Two women from Gujarat have just started to sell handicrafts at a traffic signal in Mumbai. The established system at this traffic signal is that everyone pays the man in charge a fixed amount every week. The man sends this money to the mafia which ensures that the peddlers, beggars and everyone else are protected from the police, municipality and the legal framework.
All three of them, the women and the man in charge, are sitting and discussing the terms and conditions.
“Everyone pays, weekly.”
“How much?” The elder of the two asks him, with partially veiled consternation.
“Peddlers selling small items like flowers etc. pay Rs. 50. You’re selling large handicrafts, dupattas, outfits and the like. For peddlers like you the rent is Rs. 80. Weekly.”
They appear taken aback.
“But ... we have to pay rent to our landlord.”
“And the raw materials costs us a pretty fortune”, murmurs the younger of the two, her clear face lined with worry.
The chap sitting to the right of the man in charge pats the man in charge on the shoulder.
“Let it go.”
“You let it go. I need the money.”
He looks back at the two women.
“Alright, pay Rs. 60 for the first two weeks till you settle in. After that it will be Rs. 80, like everyone else.”
A few days later, the eldest of the two women, who is incidentally rather good looking, walks up, with her sister, to the man in charge, and hands him a package. As he makes to open it,
“Not here. Open it later.”
“Why? Does it contain a bomb?”
“Its a gift. You allowed us two weeks of relief. We just wanted to thank you.”
Later that day, the two women are sitting and talking.
“How much did that gift cost you?” asks the younger of the two women.
“Its a traditional Gujjar outfit. I guess we would have gotten Rs. 200 for it.”
“So we earned ... ummm ... Rs. 20 per day for two weeks. Thats ... ummm ... Rs. 280!”
Her elder sister seemed unconcerned with all the mental maths.
“And we spent Rs. 200. That's not too bad”, continued the younger sister. “But, we needn’t have given the gift at all. Pure expenditure”, she sighed. “But then,” she said, taking heart again, “we might be offered many such future benefits.”
The elder sister had gotten up and was talking animatedly to a stray cow that had wandered near them.
*
Every time I interact with someone else, someone who’s not me, how am I to know who has benefited more from the interaction. Perhaps, out of a deluded sense of love and affection, I compromised more that I needed to. Perhaps I was taken advantage of. Or even if I think I got the upper hand, how do I know that I wasn’t wasting my time. I might have interacted with someone else much more profitably. Thoughts like these are bound to make you go mad. Or at the very least turn you into one of those shifty, cagey characters, always on the defensive and worried every second of the day.
But introduce money and the problem disappears. Now, each interaction can be measured using the lowest common denominator. Everyone’s content. Even the person who made lesser money. For he has something to work towards. An aim he can define to himself, and murmur contentedly every time he does something that gets him closer to it.
There can be love, affection and sex. But you won’t get lost in it as long as you remember the bottom line. Everything can be traded for money. And everyone wants money. All interactions can be clinically analysed (clinically, because it won’t matter who is analysing it, the results will be the same).
But that's not what I think. Obviously. I think that money just creates an illusion. For money is paper and not directly tradeable for happiness or anything else that I value (its much harder because I’m not even properly aware of what I value). So even if I paid more money than I think I will receive, I might have gotten something else instead. And so the problem persists and festers. Meanwhile, I think I’ll go join the girl and the cow.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Friday, September 7, 2007
The fast and the furious - bus adda circuit
I had walked a couple of kilometres in that lightly foggy night. It was quite late, about three, but morning was still far enough for the night to feel like night. Warm yellow lights shone from distant houses, slanting through the air, exuding not brightness but a feeling of sleepy contentment.
I sat comfortably, in the warmth of my jacket and muffler, on a long wooden bench, leaning against the reinforced glass of the shuttered metro entrance. The tea maker stood behind his portable workstation, boiling tea, leaning forward, at times, to add sugar, and sometimes, to add tea. The chap in charge of distribution was smoking a cigarette, the smoke pouring through his nostrils each time he released heavily, and was talking about the weather.
“Winter isn’t anywhere as cold as it was last year.”
I was about to agree, but remembered that it had become quite cold the last couple of days.
“It hasn’t snowed up there in Simla and Manali. That’s the reason”, he continued.
“It’s windy this time so it’s hard to compare”, said a small boy, who was washing empty tea glasses in a nearby bucket. He washed them, continously, glass after glass, the cold air closing in around him, although he hardly noticed. The tea maker would turn towards him routinely and add a dollop of hot water to the bucket.
“Its colder when its windy”, said the distributer. “So, even if it is windier this winter, that still doesn’t change the fact that the winter this year is warmer.”
The tea maker looked up. “You know, the rain does make it colder, much colder.”
“If it had rained, we would all have frozen!’ I added, furthering the fruitless vein the conversation had taken.
“All I’m saying is that had if it snowed up there in Manali", the distributor was a hard man to knock off his stride, "it would have been helluva colder here. In any country if it snows in one place, it become colder everywhere else.”
There was a pause in the conversation. The tea seller bent down and stirred the tea, his face glowing red from the stove. The only sound, moving softly through the stillness, was of water spashing against the bucket.
“Happy new year”, said the distributer to the tea maker.
“Happy new year”, repeated the distributor.
“Happy new year” said the small boy, crouching next to the bucket, not looking up.
I realised then, that it had been new year’s eve. I don't know how I could have forgotten. It was a huge occasion and my friends, I knew, must be partying like crazy. People generally start making plans for this night days in advance, trying to line up at least two or three parties, so they can usher in the new year in style. Drinking, dancing, going wild.
Somewhere in the darkness, he was stirring his tea slowly, content not to concern himself with anything else . The small boy crouched quietly, washing glasses. The distributer was munching on a piece of bread, he dipped it occasionally in his tea.
I sat comfortably, in the warmth of my jacket and muffler, on a long wooden bench, leaning against the reinforced glass of the shuttered metro entrance. The tea maker stood behind his portable workstation, boiling tea, leaning forward, at times, to add sugar, and sometimes, to add tea. The chap in charge of distribution was smoking a cigarette, the smoke pouring through his nostrils each time he released heavily, and was talking about the weather.
“Winter isn’t anywhere as cold as it was last year.”
I was about to agree, but remembered that it had become quite cold the last couple of days.
“It hasn’t snowed up there in Simla and Manali. That’s the reason”, he continued.
“It’s windy this time so it’s hard to compare”, said a small boy, who was washing empty tea glasses in a nearby bucket. He washed them, continously, glass after glass, the cold air closing in around him, although he hardly noticed. The tea maker would turn towards him routinely and add a dollop of hot water to the bucket.
“Its colder when its windy”, said the distributer. “So, even if it is windier this winter, that still doesn’t change the fact that the winter this year is warmer.”
The tea maker looked up. “You know, the rain does make it colder, much colder.”
“If it had rained, we would all have frozen!’ I added, furthering the fruitless vein the conversation had taken.
“All I’m saying is that had if it snowed up there in Manali", the distributor was a hard man to knock off his stride, "it would have been helluva colder here. In any country if it snows in one place, it become colder everywhere else.”
There was a pause in the conversation. The tea seller bent down and stirred the tea, his face glowing red from the stove. The only sound, moving softly through the stillness, was of water spashing against the bucket.
“Happy new year”, said the distributer to the tea maker.
“Happy new year”, repeated the distributor.
“Happy new year” said the small boy, crouching next to the bucket, not looking up.
I realised then, that it had been new year’s eve. I don't know how I could have forgotten. It was a huge occasion and my friends, I knew, must be partying like crazy. People generally start making plans for this night days in advance, trying to line up at least two or three parties, so they can usher in the new year in style. Drinking, dancing, going wild.
Somewhere in the darkness, he was stirring his tea slowly, content not to concern himself with anything else . The small boy crouched quietly, washing glasses. The distributer was munching on a piece of bread, he dipped it occasionally in his tea.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
Ignore, and they shall go
Guns are violent things aren’t they?
BAM!
The loud, destructive noise fills your brain with fear and paranoia. The echo doesn’t seem to die. The mind feels sick. It sees blood, pain and distrust.
A guy is standing in his room, having a quiet conversation with his thoughts. Some of the ugly thoughts, ones he’d rather not think, have appointed a lawer to speak on their behalf.
‘Think of that gunshot. That is how you kill us! That is how violent you are becoming!’
And he starts thinking about how he has always despised guns, how he has always thought they should be outlawed. The terrible, unwanton and unthinking destruction they cause. Guns. They ... Slowly, his mind begins to wander. He thinks about how abruptly they kill. Not a slow, torturous, drawn out death, with the nagging worry of reprisal, but quick! BAM! and goes the thing you didn’t want.
The ugly thoughts are saying,
‘You should ...’
End of scene. (No dialogue)
BAM!
The loud, destructive noise fills your brain with fear and paranoia. The echo doesn’t seem to die. The mind feels sick. It sees blood, pain and distrust.
A guy is standing in his room, having a quiet conversation with his thoughts. Some of the ugly thoughts, ones he’d rather not think, have appointed a lawer to speak on their behalf.
‘Think of that gunshot. That is how you kill us! That is how violent you are becoming!’
And he starts thinking about how he has always despised guns, how he has always thought they should be outlawed. The terrible, unwanton and unthinking destruction they cause. Guns. They ... Slowly, his mind begins to wander. He thinks about how abruptly they kill. Not a slow, torturous, drawn out death, with the nagging worry of reprisal, but quick! BAM! and goes the thing you didn’t want.
The ugly thoughts are saying,
‘You should ...’
End of scene. (No dialogue)
Sunday, July 8, 2007
A tribute
Twenty three years ago, this world never existed. And then it was created from a singular mind, mine. All the unhappiness, hapiness is my creation and I apologise to everyone who complains. But I’m not God and I did the best I could. I’m sorry about the technological advances that unimprove our lives, the rules that I needed to feel safe, the murders and the deaths and the people they leave behind. I’m sorry about flashy, hard movies like the matrix. Perhaps it would have been easier if life had been a little softer, if emotions lingered forever. If biting into an apple was all it took. If we never had to wake up to the harsh realities, just sleep a bit longer.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Must have been a dream
She placed a teacup on the table.
“The bottom half is wet and the top is dry, this is as different as it’s going to get.”
He stared at her suspiciously. “Could you please repeat that,” he said with consternation.
He had heard of her reputation as a magician who people came to for help. He was there only to unveil her as a trickster. But he hadn’t counted on her ignoring him up till now and that in the few seconds she would give him, she would offer him something to drink with a rhyme. He had already been told to pay attention. At that moment he had promised to himself that he would do everything very carefully.
“Could you please repeat that”, he said urgently, but he knew he would not get any more attention. With the others all staring at him, he picked up the tea cup and drank the strange concoction.
He didn’t feel any different. Although as he looked around he realised for the first time that the layout of the house resembled his grandmother’s. In fact it was exactly like his grandmother’s house.
He went down the narrow corridor that separated the sitting room from the sleeping quarters. He knew the corridor ended in three adjacent rooms with one right at the end and two others on either side. As he walked down from the sitting room and reached the other end, he heard noises coming from the room on the left, where his grandmother’s room would have been had he been in her house.
The door was open and without a thought in the direction of privacy, he entered. He saw his uncle, that is his mother’s sister’s husband, standing on the near side of the room talking and exclaiming loudly. Strangely enough, probably because of the familiar architecture, he didn’t find his uncle’s presence strange. But what seemed out of the picture was to see him so excited.
His uncle was normally very reserved and had a quiet dignity about him. He seemed to know all the facts there were to know, from how a particular road got it’s name to where you would get the best apples in town. He had been a heart surgeon for over twenty five years and held several other specialisations. So to see him standing there, hair askew and waving and shouting animatedly came as a shock. But it was nothing compared to what he saw when he looked towards the far side of the room to see who his uncle was talking to.
His grandfather was a quiet man. He would walk around the house and conform to his set habits. He was over eighty five years and at the age of seventy, had received a severe injury to both his legs. At that age, what with oncoming arthritis and the drastic weakening of bones, this could be extremely crippling. But little by little, he had hobbled till he could walk short distances without pain.
But his grandfather's quiet exterior never seemed to be his real self. He had heard, from his mother, that at a younger age his grandfather had been very mischievous, always trying to pit one person against another and then watching the proceedings with great enjoyment. He was very well read and although you wouldn’t ever see him studiously pouring over papers and magazines, was quite well informed. This, his grandson, had only recently discovered. His grandfather would stay in the background, always. But when he had stayed at his grandparents for a month, his grandfather had engaged him in conversations about his future. And they weren’t the usual conversations which involve the elder person giving thoughtful advice.
He would sit at times on the terrace in the evenings, watching the road, the large park on the other side of the road and the tall buildings that surrounded his grandparent’s house with their innumerable flats and balconies where people would hang out their washing. As it grew darker, he would derive great pleasure from looking at the distant windows through which lights would shine through and would imagine the kind of life and tasks that the inhabitants inside were doing.
Also in the evenings, his grandfather would come up to the terrace to feed the birds, water the potted plants and in general to get fresh air. At such times, his grandfather, while circling the terrace with his short steps would lean towards him and engage him in a rare conversation.
This is a scene from one of those evenings. Before this evening, his grandfather had already ascertained what his grandson planned to do in the future and why he was making those choices. He had done so by quietly inquiring and upon receiving answers he had walked away. He had told his grandfather about his interest in human resources. He had to choose an institute to study the course and had narrowed down that decision to two choices. After diligent research he had found that TISS was more office oriented and the other, XLRI was more blue collared human resources.
“You see him,” his grandfather said, gesturing down at the road from the two storeyed building at the chap selling fruits down by the road.
He peered down in the pointed direction.
“A person coached in TISS would feel sympathy for him and go out of his way to purchase extra fruits.” He paused to smile quietly. “Whereas a student from XLRI would go up to him and give him advice on how to grow his position and make more money.”
That was the kind of advice he would give.
As his gaze shifted from his uncle to the far side of the room, he saw his grandfather standing there in his weak frail posture dressed in his usual baggy nightsuit. But that was where the resemblance to his usual self ended.
He was hopping excitedly, first on one foot, then on another, shouting loudly. He had a look of astonished pleasure on his face. Then he spotted his grandson and spoke while gesturing with wild abandon,
“I can see music. Each chord, each strain pulling the strings of my heart. I can see music.”
His grandson nodded knowingly, his heart bursting and he didn’t know why nor cared to find out why. Music, you could feel it, sense it.
His grandfather was still chattering loudly with his uncle. As he looked at him, his grandfather turned towards him . His excitement was unabated, unfettered. He shouted, free as a bird,
“Sometimes it’s a marsh, sometimes it’s a lake, sometimes it looks like small wooden sticks.”
This caught him off guard for he had never seen it like that himself. But he didn’t want to talk about how he saw music, to compare and edify his grandfather along the direction his own thoughts had only recently taken him. He just felt glad and free and thought slightly enviously about the magician who had created such a place. He gazed once more at the raggedy stick like figure of his grandfather, shouting and beaming, and felt his smile widen.
“The bottom half is wet and the top is dry, this is as different as it’s going to get.”
He stared at her suspiciously. “Could you please repeat that,” he said with consternation.
He had heard of her reputation as a magician who people came to for help. He was there only to unveil her as a trickster. But he hadn’t counted on her ignoring him up till now and that in the few seconds she would give him, she would offer him something to drink with a rhyme. He had already been told to pay attention. At that moment he had promised to himself that he would do everything very carefully.
“Could you please repeat that”, he said urgently, but he knew he would not get any more attention. With the others all staring at him, he picked up the tea cup and drank the strange concoction.
He didn’t feel any different. Although as he looked around he realised for the first time that the layout of the house resembled his grandmother’s. In fact it was exactly like his grandmother’s house.
He went down the narrow corridor that separated the sitting room from the sleeping quarters. He knew the corridor ended in three adjacent rooms with one right at the end and two others on either side. As he walked down from the sitting room and reached the other end, he heard noises coming from the room on the left, where his grandmother’s room would have been had he been in her house.
The door was open and without a thought in the direction of privacy, he entered. He saw his uncle, that is his mother’s sister’s husband, standing on the near side of the room talking and exclaiming loudly. Strangely enough, probably because of the familiar architecture, he didn’t find his uncle’s presence strange. But what seemed out of the picture was to see him so excited.
His uncle was normally very reserved and had a quiet dignity about him. He seemed to know all the facts there were to know, from how a particular road got it’s name to where you would get the best apples in town. He had been a heart surgeon for over twenty five years and held several other specialisations. So to see him standing there, hair askew and waving and shouting animatedly came as a shock. But it was nothing compared to what he saw when he looked towards the far side of the room to see who his uncle was talking to.
His grandfather was a quiet man. He would walk around the house and conform to his set habits. He was over eighty five years and at the age of seventy, had received a severe injury to both his legs. At that age, what with oncoming arthritis and the drastic weakening of bones, this could be extremely crippling. But little by little, he had hobbled till he could walk short distances without pain.
But his grandfather's quiet exterior never seemed to be his real self. He had heard, from his mother, that at a younger age his grandfather had been very mischievous, always trying to pit one person against another and then watching the proceedings with great enjoyment. He was very well read and although you wouldn’t ever see him studiously pouring over papers and magazines, was quite well informed. This, his grandson, had only recently discovered. His grandfather would stay in the background, always. But when he had stayed at his grandparents for a month, his grandfather had engaged him in conversations about his future. And they weren’t the usual conversations which involve the elder person giving thoughtful advice.
He would sit at times on the terrace in the evenings, watching the road, the large park on the other side of the road and the tall buildings that surrounded his grandparent’s house with their innumerable flats and balconies where people would hang out their washing. As it grew darker, he would derive great pleasure from looking at the distant windows through which lights would shine through and would imagine the kind of life and tasks that the inhabitants inside were doing.
Also in the evenings, his grandfather would come up to the terrace to feed the birds, water the potted plants and in general to get fresh air. At such times, his grandfather, while circling the terrace with his short steps would lean towards him and engage him in a rare conversation.
This is a scene from one of those evenings. Before this evening, his grandfather had already ascertained what his grandson planned to do in the future and why he was making those choices. He had done so by quietly inquiring and upon receiving answers he had walked away. He had told his grandfather about his interest in human resources. He had to choose an institute to study the course and had narrowed down that decision to two choices. After diligent research he had found that TISS was more office oriented and the other, XLRI was more blue collared human resources.
“You see him,” his grandfather said, gesturing down at the road from the two storeyed building at the chap selling fruits down by the road.
He peered down in the pointed direction.
“A person coached in TISS would feel sympathy for him and go out of his way to purchase extra fruits.” He paused to smile quietly. “Whereas a student from XLRI would go up to him and give him advice on how to grow his position and make more money.”
That was the kind of advice he would give.
As his gaze shifted from his uncle to the far side of the room, he saw his grandfather standing there in his weak frail posture dressed in his usual baggy nightsuit. But that was where the resemblance to his usual self ended.
He was hopping excitedly, first on one foot, then on another, shouting loudly. He had a look of astonished pleasure on his face. Then he spotted his grandson and spoke while gesturing with wild abandon,
“I can see music. Each chord, each strain pulling the strings of my heart. I can see music.”
His grandson nodded knowingly, his heart bursting and he didn’t know why nor cared to find out why. Music, you could feel it, sense it.
His grandfather was still chattering loudly with his uncle. As he looked at him, his grandfather turned towards him . His excitement was unabated, unfettered. He shouted, free as a bird,
“Sometimes it’s a marsh, sometimes it’s a lake, sometimes it looks like small wooden sticks.”
This caught him off guard for he had never seen it like that himself. But he didn’t want to talk about how he saw music, to compare and edify his grandfather along the direction his own thoughts had only recently taken him. He just felt glad and free and thought slightly enviously about the magician who had created such a place. He gazed once more at the raggedy stick like figure of his grandfather, shouting and beaming, and felt his smile widen.
The fountain
It was a hot day, even in the huge parks that surrounded India Gate. But on occasion, a cool wind would blow. He followed the wind and reached a huge fountain, spraying soft water hither tither. He looked at the fountain, massive, a lake extended around its fountainhead. Really, people were boating in the fountain!
As he glanced at the fountainhead in the centre, envious of the water drenched air around it, he saw two guys, standing barefoot at its base. Now the only visible way of getting there were a few blocks of stone, placed from the circumference to the centre of the lake and these were really too far apart to serve any purpose apart from questionable decoration. He started to look around for another path when he saw that the two guys were now standing amongst these 'uncrossable' stone steps. He looked at the steps again. This time he realised that they weren't all that far apart. It was just that the first stone that would launch you on your journey to the fountainhead was too far away from the edge of the circumference. And a jump to the slippery, flat, small first stone would result in an instant dip. Yet there they were, their pants rolled up to their calves. And they were as pleased as punch. They were now exploring the fountainhead, looking for a way to climb it.
As he sat there and watched, he realised how the fountainhead had been breached. Somewhere in the murky depths of the lake, lay a few more stones, bridging the gap between the edge and the first stone. But the realisation had come from an altogether very common medium, watching...
A young man was pulling two women towards the stone steps. The first, in a blue dress, was laughing and was looking at female companion with an expression that asked, "Are we crazy?" Still, she was walking along in the persuaded direction quite readily. She pushed her foot in cautiously, finding the sunken stones. But then she had watched the guy, who was now persuading her, do it easily enough. And even though she had watched him out of the corner of her eye, and she had been laughing and talking with her friend while she was 'watching' him, she pushed down fearlessly. The stone was deeper, deeper than both she and the guy watching them had assumed and he watched her slide in, clinging to her friend's arm as she fell and landed with an unpleasant bump, her dress wet to the waist.
He smiled. He looked away. Then after a few minutes, he looked back. She had decided to stay this side of the water. She was sitting at the edge of the edge of the lake with her friend, content, soaking her already wet legs, as they chatted.
They were having a competition. They had come quickly and loudly as teenagers usually do and were standing at the edge. He sat and watched as the first one sprang through the air, shoes and everything, landed awkwardly on the first step, pushed himself forward and continued running till he had crossed all the stones and rested safely and proudly at the centre. He waved. The next one jumped, tried to stop himself immediately after he landed and had to hug the narrow stone floor to stay on it. The next one to follow was confident after his friend's successes, jumped well short of the first stone and landed in the lake, trousers and all. No one followed.
He got up and pushed in his earphones firmly. He stood amongst the teenagers, bent down and tightened his shoelace. The guys at the centre all came on to the steps to watch. The crowd around the lake closed in. They cheered and clapped as they waited anxiously for him to fall. He had worked hard to convince himself that he would be falling in deliciously cold water if he missed, as it seemed he might, and the laughter of the crowd and the kid who had only recently sat next to him and who he had mercilessly lectured would roll off his back. He ignored the salivating crowd, the cameras aimed at him in order to capture the moment for later humourous family conversations, the voice which had only recently been solidly against the idea that now told him to at least think about it for a second before fell like an idiot. He took a few light steps, and jumped
As he glanced at the fountainhead in the centre, envious of the water drenched air around it, he saw two guys, standing barefoot at its base. Now the only visible way of getting there were a few blocks of stone, placed from the circumference to the centre of the lake and these were really too far apart to serve any purpose apart from questionable decoration. He started to look around for another path when he saw that the two guys were now standing amongst these 'uncrossable' stone steps. He looked at the steps again. This time he realised that they weren't all that far apart. It was just that the first stone that would launch you on your journey to the fountainhead was too far away from the edge of the circumference. And a jump to the slippery, flat, small first stone would result in an instant dip. Yet there they were, their pants rolled up to their calves. And they were as pleased as punch. They were now exploring the fountainhead, looking for a way to climb it.
As he sat there and watched, he realised how the fountainhead had been breached. Somewhere in the murky depths of the lake, lay a few more stones, bridging the gap between the edge and the first stone. But the realisation had come from an altogether very common medium, watching...
A young man was pulling two women towards the stone steps. The first, in a blue dress, was laughing and was looking at female companion with an expression that asked, "Are we crazy?" Still, she was walking along in the persuaded direction quite readily. She pushed her foot in cautiously, finding the sunken stones. But then she had watched the guy, who was now persuading her, do it easily enough. And even though she had watched him out of the corner of her eye, and she had been laughing and talking with her friend while she was 'watching' him, she pushed down fearlessly. The stone was deeper, deeper than both she and the guy watching them had assumed and he watched her slide in, clinging to her friend's arm as she fell and landed with an unpleasant bump, her dress wet to the waist.
He smiled. He looked away. Then after a few minutes, he looked back. She had decided to stay this side of the water. She was sitting at the edge of the edge of the lake with her friend, content, soaking her already wet legs, as they chatted.
They were having a competition. They had come quickly and loudly as teenagers usually do and were standing at the edge. He sat and watched as the first one sprang through the air, shoes and everything, landed awkwardly on the first step, pushed himself forward and continued running till he had crossed all the stones and rested safely and proudly at the centre. He waved. The next one jumped, tried to stop himself immediately after he landed and had to hug the narrow stone floor to stay on it. The next one to follow was confident after his friend's successes, jumped well short of the first stone and landed in the lake, trousers and all. No one followed.
He got up and pushed in his earphones firmly. He stood amongst the teenagers, bent down and tightened his shoelace. The guys at the centre all came on to the steps to watch. The crowd around the lake closed in. They cheered and clapped as they waited anxiously for him to fall. He had worked hard to convince himself that he would be falling in deliciously cold water if he missed, as it seemed he might, and the laughter of the crowd and the kid who had only recently sat next to him and who he had mercilessly lectured would roll off his back. He ignored the salivating crowd, the cameras aimed at him in order to capture the moment for later humourous family conversations, the voice which had only recently been solidly against the idea that now told him to at least think about it for a second before fell like an idiot. He took a few light steps, and jumped
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