Pessimism is our favorite hobby when we are feeling low. What starts as a bad day ends up with thoughts of us ending up in the worst possible scenario in life.
But the fact remains is that pessimism is all in your head – and if you control that, you realize that things are not really that bad. If you are feeling bad and down today, here are three stories we wrote for you.
Mr. Biswas v/s Tiwari
“It has been 22 years now. I do not know why we are still pursuing the case?”, Lata said as she adjusted the pallu of her saree.
“Because it is right. If I do not fight for it, who will?”, Ram answered.
“Why don’t you just take the compensation and settle? The money is more than enough for us.”
“It is not about the money. It is about what is right.”
“The kids are tired. The elder one is about to get married. He has seen this all his life.”, Lata fought back.
“You do not stop fighting for what is right just because it has been too long Lata.”
The judge looked at the case in front of him and he sighed. In the 30 years he had practiced law, he had seen enough cases to know that the old man who had lodged a case against his employer was right. He also knew that the employer had a lot of money and that is why the case had languished in paperwork and adjournments for 22 years. Money gets good lawyers. Lawyers win cases, not morals.
He knew that the employer was guilty of unfairly firing Ram Biswas from his company, just because Mr. Biswas pointed out irregularities.
He knew that the trial could go on for another 30 years if the cash drawers of Mr. Biswas’s former employer’s didn’t end.
He knew there was an overwhelming lack of evidence from Mr. Biswas’s side. He was representing himself. He had no lawyer, no money.
He knew he was facing a dilemma.
How would he go about? Adjourn the court and give another date until another judge comes in? Or grow a pair?
O P Tiwari smirked as he sat in the audience. These court appearances were entertaining. He wanted to laugh every time he looked at Biswas. Pathetic piece of crap. He couldn’t even afford a lawyer. Tiwari giggled, and his neighbor glanced at him. He composed himself and looked at his lawyer. His lawyer was smiling too. Of course, he would smile. He was eating up 40,000 an appearance, that excuse for a lawyer.
It would be worth it. Seeing Biswas down and out when the judge postpones again. He had enough money.
He will celebrate this victory afterward. Biswas. That waste of human life.
The judge cleared his throat.
Oh, any minute now.
O P Tiwari straightened up in his seat confidently, pocketing his phone, smoothing the lapels of his coat.
Ram Biswas kept looking squarely at the judge, with no expression on his face.
The judge made an effort to not look at Mr. Biswas. Looking into eyes that truthful was never comfortable, even for a judge.
“Sometimes we do not find the courage to do what is right, we are, after all, humans and not the personified code of law that everyone assumes. I have examined this case closely, and have come to the conclusion that O P Tiwari is guilty. He wrongfully fired an employee without any valid grounds. And he has engaged in illegal acts which are convincing from the evidence Mr. Biswas has produced.”
“The court proceedings on this case will restart two weeks from now. Court adjourned.”
Lata Biswas screamed and had to be ushered out of the court by lady constables. Ram Biswas calmly gathered his paperwork and walked out of the courtroom, not even once looking at the furious Tiwari who was glaring at him.
Lata hugged him in public outside the court – the first time in their married life.
“It is fine Lata. It was right. Nothing else.”
Last Morning Delivery
Raj whistled tunelessly as he drove his old scooter into the suburbs. The landscape changed suddenly in the early sunrise light. More green, less gray. More open air, more space. Houses instead of buildings and the chirping of birds.
He had his supplies tucked firmly between his feet in a bag. He stopped in front of Mr. Sharma’s house, and took out a newspaper and put a piece of candy inside it and kept it outside their door. He walked back to his scooter hurriedly. Dawn was slowly turning into morning, and soon people will be awake, even though it was a Sunday.
He drove to the next house of Joshi and kept movie tickets to a superhit inside the newspaper.
He removed a list and ticked Joshi and Sharma off the list. Only two houses left. Patharkar and Sen. Both good people. He rattled through the streets, past the houses with their curtains closed. He stopped again in front of Patharkar’s place and placed a packet of his favorite tamarind candies.
In the next house, he puts in a fountain pen Sen loves.
Then Raj exhaled. This was the last newspaper he had delivered.
He had delivered newspapers all his life. He had spent the last month’s salary to buy these gifts. He knew everyone in the suburbs, and not just “know” know, like today’s time. He knew them.
And when he turned to walk to his rattling scooter again, to drive into retirement in the home he lived alone in, he will miss delivering newspapers. But now was the time to park his scooter for good.
And as he took the scooter off the main stand, he saw Mr. Sen come out of the house and pick up the newspaper.
Raj accelerated away before he could hear the plop of the fountain pen falling into Mr. Sen’s hands. But not before he felt the warm joy of a satisfied customer crinkling open a crisp copy of a newspaper he had just delivered.
Decency
It was 3 am in the morning – too late for bed and too early to wake up. Kiran Malhotra sat in front of her computer staring at the mail she was replying to.
“You are such a bitch Kiran. You have gotten in the industry because of you big boobs, nothing else. You whore. How many directors did you fuck to get your first award?”
She replied – “I did not sleep to the place I am today. I really worked hard to be where I am, although I think that even if you played my life back as a movie, you will still be not convinced that I did. Thank you for writing to me. Have a great day.”
This was the 42nd mail she had replied to. All of them were indecent and derogated her. But she had a tradition – she replied to all the emails she received – personally. No PR. No agent. No assistant. People outside did not know this – that she replied to all their emails personally. She turned her swivel grande armchair around to look at the shelf behind her.
She had won all the awards they had to give, even a National Award. But she still did not know what she had to do to earn the love of the public. They did shout and scream like fans do when she attended events, but the inbox to her email spoke the contrary and she did not understand the vast difference between the two mediums.
Not once had she received a good email, not even a neutral one. Not once had she been not objectified and treated like trash. But she did not give up and she will not give up now either. She had decided long ago that she will reply to all the emails, before she had her stardom and she did, even now, living in a plush house that was bigger than most celebrity homes.
She swiveled and faced the computer again. She oddly did not feel sleepy at this hour at all. She still had a lot of emails to go and clicked on the next unread one.
“I wanna fak you hot girl.”.
That’s it. Nothing else.
“That is not going to happen. But thank you for writing to me.”
And the next one, and the next one, until, suddenly, she came across a mail that did not have the words bi*ch, whor*, c*nt in the first sentence.
“Really loved your performance in your last film ma’am. I hope you continue your good work.”
And for once, Kiran did not know what to type as a reply.