The Great World Cup Mystery

A series of mysterious events of the supernatural sort occur in the Indian dressing room after they win the World Cup. Could they possibly be related? Will these incidents make the members of the Indian cricket team start to believe in ghosts? Read and find out...

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Harbhajan just stepped out of the shower, and into the dressing room and his eyes on their own accord went to the gleaming trophy that seemed to have been assigned a special place amongst all other trophies - a trophy that would in all probability make other trophies jealous, if trophies had such things as feelings. An audible sigh (of that particular variety that often preceeds 'you know back in those days', 'yaar, woh din bhi the' and other nostalgic variety of sentences) escaped his lips. Right behind him came Sehwag.

"I will never forget that day till my last breath, Veeru", he said and sighed some more. Sehwag also finished the customary casting of a loving glance on the same object and came beside Harbhajan now. "And why should you? These kind of things are what they call legends, Bhajji..", he said nonchalantly and the level of nonchalance was comparable with the nonchalance with which he usually bade farewell to those deliveries that were pitched just a little outside the off-stump, and which he sent hurrying on towards the boundary line.

"Legend - now that's a word made for describing him", said Bhajji, as the conversation invariably turned to that one man who turned that whole match. "Just imagine. Doing something impossible. And on the way to it, merely doing something really difficult. That was what I thought when Sachin scored his 50th ODI century and also won the World Cup. 100 international hundreds, mindblo..."

"Hundred and one", said someone presently.

Someone very likely in the dressing room, if Bhajji believed his ears were in fine working order.

"Oh yeah. 51 in tests and now 50 in ODIs. I forgot. It's hundred and one", responded Bhajji and looked around with the intent of including the source of the above mentioned statement into their conversation, but there was no one else around.

"Who was that?", he asked. And he intended Sehwag to answer, which no doubt you would have already guessed, since no one else seemed to be around.

Sehwag now did his bit of studying the room, in order to divine the nature and number its occupants, and he found that his observations now matched with that of Harbhajan's. So he replied, "Dunno.. Everyone in this dressing room is a Sachin fan. And everyone know his records by-heart. Could have been anyone passing by.."

"But there was no one else around when I went in. And no one else but ourselves are present in the room right now!!", replied Harbhajan. "Besides, that voice sounded unfamiliar", he added finally.

"Arrey, alright. Koi toh hoga. Let's go Bhajji.  A family man like me likes to spend more time with his wife and kids, you know, than worrying about hearing voices in dressing rooms", said Sehwag getting up grinning. "Family man, eh?", said Harbhajan mock punching him as they got up, and subsequently followed him out of the room.

******************************************************

Raina looked to be in a very good mood. Infact as he picked up his cricketing gear, he was found to be whistling away like a lark.  Just as he came in front of the beautiful trophy, he stopped and postively admired it, and you could see it was very special for him too (any other trophy he would have probably looked at only to check his reflection in - and I do not imply that he was narcisstic that way - but that is usually what boys of his age tend to do)

His phone rang. Quickly he looked around the room - the coach did not like players using phones in dressing rooms. This he had gleaned, perhaps due to the innumerable occasions during which the coach had expressed his displeasure on that particular subject. However now, seeing that the room was completely empty, he proceeded to answer the phone. It seemed to be a call from overseas.

"Hello", he chirped into the phone.

The person at the other end also must have emitted some form of greeting. And then added another sentence. "Oh! You got that HDSLR camera for bhaiyya? Excellent..", responded Raina. The person at the other end mumbled something."Ofcourse, man. I can wire it immediately. Just tell me the amount", said Raina now. A pause. "4190$ huh? What's the current conversion rate in Rupees?". Another pause. "45.06Rs per USD? So that's 4190x 45.06 ..."

"188801.40 Indian Rupees"

Raina dropped the phone in surprise. "Who's there?" he called out and looked around frantically. He thought he was alone in the room. And all visual evidence suggested that he still was. He shuddered, picked up his phone and hurried out of the room with his cricketing gear.


******************************************************

Yuvraj was livid. And he has quite a reason to be, for he should have been basking in the glory of being a part of the World cup winning Indian team. That day however a leading daily in India had carried out a report card of sorts, evaluating the contribution of each Indian player during the cup. It rather suggested that though Yuvraj did well with the bat and ball, his fielding, which in his earlier years could somewhat be labelled as magnificent, was now rather dismal. It went on to suggest further that this was a direct effect of a lot of weight Yuvraj had put on, in and around his mid-section.

"Ridiculous!", Yuvraj thundered throwing the copy of newspaper onto the floor. Munaf and Piyush looked up. "These media-wale, they think they can write anything. And get away with it. This is heights yaar!! The only reason I've not been my former self on the field is because of my knee problem. I'm not a 19 year old anymore. And my fielding - it's not dismal" He looked around as though daring the other two to challenge his views. Thankfully, they did not seem to take the dare on and remained silent.

"And what's this weight issue nonsense? Huh..", Yuvi continued. "That was one - one and a half years ago, when I was injured. But look at me now. Put on weight it seems. I've infact lost some. I'm now a healthy 82 kilos. From 97 kilos - in the course of my fitness regime I've lost - how much is that?", Yuvraj started to calculate.

"Fifteen kilos"

"Yeah. Fifteen kilos I've lost. That's no mean..", he paused and fixed Munaf with a shrewd look. "Your voice sounds a little girlish."

"No it does not, Yuvi. What makes you think so?", replied Munaf his tone apparently manly enough still.

"Do it again", said Yuvraj still not believing him. "I mean, say fifteen kilos again". Piyush looked from one to the other. "Hold on. You think Munaf here said fifteen kilos? He's been talking with me. We thought you said fifteen kilos", he said now with growing concern on his face.

"Arrey, come now.. There's no one else in this room but us three. Stop pulling my leg you guys", cried Yuvraj exasparatedly.

Harbhajan and Raina just entered the room. "What's the commotion guys?", Bhajji asked. And then seeing their faces added, "You guys look like you've seen a ghost or something. Am I that scary?"

In a few words Yuvraj laid out the happenings before them. Raina looked startled. "Even I heard a voice like that some days ago, in this same room", he said. Harbhajan started looking nervously around the room muttering "That voice did sound girlish. No wonder I couldn't place it. I've never heard of it before".

Finally after some moments of such muttering Harbhajan addressed everyone present.

"Guys. I think there's something going on here. And I haven't got a clue what it is. Perhaps we should consult someone higher. Someone who might know of all such things.."

"You mean...", started Yuvraj.

"Precisely", said Harbhajan. "Only one person I can think of who is immensely knowledgible on and off the field. And we must visit him now.."

******************************************************

Sachin's abode...

Though initially surprised to see them all together, Sachin invited them all inside warmly. Once they were all ensconed within his residence, he looked around at them all. Grim faces greeted him. This was an unusual look to be seen on some of those faces. So he inquired as to what the matter was. One by one, the elicitation of the events began.

When he heard the Sehwag-Harbhajan incident he just nodded. After Raina's narration he looked a little surprised. And when Yuvraj finished his story he muttered "Aila!" and leapt to his feet. One thing they all agreed on was that none of them had heard of that voice before. Yuvraj even suggested it might be a ghost of some long gone cricketer, who may have died in that dressing room.

Sachin just shook his head. "A math wiz of a cricketer with a girly voice who died in that dressing room? Fat chance, Yuvi", said Sehwag and then looked at Sachin who seemed to be biting his lip. "What's the matter Sachin?", asked Sehwag.

Sachin looked up. "I probably should have shared this knowledge with you guys earlier. Kapil paaji had told me of this long ago"

"What?", they all asked with a bated breath in unison.

"But I thought only the original could have such magical properties. I had no idea that even it's replica was endowed with such abilities", said Sachin.

Everyone exhanged anxious glances. Confused even.

Sachin explained, "That voice you hear, is not that of any ghost. It is coming from the cup. It has magical arithmetical properties. For it is the cup that counts!"

Some untitled non-proseful writing

Jeez. I never thought I'd write something like what I've written below. But then again, I'd never thought of doing several things I've done so far in my life. I have long held views that I am not a poetry person, and really by golly I may not be one, and what I've just written may not be classified as poetry, oh don't you know.

I hope you did not read the title as "Some untitled non-purposeful writing", since that may well be the title of most of what I write (as I often joke - but this joke is getting stale I think). But this piece of writing I couldn't classify as prose or for that matter expand into something more substantial without sounding either too preachy or appearing to be in a pathos mood (or preaching something in a pathos mood) It rather suggested itself to me that that the style of writing was a little poetic, even if it doesn't rhyme, and I am told that they need not as well. So for the lack of a better word, I choose to call it poetry - you are free to call it what you may. Reading this you may feel that my puns were bad, but my poetry is verse. However as this could be one off case, rest easy if you share that opinion (btw do share your opinion even otherwise)

So without much further ado, I present to you that-which-I-cannot-call-prose-but-chose-to-classify-as-poetry:


However narrow the sandclocks throat,
still manages to dash hopes that,
some day the time may fully stop
on moments remembered, opportunities lost.


Through cupped hands the water seeps,
never reaching that parched throat;
A forgotten dream, recalled in vain.
Minutes and seconds of a wonderful life.


Of words that were better left unspoken if,
to silent regrets of those that were;
What boiling blood - the heat of the moment,
And of cowardice that crept upon the heart.


Often turning our backs we hark the past,
even as we know, what he has to say.
I know you long for me still,
but all this was done, and remains only so.


Were we really puppets on a string, 
controlled by a force above?
Or did we bring upon ourselves this,
remorse and regrets, in the winter of life.

A lazy sunday and The art of criticism

The setting is a middle-class household on a Sunday afternoon. The exact hour is almost nearing tea time - which may vary considerably from family to family - from as early as 3:30p.m - 4.00p.m to 6:30p.m - 7:00p.m. However I am in a position wherein I can pinpoint the exact time with more or less atomic preciseness - as I am speaking of my own home - that it is 4:30p.m. As it happens on such afternoons there is no drivel to watch on the good old tube viz the t.v, even though one's mind doesn't really mind watching something or the other as the mind has in all probability exhausted all other means of passing time till it is nearly time to consume an early dinner followed by an early sleep (which I find myself craving for now most of the days) This absence of drivel is to watch is, as it so happens, a direct consequence of non-recipiency of any sort of cable signal by our dear t.v. Such is the situation when my father enters the living room.


"He should be vigourously kicked" (literally translated from Kannada) , announced my father. Presently I looked up from my smart-phone on which I was reading a Wodehouse e-book which I had downloaded from Gutenberg (how many birds in one stone was that? a] I own a smart-phone on which I can read e-books - geek++ b] I download books from Gutenberg, not some illegal torrent site - anti-piracy #win c] I read Wodehouse - chicks dig humour etc etc..) at the same time as my mother lowered the newspaper she was reading. Our curiosities were faintly piqued, for who was this person who on a lazy Sunday afternoon had inspired my father to think of indulging in a game of football, even more so with that aforementioned unknown person agreeing to play the role of the rotund object that is subject to absorbing many such blows from the feet in return for some displacement away from the person delivering it?


Now that our attentions were captured and bound to be undividedly devoted to absorbing my fathers views on who should be subjected to  such vigourous striking with ones feet, he continued: "He shouldn't be allowed to captain any more. The selectors simply have no mind"


More data. That should bring about more comprehensions in our minds. The key-word in the first sentence seemed to be captain. This narrowed down the choice of the kickee to:
1. A leader of a naval squadron of some military force who had managed to offend my father
2. Captain Vijayakanth
3. Abe Lincoln or John Keating (as potrayed by Robbin Williams in Dead Poets Society)
4. Captain America, Captain Planet and numerous other superheroes
5. Captain Gopinath(??)
6. Captain of some sporting team
The list was no doubt incomplete. But fret I did not - for I had another clue in the next sentence. I could even have tried to eliminate some of the choices on the prima facie evidence that some of these possibilities do not usually figure in the purview of my fathers tirades conversations. But that meant I would need more time to crack this. No - I had to make use of the next clue.


When seen in the light of the next sentence, and also taking into computation the fact that the World cup is underway, the first (actually second in this entire context so far) clearly meant that this was going in one and only one direction. Mother and me exchanged glances that clearly conveyed that each knew what was coming next.


It's not really an easy job being the captain of the Indian cricket team. For, from time to time this creature evokes this sort of reaction from my father (any many more of his ilk all over the country) His crime this time was that he had failed to score big, lead from the front, yada yada and all in a World cup practice match against Australia. (Don't ask how my father knew this in spite of the cable outage - he is quite well versed in internet-fu, although occasionally he needs help. Don't we all?) Now I know - previously I had also directed my angst at the Indian team here. So why should I complain when my father does the same, right? 

Somehow I felt this was unjust. I wanted to argue - why should one failed innings mean that he should be stripped of captaincy? I almost felt as if I was being criticised. Somehow hurt at the injustice of it all. Similar to the feeling I felt each time someone criticised a great Karnataka player for his slow run making, I almost immediately wanted to scream 'Hey, you are not the one playing there'. And who are we to criticise?


Suddenly I wrenched myself from these thoughts. What was I thinking? Why does this reaction from my father lead to such hurt in me? I realised I hated criticism. Rather I should rephrase that: I was uncomfortable with criticism. Criticism scared me most of the times. I think Criticism of Emily Rose is a more scary title. That scared of it I was.


I do not usually, as a rule criticise people. Nor correct them unless it was very serious. But now I felt that not doing so makes things one sided. In more than one way. Firstly, if I do not criticise someone, I expect the other person also to keep his end of (an imaginary?) bargain by not criticising me. That rarely happens. (Sad - I know. What is the world coming to? What happened to Do unto others as you would have them do unto you ) Secondly, not being critical means that you rarely point out any mistakes of others. You do not allow that person a chance to become more correct. Now I know that what I've said above sometimes conflicts with what I've written earlier. I've at times been critical of things in writing. But the real life me seems a bit more different (whose afraid of the big bad critic? I am, I am)  I do not like to be criticised - hence I assume others feel the same.


I thought I must first learn to handle criticism more positively. Only then will I realise that criticism is not all that bad. That others may also accept positively (not always - there will be others like me who cannot accept criticism - but yet) I shouldn't be critical for the mere sake of being so, but I shouldn't shy away from being so if necessary too.


(Sorry for meandering from the story - this is how it finally ended)


While I disappeared inside my own head (as I do a lot), pondering about all this, my father had moved on to other members of the team. As I came back to the real world I suddenly felt better. To each his own; I do not have to feel bad about all this I thought. So out of relief more than anything else I asked my mother, "What's for dinner tonight?" My fathers live cricket critic show ended right on cue. 

Second life

Pffff pfff pfffht. Damn - it's so dusty.

If my mother were to read this, she'd think I was talking about my table - which has miraculously managed to gather about 17 cms of dust in an otherwise spic and span home (which reminds me - I should accomplish cleaning it up soon for er.. various reasons) No. I'm talking about this blog.

An insightful reader will observe, that over the past couple or more (tending towards more) months there has been nothing to say with reference to the updates here. A regular reader (here I'm supposed to add within parenthesis the words - if any - but won't), would perhaps notice one or two posts making an appearance and then before you could say blogpost, mysteriously disappear. In case you missed it, it was nothing to write home about, so to speak. One may have been about my blog which has run off, and another - yet another frivolous story (makes a Capt.Jack Sparrow-disgusting-face), but I  assure you - if you are joining now, you've missed nothing.

Now to enumerate reasons for my absence.

What reasons shall I give for my AWOL, huh? I certainly could not say I was busy cleaning my table *adds a reminder in phone* Or say I was busy with work? Perhaps saving the world? Or did a certain micro-blogging site take away my(our) powers to write? Did I not find anything to write about?

Nay. None of them are really convincing - except the third one. So I shall not give any.

Since this might be a comeback post of sorts, I must perhaps add something to the effect of: Dear readers, I promise henceforth my fingers shall run over the keyboard more frequently and spew lot more words for your eyes to consume. But again - you guessed it right - I simply won't. And I really have no statistic on how many of such promises were eventually kept.

I instead spend time doing a makeover of the site layout (more simpler, less images and hopefully better content), change the title (yeah, I know - my previous was too amateurish and had nothing to do with content whatsoever. The newer one, in keeping with that tradition, also will not have anything to do with the posts I will write - but I have crafted it in such a way that its meaning conveys to the reader that it indeed does not have anything to do with anything at all), prune a few stupid posts here and there (the ones I never plugged/publicised/trumpeted anywhere ever), publish this post, decide against watching Hollow Man 2 on Star Movies now, go to sleep and all that with one hope - this second innings will perhaps be better.

So here's to another beginning - cheers! And see you soon..

(also notice - I did not open with a sarcastic comment assuring the readers that my life has not yet perished)

ತರ್ಲೆಕುಂಟನಹಳ್ಳಿಯ Da Vinci Code

ತರ್ಲೆಕುಂಟನಹಳ್ಳಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಇಂಥಹ ಒಂದು ದೊಡ್ಡ ಅನಾಹುತ ನಡೆಯತ್ತೆಂದು ಪತ್ತೇದಾರಿ ಮಾದೇಶ ಕನಸಲ್ಲೊ ಎಣಸಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಅದು ಹೇಗೊ ಏನೋ ಆ ಊರಿನ ಆಂಗ್ಲರ ಪಳೆಯುಳಿಕೆಯಂತಿದ್ದಹ ಸಂಗ್ರಹಾಲಯದ ಪಾಲಕ ರಂಗಜ್ಜ ಸಾವಿಗೀಡಾದ.  ಮಾದೇಶನಿಗೆ ಇನ್ನೂ ನೆನಪಿದೆ. ರಕ್ತದ ಮಡುವಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಬಿದ್ದಿದ ರಂಗಜ್ಜ ಹುಚ್ಚನಂತೆ ಕೇಕೆ ಹಾಕುತ್ತ ತನ್ನ ಅಂತಿಮ ಕ್ಷಣಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಕೂಗಿದ ಪದಗಳು, "Da Vinci, ಅದು Da Vinci, ನಮ್ಮ ಊರಿನ Da Vinci Code-ಉ!!"

ಆಗ ಮಾದೇಶನಿಗೆ ನೆನಪಿಗೆ ಬಂದದ್ದು ಅದೇ ಹೆಸರಿನ ಒಂದು ಅಂಗ್ಲ ಚಲನಚಿತ್ರ. ಹೌದು.. ರಂಗಜ್ಜ ಹೇಳಬಯಸಿದ್ದು ಈ ಚಿತ್ರದ ಬಗ್ಗೆಯೇ ಇರಬೇಕು, ಏಕೆಂದರೆ ರಂಗಜ್ಜ ಖಂಡಿತ ಹುಚ್ಚನಂತೂ ಅಲ್ಲ.ಸದಾ ಊರಿನವರ ಬಾಯಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ತನ್ನ ಪತ್ತೆದಾರಿಕೆಯಿಂದ ಬೈಗುಳಗಳನ್ನು ತಿನ್ನುತಿದ್ದ ಮಾದೇಶ ಇದರ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಏನಾದರು ಮಾಡಲೇಬೇಕು, ಇದು ನನ್ನ ಪತ್ತೆದಾರಿಕೆಗೆ ಒಂದು ಸವಾಲು ಎಂದು ಯೋಚಿಸಿದ. ತಕ್ಷಣವೇ ಪಟ್ಟಣದಲಿದ್ದ ತನ್ನ ಗೆಳೆಯ ಪರಮೇಶಿಗೆ ಕರೆ ಮಾಡಿದ.

"ಓಹ್ಹೋಹೋ !! ಏನಪ್ಪೋ ಮಾದೇಶ ? ಇಟ್ಟು ದಿನಗಳ ಮೇಲೆ ನನ್ನ ನೆನಪು ಬಂತೆನೂ? ", ಅತ್ತ ಕಡೆಯಿಂದ ಪರಮೇಶಿ ಕೂಗಿದ.

"ಹೂ ಕಣಲೇ.. ನಿನ್ನಿಂದ ತುರ್ತಾಗಿ ಒಂದು ಕೆಲಸ ಆಗಬೇಕಿತ್ತೋ", ಮಾದೇಶ ಅಳುಕಿದ.

"ಗೊತ್ತಿತು, ಏನೋ ಕೆಲಸ ಇಟ್ಕೊಂಡೇ ಫೋನ್ ಮಾಡ್ತಾ ಇದ್ದೀಯ ಅಂತ. ಹ್ಞೂ, ಅದೇನು ಅಂತ ಹೇಳಪ್ಪ", ಪರಮೇಶಿ ಕೇಳಿದ.

"ದೊಡ್ಡ ಕೆಲಸ ಏನು ಅಲ್ಲ ಕಣೋ. ನನಗೆ ಇ Da Vinci Code ಅಂತ ಒಂದು ಇಂಗ್ಲಿಷ್ ಚಿತ್ರದ್ದು c.d ಬೇಕಿತ್ತು. ಸಿಗುತ್ತಾ ?", ಮಾದೇಶ ಕೇಳಿದ.

"ಅದಾ ?", ರಾಗವೆಳೆದ ಪರಮೇಶಿ. "ಸಿಗಬಹುದು.. ಏನಿದು ಇಂಗ್ಲಿಷ್ ಚಿತ್ರ ನೋಡೋ ಆಸೆ? ಏನ್ ಕಥೆನಪ್ಪ?"

"ಯಾವುದೋ matter ಬಗ್ಗೆ ನೋಡಬೇಕಿತ್ತಪ್ಪ. ಫೋನ್ ನಲ್ಲಿ ಹೇಳಕ್ಕಾಗೋಲ್ಲ", ಮಾದೇಶ ಉತ್ತರಿಸಿದ.

"ಓಹೋ ಏನೋ serious ಆದಹಂಗೆ ಇದೆ ಹಾಗಾದರೆ.. ಸರಿ ಆದಷ್ಟು ಬೇಗ ಕಳಿಸ್ತೀನಿ", ಎಂದ ಪರಮೇಶಿ.

"ಥ್ಯಾಂಕ್ಸ್ ಕಣೋ ತುಂಬ", ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿ ಫೋನ್ ಇಟ್ಟ.

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೩ ದಿವಸದ ನಂತರ ಮಾದೇಶನ ಕೈಯಲ್ಲಿ "The Da Vinci Code" c.d ಇತ್ತು. ತಕ್ಷಣವೇ ಅದನ್ನು ನೋಡಲು ಹಚ್ಚಿದ.

ಚಿತ್ರದ ಆರಂಭದ ಸನ್ನಿವೇಶವನ್ನು ನೋಡಿದಾಕ್ಷಣ ಆತನ ತಲೆ ಸುತ್ತಿದ ಹಾಗಾಯಿತು. ಅರೇ!! ರಂಗಜ್ಜ ಹೇಳಲು ಯತ್ನಿಸಿದ್ದು ಇದನ್ನೇ ಎಂದು ಖಾತ್ರಿ ಆಯಿತು. ಆ ಚಿತ್ರದ Louvre ಸಂಗ್ರಹಾಲಯದ ಪಾಲಕನ ಕೊಲೆಯ ಸನ್ನಿವೇಶ, ತಮ್ಮ ಊರಿನ ಸಂಗ್ರಹಾಲಯದ ಪಾಲಕ ರಂಗಜ್ಜನ ಕೊಲೆ!! ಒಹ್..

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ಮರುದಿನ ಸಂಜೆ ಪತ್ತೇದಾರಿ ಮಾದೇಶ ಊರಿನ ಮುಖಂಡರ ಮನೆಗೆ ಬಂದ.

"ಮುಖಂಡರೇ, ನಿಮ್ಮ ಬಳಿ ಒಂದು ಮಹತ್ವದ ವಿಷಯ ಮಾತನಾದಬೇಕಾಗಿದೆ. ನನಗೆ ಕೊನೆಗೂ ರಂಗಜ್ಜನ  ಕೊಲೆ ಯಾರು ಮಾಡಿರಬಹುದೆಂಬುದು ತಿಳಿಯಲ್ಪಟ್ಟಿದೆ", ಎಂದು ಶುರು ಮಾಡಿದ.

"ಏನ್ ಮಾತಾಡ್ತಾಯಿದ್ದಿಯಪ್ಪ  ? ರಂಗಜ್ಜ ಕೊಲೆ ಅದನೆ? ಛೆ ಛೆ.. ಅವನು ಸಾಕಿದ ಗೂಳಿ ಅಕಸ್ಮಾತ್ ಆಗಿ ತಿವಿದು ಆಟ ಮೃತಪಟ್ಟನಲ್ಲವೇ..", ಎಂದರು ಮುಖಂಡರು.

"ನೋಡೋದಿಕ್ಕೆ ಹಾಗೆ ಕಾಣುತ್ತೆ, ಮುಖಂಡರೆ.. ಆದರೆ ಇಗೋ ನೋಡಿ ನನ್ನ ಕೈಯಲ್ಲಿ ಪುರಾವೆ ಇದೆ",  ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿ 'The Da Vinci Code' c.d ಅನ್ನು ಹೊರ ತೆಗೆದ. "ಇದಿರಲ್ಲಿ ಇದೆ, ರಂಗಜ್ಜ ಸಾಯೋ ಮೊದಲು ಹಾಗೆ ಹುಚ್ಚನಂತೆ ಏಕೆ ಕೂಗಿದ ಅಂತ.. ಅವನ ಕೊಲೆ Opus Dei ಅನ್ನೋ ಒಂದು ಗುಂಪಿನ ಸಂಚು. ನೀವೂ ನೋಡಿ ಧಣಿಗಳೇ. ನಿಮಗೆ ತಿಳಿಯುತ್ತೆ."

"ಅದರ ಅವಶ್ಯಕತೆ ಇಲ್ಲ.."

ಮುಖಂಡರ ಮಗ ಗೋವಿಂದ ಅಲ್ಲಿಗೆ ಬಂದ.

"ನೋಡಪ್ಪ.. ಒಂದು ಸಲ ಇದನ್ನು ನೋಡಿದರೆ, ಎಲ್ಲ ಗೊತ್ತಾಗುತ್ತೆ ನಿಮಗೆ..", ಮತ್ತೆ ಶುರು ಮಡಿದ ಮಾದೇಶ..

"ಏಯ್ ಮಾದೇಶ.. ಗೊತ್ತಿಲ್ಲದೇ ಇರುವವನು ನೀನು..", ಕಿಡಿ ಕಾರಿದ ಗೋವಿಂದ. "ರಂಗಜ್ಜನ ಗೂಳಿಯ ಹೆಸರೇನು ಗೊತ್ತೇನು? ಒಂದು Michanangelo, ಮತ್ತೊಂದು Leonardo Da Vinci.. ಆತನನ್ನು ತಿವಿದಿದ್ದು Da Vinci.. Da Vinci ಯ ಕೋಡಿನಿಂದ ತಿವಿದ ವಿಷಯದಲ್ಲಿ ತನ್ನ ಕೊನೆಯ ಕ್ಷಣದಲ್ಲೂ ಸ್ವಾರಸ್ಯ ಕಂಡ ರಂಗಜ್ಜ. ನೀ ಮತ್ತೆ ಏನೋ ಒಂದು ಸುರು ಮಾಡಬೇಡ. ದೊಡ್ಡ ಪತ್ತೇದಾರಿ ಥರ..."

ಮುಖಂಡರು ಎದ್ದು ಒಳ ನಡೆದರು.
ತರ್ಲೆಕುಂಟನಹಳ್ಳಿಯ ಮಹಾನ್ ಪತ್ತೇದಾರಿ ಮಾದೇಶನ ಬಿಟ್ಟ ಬಾಯಿ ಬಿಟ್ಟೇ ಇತ್ತು..

When a science experiment goes wrong

Dr.Raghavan had a lot of reasons to be exited today. Just 8 years after the Large Hadron Collider was commissioned and started its operation at CERN, his team had managed to setup what was only the world's third particle collider under BARC. Today India's own version of 'mini-universe' would begin it's first run with a large congregation of media (from all over the world, of course), eminent scientists, the president of the country, a few other heads of few more states and a political entourage from a friendly African country present as its witness, along with the entire nation glued to television watching the live telecast

He was just leaving the CVR-314 (which was one of the 6 controlling and monitoring areas) and would soon be joining the dignitaries at the DK-7 (the presentation area - specially designed for the occasion), when he saw Dr.Talpade coming in his direction, looking all sweaty and pale.

"Dr.Talpade, what on earth are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at..", began Raghavan when Talpade interjected.

"I'm sorry Dr.Raghavan. I have some very bad news. You see, one of our trial runs went horribly wrong. The controlling systems... They malfunctioned I think. And the acceleration overshot by..", he stammered.

"Dr.Talpade! What is this you're talking of? This simply cannot.."

"Dr.Raghavan, please listen to me. The team, I mean... We botched up. And..", he looked up with hands held together at his chest. "Oh God! I think we created a small rip in the Time-Space continuum.. And the tear is growing wider and wider. And your daughter Dr.Naina has kind of gotten stuck in the warp-hole. We need to get her out, Dr. And we need to evac immediately"

Dr.Raghavan's face went white. This was the biggest shock of his life...

***********************************************************************

Moments later Dr.Raghavan and Dr.Talpade along with the rest of the team were assembled at BHC-PPK-9 and all were listening to Dr.Raghavan talk.

"As I see there is only one way out. We should allow the warp-hole to completely get Naina first. No, listen to me.. I'm not kidding", he was saying seeing the skeptic looks on their faces. "And then, using the synchotron beam, we start sealing the rip in the time-space fabric. The synchotron particles should negate and annhilate the photo-gluons that should be forming along the edges of the tear, thus forming a seal. Well... What are we waiting for? Let's do this together team" he finished.

He then went towards where his daughter lay stuck in a limbo between this world and God-knew-elsewhere. Holding her hands, he said, "Naina. Do not fear. You'll be alright, I promise. I love you my dear.."

"I love you too, Dad", said Naina tearfully as she sank into the other world.

Operation fixup began. The team assembled the synchotron ray gun and powered it up. As soon as it hit 80%, Dr.Raghavan signalled them to take aim.

85%

93%

96%

99%

Zwibbbfffffpppt!! Zreeeenk!! Twoosh!!

The hole was sealed. No sooner did this happen, Dr.Naina popped out of thin air right where she had stood before being sucked up into the warp-hole..

A loud cheer went up in the room. Everyone surrounded the father and daughter pair. A visibly shaken but really relieved Dr.Talpade finally managed to ask the question all had been dying for.

"But Dr.Raghavan, how did you know nothing would happen to your daughter. Wasn't sealing the rip, with your daughter inside very risky?"

Dr.Raghavan replied "It was really simple actually. There was no way my dear daughter was ever in danger. For you know 'a stitch in time saves Nain'a, right?"

How Terminator should have ended

John Connor ducked just in time as the T-X fired two shots into the space which had been occupied by his head just a few micro-seconds ago. As he stepped of the sidewalk onto the road, he had no doubt he was finished today. With no T-101 to protect him, there was no way he was going to survive. It was just a question of when the T-X would catch up with him...

But then, all thought of escaping the T-X were driven out of his mind by the booming horn of a Renault Magnum truck. Once again he fell to his knees, bought his shoulders to the road and pulled his head into his chest and rolled perpendicular to the trucks path. The truck breaked nevertheless. Seizing this opportunity, John quickly got to his feet again, bounded across the remaining part of the street, reached for the fence , grabbing its railings with both hands and leaped across it to land into a basketball court.

This too was empty. As he ran across the empty court, something bounced out of his coat. It was a Colt M1911 .45 caliber. Stumbling he caught it, whipped around and sure enough the T-X was just getting over the fence. He aimed for her head firing of 3 quick shots. They just seemed to richochet of the tough exo-skeleton of that mean machine. Having no choice he made another dash for the gates of the court, across it and again into another pavement and started running east.

"Don't move"

Oh! About time... It was T-101 and he had his bad-ass shotgun with him. John Connor, between the two machines, with both of them having their weapons pointed straight ahead, now at each other.

"Duck", bellowed T-101, and John did. T-101 dropped his shotgun, and ran towards the T-X with his right arm outstretched, index and middle fingers separated in a V-shape and screaming "YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!" The surprised T-X shot at T-101, with one shot missing and another rebounding of his chest. T-101's fingers connected with the eyes of T-X, and she froze. And as John watched the T-X fell to the ground writhing.

"How's that possible?", asked John as he was helped to his feet by T-101. "I shot her in the head, and nothing happened. You did not even use your weapon.."

"That's simple", replied the T-101. "You could have done it too. If you knew that to destroy her, you've got to catch her in the eye"