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An Undeterred Criminal Mastermind – Part I

Unlike the Mumbai Underworld, Bangalore Underworld actually operated under the world. This unique structural nature of the Bangalore Underworld further gave rise to Bangalore ‘Around Ground Level’ World and Bangalore ‘Above BBMP Permissible Heights’ World as well. Needless to say, the last of those became the most notorious. Especially after angering a few birds.

For years, the City Police was accused of not being adept enough to solve the city’s criminal problem. One of the main factor that was rambled on and on by the press was the lack of deep roots into the city’s criminal nexus. And today, after 3 years of extensive research that involved sending Polls through Facebook to those in the wanted list, they had finally solved it. And almost like a bad joke, it involved roots.

Tree roots, to be precise.

As we all know by now, by the year 2014 mankind had mastered the ancient Hippie artform of telepathy.The ancient Hippie art of Effortless Living is still being tackled as of writing. Soon after the discovery of Telepathy another surprise awaited mankind in the form of talking trees — or technically, communicating trees. Though this new trend was widely criticized in various places, the benefits of this new mode of communication was generally accepted as a great boon.

Bangalore was a city known for its trees and many of those trees had been in the city for a long time. Thus these trees had formed roots that went deep into the city’s soil. Even with the sincerest efforts from the BBMP to try widen the roads by cutting down trees, it couldn’t curtail the reach of these roots. And it was these roots that was going to prove beneficial for Bangalore Police force’s fight against the city’s Underworld.

And Babu was in a mood that he had not been in before and couldn’t be explained right now. ‘Buggered’ came close.

Like a thoroughbred Hippie, Babu was constantly at peace. The city never realised Babu’s existence. And whenever the city tried to shed light on his activities, he would bribe the local BESCOM guy to cut the power. He moved constantly through the shadows and occasionally under the pavements. The latter especially proved risky because of the inconsistent nature of the cover. He was the indubitable lord of the city’s underbelly. But today, gas trouble was on the menu.


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Milk the Coconuts, But not Instantly

What has a lot of diamonds, gold inserts, a granite base and is still ugly? Before raising their head to say, ‘the IPL trophy,’ one must take a stroll through the crowded Brigade Road. At the far-end of Church Street is this remarkably ugly, but always crowded restaurant, majestically named Taj Mahal Hotel – the completely Bangalorean restaurant wholly owned by a Mallu partnership.

Many things had changed by 2026. And few had remained the same. One that stood the test of time was the post-drinks eating habits of Bangaloreans. The dearth of options in this category meant that you can still close your eyes (which most likely are halfway there) and order Butter Chicken Boneless and Coin Parottas. And a place that serves this incredible dish is almost always swarming with activity – and a lot of flies too. But no one cared, except the lizard in the kitchen.

Our gang of four – Siddhart, Pashan, Tahi and Bhaskar – were not among the regulars though. They’d come here to get good food and they were not drunk. The rarity of it all wasn’t apparent until the waiter came to their table and set four glasses of lukewarm to colourlessly cold water. Siddhart leaned forward to inspect the cleanliness of the glass. Pashan quickly swatted him back to where he belonged. The accepted demeanour at such places, for your own benefit, was; never observe a glass up close if it already seems dirty at first glance.

“Your orders, Sir?” asked the waiter.

“What do you have?” countered Siddhart.

The waiter smiled at the question and pat came the reply.

“Coin parotta is there. And butter chicken boneless.”

“What else is there?”

“What else?” asked the waiter, unsure if he’d heard it correct. Then he figured that maybe the customer didn’t hear his suggestions right. So he slowed down his delivery from 3 words per second to 1 word every 3 seconds.

“Sir. Butter. Chicken….” he paused for effect. “Boneless. And… Coin. Parotta”

He started smiling again thinking this was the end of the confusion. Siddhart wasn’t amused.

“I know you have Butter Chicken boneless and Coin Parotta. But WHAT ELSE is there?”

The waiter didn’t appreciate this change of tone. He quickly took the menu card from the table and went off.

“What an idiot!” exclaimed Siddhart.

“I am not eating with you,” said Pashan.

“Why not?”

“He will spit.”

“At us?”

“No,” answered Tahi as Pashan suddenly got distracted by a fairy outside, selling elephants made of jalebi. “He will spit in the food.”

“No he won’t,” Siddhart retorted. “There are quality measures and stuff for this. They will lose their license if he does something like that.”

Almost as if by a humongous coincidence, a fly landed on the rim of Siddhart’s glass. Almost as if by another humongous coincidence, Siddhart never raised the issue again – or the glass.

“I am not eating with you,” said Pashan, again, in the same pitch and manner.

“You’ve already said that, Pashan,” Tahi pointed out.

Siddhart looked over the shoulders of Pashan and Tahi to see what the waiter was up to. He was talking to someone who looked like the kind of guy who might win a wrestling match suited.

“He’s gonna spit,” the fourth of the group finally opened his mouth. Siddhart, Pashan and Tahi stared at Bhaskar who was till then slowly melting into the cockroach brown (for a reason) decor of the Taj Mahal Hotel.

Pashan and Tahi were more astonished than Siddhart; mainly because they indulged in telepathic engagements and Siddhart did not.

“How do you know?” asked Siddhart.

“You can initiate conversations without the knowledge of the other person?!” exclaimed Pashan.

“MAPS, yes.” Bhaskar replied as if that was the answer everyone was expecting. MAPS for the telepathically archaic, is the opposite of SPAM. In SPAM, one would send unsolicited messages to others. In MAPS, a person would be able to extract information from someone without his/her consent. MAPS is generally accepted to be 380.47 times more destructive, 1291 times more difficult to master and countless times less hated than SPAM.

“So what do we do now?” asked Siddhart.

“I’m gonna try and learn MAPS,” answered Pashan.

“Ok. What do we do now… about the food?” asked Siddhart – this time trying to channel the conversation from telepathy back to food.

“How often can you MAP someone?” Tahi was also getting curious.

“About 5 times a day. Depends on the diet.”

“And what diet do you suggest?” enquired Pashan.

“Coconut milk.”

Pashan and Tahi looked at each other. They had a common question hanging inside their heads. A thousand other young folks would have the same question that Pashan and Tahi had. And they all wanted the answer.

“Will instant coconut milk work?” Tahi broke the tension and asked that vital question. They braced themselves for the response.

“It has been tested successfully in Poland. But I wouldn’t recommend it. It gives a chance of the person you are MAPPING to know that you are trying to MAP him. And that’s an unpleasant feeling.”

“How bad is it?” asked Pashan.

“It’s kinda like a curtain rising to reveal you having sex with your old maid to a hundred thousand people.”

“That’s not…” Pashan paused before completing the sentence. “cool. That’s not cool at all.”

“So! Guys!” interrupted Siddhart again, being the telepathic loser of the bunch. “What do we do about the food? I am hungry.”

“We order something dry,” answered Tahi. “If you order something dry they cannot spit, as without the gravy, the spit will show up.”

They all nodded in agreement.

“Yes, Sir. Have you decided now?” asked the waiter who returned with a very subtle viciousness in his body language.

“Yes,” replied Siddhart. “We would like to have something dry.”

They could almost sense disappointment welling up inside the waiter’s dull eyes.

“Chinese?” asked the waiter returning to his smiling fake self.

“Chinese food in Taj Mahal Hotel?” Siddhart couldn’t believe that people didn’t care about having certain standards and ethics when it came to naming a business. ‘One wouldn’t name a toilet company ‘Hanumanely Clean Toilets.’’

“We have Tao Ming Sey. Khud Ki Daap. Pol ma Tron. And Rot ting Veggies.”

“How’s that last one?” asked Pashan, much to the surprise, or shock, of Siddhart.

“It’s mild spicy. Blue colour, Sir.”

“Blue colour?” asked Siddhart.

“Yes, Sir.”

“We’ll have two plates of that.” Tahi had the last word – or at least she thought he had.

“Get me ketchup,” shouted Siddhart as the waiter started walking to the kitchen. “And not pumpkin sauce!”

Now that the distraction from the waiter was over, Pashan was quickly back to the interest of the table – Bhaskar.

“How did you develop such skills, brotha?”

“I have a tutor.”

“A tutor?!” exclaimed Tahi. “I didn’t know they have tutors for such extreme skills.”

“Well, it’s not a regular tutor who you go for clinching the TITs. She is in fact more than a tutor.”

TITs, if you are wondering, stands for Telepathic Invigoration Training.

“It’s a she,” winked Tahi.

“She’s not really a she, either. As in,” Bhaskar didn’t know how to put it without seeming like a freak. “To me she’s a confidante, a friend, and a teacher. But she’s not quite… err… human.”

Siddharth needed just a bit of old school logical reasoning, memory image-mapping and other simple brain tasks (that involved no telepathy) to arrive at the correct conclusion and articulated it in the most elegant words from the English language.

“Oh my God!” he shrieked. “You were DOING THAT TREE???”


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Scoundrella’s Curfew

In India, SUVs are of various types. At the very lowest end are these really small wagon-like cars. Its owners modify it with an extra front grille, halogen lamps, a luggage rack, and most importantly – an empty petrol canister at the rear. After this comes the desi SUVs; hardly packing enough power under the hood to lug its overgrown frame, these usually come decorated with the extra front grille, the luggage rack and the halogen lamps, but the owners still insist in having the empty petrol canister at the rear. And the last of this SUV series is the real deal – the gas guzzling monsters that have, in all its 4-Wheel Drive glory, been the bane of world population and boon to the many Sheikhs of OPEC. Honourable Minister Muniappa of Karnataka drove one of these. And his came with the empty canister at the rear.

‘Minister’ is not Muniappa’s first name. His real name is Murugesh Muniappa. But he feels Minister Muniappa has a better ring to it. The longevity of his position unfortunately cannot be ensured with the name. And that was Minister Muniappa’s biggest worry. He may not even have to wait till the next elections to lose his Ministerial pedestal.

“Ey! Scoundrel! Is the A/C off?” Muniappa asked his driver in as polite a manner as it was possible of him, which was not talking much about his politeness or his manner.

“Sir!” replied the driver. “A/C full on, Sir. Outside there’s much heat. That’s why.”

“I don’t know what is with this climate these days. Every year hotter and hotter and hotter.”

Actually, Muniappa should’ve known. Because Muniappa is the Public Works Minister of Karnataka. And this basically translates to cutting trees in Bangalore. This was also the reason why Muniappa was a bit more hot-headed than usual during the last few months. The achievements of telepathy had catapulted the status of trees from something any one can cut, to someone anyone can cut. And not many people were willing to let someone be cut.

As for Muniappa, he couldn’t care more about his wife’s telepathic relation with her Pomeranian than with the whole telepathy business. Great! Now people can talk without making any sound. What’s the fun in that? And what’s with these trees suddenly becoming all loving and caring and all that. As Muniappa got engrossed in such thoughts, a Sheikh exported another barrel of oil at an exorbitant price.

“Ey! Scoundrel! I need some juice. Stop somewhere!” Muniappa ordered his driver.

The driver nodded his head. It was when the driver was about to take a turn into another lane that Muniappa saw it. The scene made him a darker shade of brown with shock and fury. Under a tree was a guy. And there was no girl with him.

Of course, this scene would’ve been a curious one at least for times before 2022 (when humanity discovered telepathic communication). Then, it was a tree, a guy and a girl that caused much chagrin for the higher morals. But now things have changed. Trees have become better lovers than most humans. And they are unisexual (a term Muniappa until then thought was only associated with beauty parlours he wanted to visit). For a guy, the tree becomes a girl, and for a girl the tree becomes a guy. So now the government’s action was to identify guys and girls in solitude with a tree and put them behind bars or get enough money from them to warrant a let-off. The ministry was quickly piecing together a new law by which trees indulging in such acts will be considered as social outcasts and be chopped down immediately. This, once implemented, would work fabulously for the party’s moral outlook and help Muniappa cut down more trees.

“Ey! Stop stop!” ordered Minister Muniappa. The driver promptly stopped the car even as Muniappa uttered three more ‘stops’. Muniappa quickly got out of the car and holding his dhoti with his right hand, paced towards the scene.

“Ey! Scoundrelaa you are! What are you doing here?” Muniappa asked the bewildered youngster.

The youngster quickly noticed Muniappa’s gas guzzling monster parked behind and his attire (which carefully combined the colours of the Karnataka flag) and wisely deduced that the man in front of him was a minister.

“Sir…” he started. “It’s really hot here, Sir. I thought I would get some shade.”

“Eh! You know the BMTC has built bus stations and parks for that! Why? You can go under the Metro and stand there for shade, nah?”

“The dust…”

“What dust? Everywhere there is dust. Here there is dust. There there is dust. See?”

And Muniappa started kicking up dust by stomping around like a madman.

“Don’t think that I don’t know your kind, eh? Scoundrel!” continued Muniappa. “I know what you were doing under that tree. How long has it been going on for? Is this your only tree? Or are there others?”

“Sir… I don’t understand what you are talking about. I was just resting.”

“Where is the policeman of this location? All scoundrels. This time I am letting you go. But I will make sure that there are policemen in this area. Next time you will be caught. What’s your name?”

Bhaskar,” replied the youngster.

Muniappa took one last look at the face before turning back to his SUV. And as he was doing so, he couldn’t help but notice the Peepal tree behind Bhaskar. It was swaying a bit more than usual for such breeze. Muniappa felt something tug him from inside. He quickly blamed it on bonda and got into his SUV.

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Siddhart. Not Sid.

His Dad owned a cellular network company. He set his first voice mailbox message at the age of 4. In 2024, at the tender age of 23, he had to see his Dad’s company go bankrupt. Whatever his Dad lost, he blamed it on telepathy. And whatever else was bad in the world, he blamed it on the consequences of telepathy. And today, Siddhart was waiting for his turn to do the Manpatanti Puja.

If you are quite informed about the various Pujas in Hindu mythology, and is still quite unaware of Manpatanti Puja, it’s because you haven’t been past 2022. In 2022, as the legend has it now, mankind finally learned the secrets of telepathy through a procedure. Though the procedure to attain telepathy was remarkably similar everywhere, almost to the extent of being absolutely identical in every corner of the world, the popular religions decided they should have different ceremonies for attaining telepathic prowess.

Christianity quickly added an 8th sin to their ever-growing list of sins. In actuality, it was the 17th sin from Christianity. There were 7 actual sins, 7 modern sins (that included, “Thou shalt not browse for paid porn when it’s available for free) and 3 telepathic sins. The telepathic sins were:

Thou shalt not hurt thy neighbour’s moose with the cunning use of telepathic death metal

Thou shalt not cheat at scrabble which really doth not hath anything to do with telepathy, and

Thou shalt not ask for stronger wine in the Church of thy Holiness through a telepathic or non-telepathic medium

Soon after the addition of extra sins, Dan Brown released his 14th novel on the same, named ‘The Sins of Tele Phona’ with an italicised ‘phona’. It suggested that Jesus Christ ordered 1000 fishes through a then-unknown telepathic medium. It also stated that Alexander Graham Bell was the first to coin the term ‘ring a Bell?’ when he was proposed by his girlfriend. And in true Dan Brown style there was this centuries-old secret association of telepathic artistes called ‘Teletubbies’ that, needless to say, included Michelangelo in mime.

Hinduism, not to be left far behind, proposed this new god with 13 eyes, 2 brains, 3 ¼ hands and 5 completely non-identical legs. He was not the most physically endowed of Hindu gods (Ravan leads the pack there, though his cause to being considered a god is widely disputed), but he had the unique ability of telepathy. This god somehow ended up in scriptures, his skeletons were excavated from Andaman and Nicobar Islands and proof was received from Nasa that this new god was the reason for the existence of White House. He was thus aptly, but vaguely named, Manpatanta.

The Manpatanti Puja was derived from a favourite pastime of Lord Manpatanta; grinding stones together. The reason why all these information were not available before 2022 was simply because it wasn’t the time yet. The Kalyug passed before we could say, ‘Cheers to the end of the world.’ And Kalki, apparently, just acted in an off-beat movie and a Coca Cola ad.

“Name?” asked the Manpatanti Puja specialist Pujari Narayana Manpatante.

“Siddhart,” replied Siddhart as he shifted his weight in the gravelly temple ground.

“Full name?” squeaked the Pujari.

“Siddhart Chandrasekhar.”



At this, the Pujari closed his eyes, took two stones marked ‘A’ and ‘AAA’ from the golden plate in front of him and started chanting a mantra. ‘A’ and ‘AAA’ are pronounced ‘Ah’ and ‘Aaaaah’ and not like how you would buy batteries from the local store.

The priest then proceeded to close his eyes and muttered some chants under his breath. Siddhart looked on uninterested. The priest then opened his eyes and handed the stones to Siddharth – who wasn’t there any longer.

By that time, Siddharth was way outside the temple ground. Actually, he reached the end of the road where one could find a board with directions to the temple. Simply put, he was quite, quite far away from Pujari Narayana Manpatante to actually receive the telepathic stones. And this wasn’t the first time this happened.

It happened in 2023 when the Manpatanti Puja was first performed in Palace Ground. That time Siddharth ran all the way till Hebbal flyover where he got dizzy with all the roads and fell unconscious. It then happened in 2024, 2025 and now in 2026 with similar results, that curiously varied in intensity. Siddhart blamed it on the by-then-defunct theory of Global Warming.

“Why do people want to be telepathic anyway?” asked Siddhart to his friend Jamaican Pashan, as he sat on the faded red carpet floor of Pashan’s house.

Pashan, was born Pasha Nooruddin. ‘Bad company’ as his parents put it, led him to a different world — a world in which grass definitely showed you the greener side. That side eventually ended up being a little purplish. This was considered a harmless side-effect and nothing to really ‘stub your joint’ about.

Pashan thought deeply at Siddhart’s question. He thought deeply the last time someone asked him the time as well. Pashan then looked at Siddhart for a few seconds. Then he stared at him intently for another minute. Then, he went into a convulsion.

“Pashan!” Siddhart shook Pashan out of his trance. “Pashan! I can’t get telepathy, remember?”

“Oh…” Pashan quickly snapped out of his tantrum. “I am sorry. I tend to forget it.”

“If this is how people usually talk through telepathy, then boy I’m glad I’m not doing it.”

“Hmmmmmm…” Pashan closed his eyes and took another deep breath. He made some cracking sound by stretching himself off his perennial hunch. “I would’ve nailed it at the first try. In the second and third attempts of telepathic transfer, I was trying to push my way into your brain’s telepathic channel and see if I can plant my thought there rather than convey it to you.”

“Yeah,” scoffed Siddhart. “Meanwhile, you forgot to use your frickin’ common sense!”

“I need to pee,” said Pashan, verbally this time.

“Just… just go ahead, Pashan. You are the biggest moron in this planet. Piss yourself dry.”

Pashan stood up and balanced himself against a dead parrot perched on his teak study-table. Though he tried not to cause much of a ruckus, he couldn’t help it. There were stainless steel utensils strewn all over the floor. This was not very unusual. Pashan had this very ill-tempered , neurotic, always-on-periods, but great-in-bed-too girlfriend, Tahi. If a bored travel-planner was to make an itinerary for a Pashan-Tahi day, it would go like,

Sex every night


More sex

Share a joint

Another fight-and-sex session

Realize it’s too late to sleep

Sleep anyway

Wake up

Realize you are late for work

Brush teeth quickly

Realize you don’t have any work

And the cycle continued. But not today; when Pashan had a guest and Tahi needed to stock up on more pads.


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People never learn, but Peepals do

Bhaskar was never into women. Later he realized that he wasn’t into men, either. It all fell in place when he first made love to a Peepal tree.

It was luscious, that tree. Beautiful green leaves that hung in splendid style. Pre-2022, people never really got it. What’s in a tree? Sure you hug it. To protect that is. And then shade, clean air and care for the environment. Post-2022, people gave this false notion of environmental safety a new name:

‘Pure Bollocks’

Imagine a woman with a thousand hour glass figures – exactly. That’s the appeal a fully leafed tree has on a telepathic adult human. And they eat sunlight. The nerve endings on the leaves of a tree were later found to be the most sensitive thing in the planet. Emo kids quickly won back that honour with the careful use of black tongue and a blue-eyed dolphin piercing.

But people never really stopped cutting down trees. One reason was, they needed paper. Another reason was; bored lumberjacks tended to become transvestites, who then cross-dressed back to become men and hung out in local bars looking for another lumberjack-turned-transvestite-turned-lumberjack. The straight lumberjacks never really had a problem with such encounters though. Douglas, the sole representative of that faction, was always too drunk to lift his head; let alone do all the cross-dressing.

A one night stand between two non-straight lumberjacks usually went like this:

Guy 1 removes the jacket of Guy 2

Guy 2 removes the belt of Guy 1

Guy 1 removes the shirt of Guy 2

Guy 2 pulls the pants down of Guy 1

Guy 1 reaches behind Guy 2 and pulls off his bra

Guy 2 puts his hands inside Guy 1’s panties

And what they did afterwards cannot be made explicitly clear; but it did involve a cactus, two brinjals, one dunkin’ doughnut, three silkworms and a tub filled with Head and Shoulders Menthol shampoo.

When Lumberjacks were doing this, other people were hugging trees; and got arrested for doing so. Hippies celebrated another one over the newly telepathic P22 (Post-2022) people.

“Hey brother!” said Randall the Hippy, as he took another drag of his Manali. “I don’t want to say, ‘I always told you so.’ Because that’s not really love. That’s hate. And that’s not what we really believe in. But, if you really wanna hear it; hey, we always told you so.”

Needless to say, the Hippy culture saw another boom during this era.

In India though, more moral policing ensued. People were getting beaten up left, right, centre and a bit to the top where the telepathic aura was. After repeated threats of spoiling Valentine’s Day and labelling it as derogatory and not an Indian tradition, they quickly turned their attention to World Earth Day.

“Earth Day is immoral,” announced Mr. Sainik.

“But it is about the Earth. Indian traditions talk about Dharthi Ma (Mother Earth),” countered a reporter who was doing his 25th ‘Breaking News!’ of the day.

“Earth Day is immoral,” continued Mr. Sainik, blissfully ignoring the protests of the reporter. “And we will beat up everyone who is seen within 10 feet of a tree.”

In any other country that would have been a problem. But in India, especially in places where the Sainiks were much in strength (i.e., cities with high number of women and low number of inches-below-waist for skirts), this didn’t really pose much of a threat.

It was tough luck for Bhaskar though. He didn’t think much, when an average Sainik came to the park bench he was sitting on. He should’ve panicked when the Sainik drew a tape measure from his pocket.

“Bhaisaab. Can you hold this end with your leg?” asked the Sainik.

“Of course. But may I,” Bhaskar tried asking. But as soon as he kept his toe over the tape, the Sainik slowly started moving towards a Banyan tree.

“Saar!” shouted the Sainik to someone at a distance. “9 feet 4 inches, Sir!”

At this point Bhaskar should ideally have fled. But he did not. Instead, he sat peacefully, but a bit bewildered, on his park bench when a lathi knocked him unconscious.


“Wake up, sunshine,” called a mellifluous voice that seemed to hang around in the air for a good 10 seconds after it was heard.

Bhaskar slowly opened his eyes. Strokes of gold beamed down at him. He squinted. A million shapes formed over him.

“Is this heaven?” asked Bhaskar. “In that case I am sorry. I think I’ve come to the wrong after-life.”

The source of the voice swayed a bit to the sides and gave out the most sensuous giggle Bhaskar had ever heard in his life. The giggle hung around for about a good 13 seconds, partially because of it being of a higher register.

“You are not dead, Dearie. You are under my shade.”

“Your shade?”

“Yes. If you really want to know, the truth is Buddhism. That’s what my great grandma told Siddhartha as well.”

“You mean, Gautama Buddha?”

“Yes, yes. Whatever you wanna call him now. My ancestors used to call him Sid.”

“Wake up Sid!” exclaimed Bhaskar.

“No… no,” corrected the voice. “That was just a coincidence. But he was a good lad, that Sid. Quite cute too. With droopy eyes…”


“Oh no. Not him. He had sharp looks. Except for his hair, of course. Which was a bit curly. I was talking about Ranbir”

“Ah… ok…”

“But, who are you?” asked Bhaskar.

“I am Peyali, Bhaskar.”

“How did you know my name?”

“Ah, you silly Bhaskar,” said Peyali. “We know telepathy for much, much longer than you human folks did. How do you think we told Siddhartha about Nirvana?”

And then it became clear to Bhaskar. He saw that the countless shapes hanging over him were leaves. His head was rested on curvy roots.

“You,” said Bhaskar. “You are a Peepal tree?”


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Of Neih and Neihsayers

(Recap: The Pony in this post is the Pony from here, who first managed to rub the stones together to activate telepathic exchange)

This post is written by a Pony through Path1 Telepathy Network’s Live Teleplogging Service

Have you ever received a kick in the nuts from a Pony or a Horse? Or seen a Horse just act really mad during a Show Jumping game? Or even the Derby favourite losing inexplicably, in turn making you quite broke after all the bets?

They are not one-off instances. They are signs of a collective protest from Ponies and Horses. Wondering why?

Ever heard of ‘Horse Power?’ Or a ‘Prancing Horse’ logo? For ages you human folks have used us to describe speed, placing us on metal carts that does 1/2000th of a what a Horse can do and 1/13563rd of what a Pony can do. It’s a criminal injustice to not give us any token of appreciation.

And the food you give us totally sucks.

Ponies are actually very humble beings. I accept that the Horses do tend to get a bit prancy. But overall, we are patient, docile and extremely Neih-fearing. Neih, by the way is our accepted Deity. I’ve heard that a few of those Southerner breeds tend to follow Lord Hayworth. But we are trying to get them registered as a cult.

Many thought the telepathy thing was an accident. They are wrong. It was a gift from Neih. His Holy Hoofs have given us golden rules by which all Ponies (and to a lesser extent, Horses) live.

It should also be interesting to know that, even the first instance of creating fire included a Horse. According to the Horse Lores in our area, the story went something like this:

Plick plock plick plock plick plock

Went the Horse once called Sherlock

His manmate was bearded and grumpy

And his name was Good ol’ Stumpy.

Plick plock plick plock plick plock

At Linda’s door, he gave a knock.

Linda, if ye’ all didn’t know

Was the babe who was a bituvva hoe.

Plick plock plick plock plick plock

Stumpy saw Linda with another cock.

And stumpy being all grumpy,

Decided to duel this new wimpy.

Plick plock plick plock plick plock

Stumpy went and got a rock.

As he charged to strike poor Wimpy

Wimpy defended with another flinty.

Plick plock plick plock plick plock

Sparks flew to the tail of Sherlock.

And up in flames went his hairy rear

And that’s how men learnt how to make fire.

So you see, there’s a huge connect between how we have helped you chart your course as the most intelligent being in this planet. So it wouldn’t take much of an effort to support us in what’s a just cause.

We have formed a group in facebook called ‘Horses Against Ferrari.’ Do join us there if it means something to you. The reason you don’t see us in facebook is because we have facebarn. Zuckerberger tumbled into a pile of hay and decided he would make a human site called facebook.


Neih’s Golden Rules for Quick Entry to Hayven

for Ponies and Horses prancing in and around the Grassland

(not applicable to followers of Lord Hayworth who, regardless of their ways of life, will be cast to a burning pile of Hay in Hayll)

1)      When in doubt, twitch your ears and THEN flick your tail

2)      Thou shall not raise your hind leg to another of yer types

3)      The grass is not greener on the other side

  1. It is greener in a darkish sort of way when it has been trampled under your hooves

4)      Whisperers are to be avoided at all costs as most of them chew tobacco

5)      Don’t prance when you can gallop

6)      Make sure you are paid if used in bestiality videos (latest rates are available in the Holy Barns of Pranceperia)

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A Million Year Snooze

The year is 2026. The place is Bangalore. And the cows are still around.

No, the world didn’t end in 2012. The Mayans seemed to have been bluffing. The researchers headed to the nearest bar in Dismay and the scientists went back to the Large Hedron Collider in France. A second, closer, less panicky inspection of the Mayan calendar revealed fascinating etchings of nude Mayan playmates.

Michael Bay, on the other hand, released his third Transformer movie — in 3D, of course. And just when he melted the Eiffel Tower and the Taj Mahal and tried to form a new Transformer from the resultant amalgam, a cell phone battery exploded on someone’s face. It was one of those really unlikely coincidences. And that was the closest we came to the end of world in 2012.

For the curious; no one was hurt in the cell phone battery explosion. The government had released a Public Welfare Drive, educating people about the various benefits of wearing microwave-shielded helmets while on the phone.

For the even more curious; the new Transformer was called Taj Tower and became a Mallu restaurant in Church Street.

But the year we should note, is 2022. Except of course 2020, when Lalit Modi unleashed a saga of Twenty20 matches. It was then shifted to Dehradun because of threats by the LeT Under-13 group. Dehradun, by that time, was a separate country run by hippies. They frankly got tired of all the firing and jumping around and excessive male bonding.

The year 2022 was important, because that was the year science decided to pull a quick one on itself. All the progress in telecommunication, smaller processor size and the abolition of paid porn sites on the internet was shown the door in what was to be humanity’s best and worst discovery. Telepathy.

The secret was after all in rubbing stones together. A trick mankind had failed to interpret correctly, causing a million of years of stunted progress.

The trick of telepathy was first performed by a pony in Netherland. It involved rubbing two stones marked A & B in a particular order. The order was:

Up. Up. Down. Down. Left. Right. Left. Right. Hit Stone B with A. Hit Stone A with B.

Konami, an almost defunct company in Japan called for copyright infringement and lost.

The first ever telepathic message a human being received through this startling new medium was, “Hay!”

That story hit the front page on Reddit and the next day on Digg. Its popularity was blemished slightly by accusations of ‘Photoshopped!’ by few commentators on those boards.

But the US quickly capitalised on this new technology by sending their troops to Netherland. A few of them landed in Holland and was about to retreat when a drunk goat told them it was the same place.

The US President made a public announcement to the citizens to unite in this coming of a new communication medium. However, it had long been proven that the only thing that really united Americans was a constant state of clinical paranoia.

The troops, though, couldn’t force Mr. Brinkerhoff to sell the pony.

“That is MY pony and my girls really love that pony.”

“But Mr. Brinkerhoff. It is a question of world peace,” Sgt. Fisher tried to convince.

Now, for a short aside on the question of world peace. After numerous attempts at cracking an answer to the question of world peace, it was finally solved. Quite unsurprisingly, in a Miss World pageant. It was answered by Miss Jamaica in the year 2017. And the answer was:

“Hmm… Can we discuss something else?”

“Schmatz to world peace. Pha!” Mr. Brinkerhoff continued. “I am not selling the pony at any cost.”

“I am sorry you don’t leave us any option other than to invade you.”

“Invade me? Isn’t that a bit hasty?”

“But that is our protocol.”

“I have stones. I will retaliate.”

“By any chance, do you happen to have vast reserves of oil underneath those stones?”

“I don’t think so.”

“In that case, Mr. Brinkerhoff, you leave us no option other than to bargain for your pony.”

“It’s a very healthy pony, ye know. It will cost a lot.”

Sgt. Fisher didn’t have an immediate response to that. What he did have was a live connection to all the world leaders who were waiting online, listening to classic Britney Spears songs from the 90’s.

“So how much is he asking for?” asked the Tahitian world leader.

“I didn’t ask him that,” replied Sgt. Fisher.

“Then how are we supposed to bargain?” Mr. Uthamankutty from India quickly pointed out.

“Why don’t we set a bail out price for the pony and just bail it the heck outta there?” quipped Palin from the USA.

And that was it. The conference finally decided on a bail out figure of 7 billion dollars for the pony.

Mr. Brinkerhoff accepted the offer at the first go.

Since then, many stones had been rubbed together. Hippies claimed they always knew about getting stoned and decided to stick to hash.

And now; even as the American President made telepathic love to a housekeeper in Raj Bhavan, Bhaskar stood under the Metro railway track in MG Road, Bangalore and tried to conjure up a Banyan tree.


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