built a replica of the Taj Mahal for his final resting abode. While it was still being erected, Shah Jehan was imprisoned by his son, the oppressive Aurangzeb confining him within the walls of Mussamman Burz, an isolated chamber in the Agra fort. Shah Jehan lived for another 8 years in absolute seclusion, with nothing but a mirror image of the Taj Mahal to keep him satiated. That, as ironic as it might be, would be the second story.

When it comes to Agra and more so the Taj, a million such stories need to be told and listened to. What, in the eyes of a curious eight year old, makes the city what it is today, is not the message of love or the exquisite designs or the fascinating history. It is indeed the flawless brilliance of these story tellers, rich in attar and drenched in narrative.

Bernard looked suspect, yet again. His scruffy overbearing moustache fail to veil the anxiety underneath, stiff taut muscles giving it away.

He and his eleven unmotivated friends – devotees rather, had suddenly taken a fond liking to this game called Jenga. Days and nights had passed by, with them trying to get their heads over it. It must have been the prospect of creating something grand and unique, only to watch it twist, twirl and eventually tumble down in a heap. For why else, would a group of dim-wits gruel their brains for so long, if not for the juvenile sadist laugh it ended with?

Coupling the game with frantic bouts of alcohol can make it even trickier. Whiskey was the order of the day, or so Bernard had wished. Single malt with nothing but a few cubes of ice. Even before the grey-white of ice could mix with the gold of whiskey, the mob was already quite inebriated – hands trembling, shoulders dropping and eyes shifting a little too much. The revelry continued and so did the drinking. As and how the moon kept losing itself in the clouds, an increasing number faltered at the game and the lesser drinkers passed out conveniently.

In no time, everyone but Bernard had given in to the whiskey and lay awkwardly across the room like a strewn of dead bodies after a bloody war. Bernard sat around the Jenga structure, watching over his newly-conquered castle. Victorious in this battle of wits and alcoholism, he pulled out another block, winked a familiar juvenile sadist laugh and watched his reward collapse to the ground.