Worse than 6-1

      I am not a football analysis enthusiast. Lets just say that i lack that instinct to analyse sport. You will not find me engaged in a protracted debate dissecting the nuances of that oh so well timed pass that created that god awesome goal. I would rather chalk that down to exquisite artistry borne out of a well oiled machinery that is both elegant and sheer genius at the same time. One such machinery is Manchester United, of whom I have been a supporter for the past decade. I do not intend to wax eloquent on the club's legacy and the wonderful players that have plied their trade in the theatre of dreams en route to becoming footballing success stories. To do so with the limited knowledge at my disposal would be both farcical and a gross excess. 

     But what spurs me to depart from lurid, contrived fictional pieces , as is my wont, is the shocking capitulation to Manchester city in last night's derby. Anyone remotely familiar with United's style of playing would have been stunned with whatever happened in those traumatic 90 minutes. It all began well enough , with Welbeck pouncing on a possible opening just outside the  penalty area within the minute; united's famed spirit and grit on display. But then, things steadily went downhill from that point on. City donned the mantle of well oiled machinery, and before long began creating problems for the united back 4 with wily, deft and often cheeky footwork by Aguero and co. this was not entirely unexpected, but what was worrying was the regularity of such infiltration s in the united area. United looked woefully out of sorts to match up to city's rhythm; they were unsure of themselves and were not able to get the ball for a good part of the first 10 minutes: a sinister combination that portended bad news for the united faithful. And our worst fears were confirmed when Aguero consummated a fluid move to put the hosts ahead. 16 minutes. Of course, the match was still in its infancy, and United were no strangers to such tight , dire situations. Many are the times when the Red Devils have shaken off tardiness and turned tables. And thus the fans consoled themselves. But then, the next five minutes yielded little by way of promise. United continued to be wobbly, laggard and unsure. No menacing runs by Valencia, no darting runs by Rooney down the centre, no pin point passes from Carrick, and no physical domination in midfield by Fellaini. Again, nothing to worry about. Half time was nigh, and sufficient faith had been reposed  in Moyes to tweak something somewhere and get the mean warhorse that is united up and running again. Just like his predecessor. But then came the second goal from a set piece at the stroke of half time, and united fans found their faith ebbing away. United now had to move a boulder, and more,  to head back to Old Trafford with a point. 

   Nothing however could prepare even the most seasoned of United's faithful for the nadir that was reached in the second half. The intent and the sense of urgency that one has come to be expected of United when they have their backs against the wall were conspicuous by their absence. Sure enough, City smelt blood, and before united could even begin to prepare for the worst, fired 2 past a hapless De Gea. The score line was 4-0. Surely even the greatest clubs couldn't have clawed their way back from this god forsaken abyss. But the mark of a great club lies in their ability to fight to the death nevertheless. To play for pride , as they say.  To redeem themselves. And United have always done that. It is in that never say die spirit that United holds sway over the football loving junta. They have always fought viciously for an open ball, they have been sure of themselves, the opponent would have to work to wrest possession, to stop those enticing balls that were threaded through to the front line by an ever enterprising tireless midfield, to stem those lightning fast runs down the flank, to fend off balls lashed in dangerously from the flanks, to defend set pieces. In short, the opponent would normally find it very difficult to stay in the lead. But that was not the case. City dictated terms with amazing ease. It was almost as if the spirit of United had been sucked out on the pitch at the city of Manchester stadium. They had meekly accepted defeat. 

   And that was what stung like a million bees. I am sure there would not have been a single United fan who didn't watch the match with jaw constantly dropping to the floor in dismay and disbelief. There was no manager on the touch line, arms wildly flailing, exhorting his players to a better performance. There were no probing runs, no questioning crosses, players constantly lost the ball cheaply, De Gea spilled easy balls on quite a few occasions, silken touches and deft passes were nil, set pieces were dealt with with surprising  ease, Fellaini's towering physique was overshadowed, players kept running into each other, there was no urgency or motivation, the list is endless. The pallor of defeat was writ large on the united camp. And that is what is most worrying. Resignation to defeat. 

    Two images stuck on a long time after the match. Navas' unchecked run for almost the entire length of the pitch that culminated in a goal, and Evra's accusatory glance at Fellaini after one of the goals. Sure ,United has lost 6-1 to City and 4-1 to Liverpool in the recent past under Sir Alex , but for me, this ranks worse than either of those humiliations. Probably because they played so well against Leverkusen midweek. They gave them a tough time, attacked with intent, and barring a few occasions, defended well. Was van Persie's absence alone responsible for this ignominious defeat? If yes, has united ever been excessively dependent on one player? The answer as far as I can see is no. And that is another remarkable thing about united, it's not about a person, it's the team. Welbeck was grossly disappointing in a game where he could have so convincingly demonstrated his prowess, without the Dutchman's shadow on him. In fact, not one of the players was above blame. All of them seemed like fishes out of water; that grit and passion was missing. City played really well, point taken, but they were not extraordinary; they were made to look extraordinary by a lacklustre  rusted united. One couldn't even bring oneself to be awestruck by Rooney's insane free kick. He himself seemed a shadow of the  Rooney from last week. 

   It's early days in the campaign , and to write off United as being pushovers this season would be an exercise in foolishness. As an ardent supporter of the grand old team that has won 20 premier league titles , I firmly believe that we have the wherewithal to rise from yesterday's debacle , sort out chinks in the armour and restore that fighting spirit that we have all come to love, adore and worship. In United we trust. 

Malice

Ok, so I buy this insanely expensive, bleed your pockets out type expensive smart phone. You can call it peer pressure if you will. Personally, I was pretty happy with those unassuming little phones that happily let you call or text anyone without any fuss and without any charade to dazzle you to the point of tech worship. But then when you live with people who swear by these insanely rich pieces of circuit boards, one relents, you know. You then seek recourse in firebrand hypocrisy by buying the device one fine day. So anyway, I have a smart phone, is the point. I am goofing around and checking out all functionality and I get this watsapp thingy everyone is going gaga over. Again, Rome, Romans, you see. So I sync this thingummy with my contacts from my phone, and about 2 hours later this phone beeps. It’s a message. Watsapp. I first think its some stupid promo nonsense but then it aint that. It said “hi..”. From some female whose name brought some vague recollection. Like those tingling sensations you get when your brain tries to desperately tell you that you have come across that thing/person/sound/taste/smell/whatthef**kever it is once before. But its too vain to tell you what. So here I am with a message from a femme who I have no clue of but for a stupid tingling sensation. Well that normally happens. You see, my contacts is this roll call sort of thing that would give those guys who study people (anthropologists?) a hard on. I have the contact details of every single person I have ever met. And I never delete. I talk to a guy in the bus about how Obama’s financial ministrations are driving us off the fiscal cliff, I get his number. I help a female with her shopping baggage, I get hers. Sounds total psycho, but then people say I have great people skills. Again, not my point. Without thinking much, I “Hi..” back. And then she says “Remember me?”. The male ego doesn’t bow out just like that. I say ”of course!! How r u?”. And she says “You don’t do you? Want to meet up tomorrow and refresh that memory of yours??”. Now  I am completely curious. Wary, yes, but then, its a femme for godssakes. I might get me a nice time. And I say, “sure. Where n when?”. Looking back, I would kill myself twice over for saying that.

                                                            ****

Counselling is bullsh**.  My Post- traumatic stress disorder, or whatever they call it is my Post- traumatic stress disorder.  No shrink through any degree of soft passionate conversation and hypnotherapy and CBT or any of those things can do anything to help me. Heck, he cannot understand me, let alone breaking into soliloquies on how to cope with it. That hurts. Feigning conviction and telling me in that sickening murmur that he understands completely. That day was another of those days when I walked into that fraud place and pretended to have cottonplugs on while he proceeded with his customary drivel. I had just left the place when I got this watsapp notification saying that someone had added me. That was when all the latent hatred and revenge I had forgotten somewhere rose again. And that was how it all began.

                                                            ****

This female should have been really rich. This place she had chosen for our little rendezvous was crème-de-la-f**king-crème. So anyway, I see her and now that tingling sensation has become like a 1000 spiders crawling all over me. But I still can’t resolve the long standing issue of just who she is. We greet each other like long lost twins and give each other a bone crushing bear hug. Her dress left nothing to the imagination, by the way. This suit clad fellow gets us a table in one corner, set slightly apart from the rest of the pack and lights this big ass candle bang in the middle of the  table. “You still drink don’t you?” she asks, and I nod promptly, feeling slightly fishy about this whole business. She orders sparkling wine, and he excuses himself with a servile bow. “So tell me about what you are upto these days man, its been so long!”. She has one of the most sinfully disarming smiles I have ever seen. A perfect blend of coyness and mischief. The perfect seductress. My point is, even if I wanted to desperately man up and tell her I don’t for f**k’s sake know her, I was in it way too deep to tell her. Too far along. That’s how the male brain rationalizes. So I get on with it and chew the cud liberally, again, like long lost friends. Apart from being the seductress, she is also quite the talker. And before you know it, we are like a house on fire. Alcohol has progressed from wine to vodka,neat. And we are still talking, speech is beginning to slur and I am seeing double, but I keep going. The last thing I remember, to this date, is looking at her cleavage, in the light thrown by that candle, which was close to burning out ,by the way.

                                                            *****

The clothes were intentional. Decency was a thing I had given up on since what happened, but this was filthy even by those standards. This was moral degradation spawned by an overwhelming desire for masochism for the soul, flagellating it in a fervent attempt to exorcise the past. And I was almost there. Revenge is a dish best served cold, some fellow said. And mine had reached frigid levels. He was this close to passing out. All he needed was a prod in the right direction, and that came via a vial that I emptied into his 6^th peg. It was with some difficulty that I wrapped his hands around my shoulder and dragged him out to my car. No questions asked. My breasts were showing all the while, but who cares?

                                                            *****

I wake up to a searing pain all over my body like I am laid on a 100 burning stoves. I am totally out, ok? Totally disoriented, and i try to raise my hand and rub my eyes, which seem to be gummed together, my eyes, I mean, but I can’t move my hands, let alone raise them. And then someone splashed water on my face and I open my eyes and find the same female sitting cross legged, smoking. “ you can’t move because you have been glued to the bathtub. You are burning because I cut you a 100 times all over, superficially of course, else you would bleed out, and I bathed all those wounds with Chardonnay.”

                                                            ******

How many glue tubes did it take? A lot. And I enjoyed every moment of it. The alcohol was an inspired touch. I read somewhere that it does something to your burn receptors which lowers its threshold, in short, he suffers more. I was still surprised that he didn’t show any signs of recognition. That stung more than those wounds would be stinging him. After all, he had conquered me that day. I was his prized trophy in that pub. Admitting defeat, I asked him, “ Don’t you remember 31^st December 2011? The Watering Hole?”

                                                            *****

And then it all comes back to me, through all the pain. I had passed out in the pub that night. And it was the next day when I came to that my friend says that I did some serious nonsense bullsh** to this girl we met at the pub. Did I? He says that he ain’t playing me and that I should get in touch with her immediately. I said I would and go back the next day and tell him that we had met and that we had talked and we had made peace. He didn’t buy it, but then I always had great people skills. Well, I believe in Karma now.

                                                            *****

He is a smooth talker, that b*****d.  look how he plays it down. Sonofa***ch. There was this drinking game that night, and we were playing darts. Round of 3’s. guy v/s girl. Person making lesser points on a throw drinks a shot of vodka, neat, and should the girl lose, the guy gets to kiss her. I lose, and he comes over to kiss me. Sportingly, I oblige, and before I know it, he is kissing me awkwardly, aggressively, sloppily. I try to push him away at first, but then the alcohol gets the better of me, and I give in. Everyone is egging him on, and before I realize whats happening, he has turned me over, pulled down my pants, and begun thrusting. I am in pain, but my weak protestations are drowned out by the loud techno music. Its all over in a matter of 5 minutes. The last thing I remember is some girl coming over and asking me whether I am alright.

                                                            *****

Such things happen all the time in pubs. I didn’t know she was hurting.

                                                            *****

Purists might argue that this isn’t rape per se. I would gladly do this same thing to all of them.

                                                            *****

I should probably add that all this while, my mouth was neatly covered with masking tape, which she had peeled off when we were talking. In that time, she jacked up the stereo system volume somewhere in the next room. To drown out my screaming, I guess . All of a sudden, she puts this tape back on and starts emptying bottles of alcohol into the bath tub like crazy. The pain’s back on at full blast, and there I am, unable to writhe or move or do anything that could lessen the pain. She had thought this through. And through all this noise I hear her say “you will have to go now”. She lights a match and throws it into the tub. With a whoosh, all the alcohol fuels the flame and I have one inferno playing all over me, numbing me with pain. To hell and back would have been easier. That is when everything blacked out. I probably died, I don’t know.

                                                            *****

No matter what happens in your life, nothing prepares you for watching another human being burn to his death. You simply cannot sit back and watch. I had not reached that stage of malevolence. I knew this would happen and had kept an extinguisher handy. Without thinking twice, I opened it on him. I put out the flame in under half a minute. He was still breathing. Badly burnt, but still breathing. That is when I called for an ambulance, and fled.

                                                            *****

That’s love. That’s true love if you ask me. Nothing else can make a person intent on murder do a 180. Its pure,intense love. That is the only conclusion I can make, 2^nd degree burn injuries and multiple skin graft surgeries later.

                                                            *****

I don’t know what it was that made me do it. I am too busy trying to make good my escape to be thinking of it.

PS: The rape incident is based on a first person account I read somewhere. Don’t remember where. Its unnerving, to think that such things happen. Also,everything else is fiction.

Bun in the Oven

She threw up her hands in frustration.

"What is it with this city and traffic jams huh?!”

“More people, more vehicles, same road space. What else do you expect? Blame it on the burgeoning middle class wallet.” One thing he had learnt from two years of wedlock was that the only way to quell a bout of eloquence was to put off prompt replies. It worked like magic.  Both fell silent, lost in their respective thoughts. She looked around, but immediately got bored. Lots of vehicles with equally bored occupants. Her husband was humming some tune and tapping on the steering wheel, and in the process drumming up a royal cacophony.

“Stop that, will you?”

“Why, you don’t like it?”

“Not one bit.” She punctuated each word with adequate spacing to convey the message.

“OK Madame, this is your chariot, I am but a chauffeur”. She smiled at that innocent, disarming grin on his face.

She had had an incredibly happy week. He was in a really good mood. He went out of his way to please her, even took a day off to be with her. And to top it all up, they were going shopping today. It was as if he had magically transformed from that irritable, moody fellow from two weeks back. They would talk very less. She would see very less of him. And she would suffer silently. She had begun to doubt his loyalty, but then all those were put to rest. He had finally turned the corner, and she genuinely felt that the worst was over. Her thoughts were broken by the sound of a child crying in the adjacent car.

“Don’t you think its time we had children?”

“What? Oh yeah, sure! Right now?”

His cheekiness irked her. “ Its been 2 years now, how long will you keep avoiding this issue?”

“Listen, let’s just give it some more time ok? A child is an added responsibility, and I am not sure whether I am ready to shoulder that responsibility. Let’s spend some more time together, alright? I know I have been slightly off lately, but I am over that now.”

“Great, couples our age are well and truly on the family way, and here we are, still in the Know Each Other phase. Brilliant.”

“Let’s not fight and spoil our moods now. I will make it up to you, I promise.”

                                                            ***

    He was a cocktail of emotions. Anger, ecstasy, expectation, guilt and above all, revenge: allowed to ferment over time, but never watered down. He had played this scene over a million times, and it all ended in one overwhelming image: his mother and sister, whole, hale and hearty, smiling.  

   As opposed to two headless corpses, laid out unceremoniously in the snow, every inch of their bodies violated by Men of Authority. They were raped by the men multiple times; she was pregnant;before granting then the mercy of their cold knives. He had held onto that wound for 13 years, and it had culminated in an opportunity to exact his long overdue revenge. He never harboured any misconceptions of this being the Will of God.

     He knew very well that he was employing the cruel alternative of using unsuspecting civilians to get back at the Men. But ethical debates were strictly for teatime. For him, this was deeply personal, and he volunteered without batting an eyelid. He would have to get married to avoid suspicion and grant legitimacy to the whole op. He was however not to have children. He followed their instructions to the letter, while harbouring the utmost hate towards Them. But they were needed; he could not do it without Them.  All of that was behind him now. He was almost there.

“Don’t you think it’s time we had children?”

                                                                  ***

He had chosen the most crowded part of the shopping complex. It was time. He looked at her, and the only things he now felt were guilt, lament and immeasurable pain, as he clutched the Trigger one final time.