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chrisk's (chrisk on UKA) UKArchive
52 Archived submissions found.
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A Chilling True Story (posted on: 08-03-10)
I thought I better start writing after a long absence. The part of the brain which growled and went to sleep in one corner of my brain, just woke up and am trying to feed it. This is based on a joke from Soman, my cousin who used to make me sleep by telling me bed time stories when I was very young. That now puts him in the 'ancient' category. Sorry, bro! (He is a member here). This is a new one from him told to me when I visited him in Kerala, India, last year.

A Chilling True Story ( thought I give it an old fashioned title!) A guy was driving from Mumbai to Pune in India and decided not to take the highway as he wanted to see the scenery of the country side. The inevitable happens when he reaches the Western Ghats (Mountainous area). His car breaks down; he is stranded miles from nowhere. Having no choice he gets out of the car and starts walking by the side of the road hoping to get a lift to the nearest town. It is dark, and it is raining, and pretty soon he is wet and cold. The night rolls on and no car goes by, the rain is now so heavy he can hardly see a foot ahead of him. Suddenly he sees a car coming towards him. It slows down and stops next to him and without thinking the guy opens the door and jumps in. He is now sitting in the back and leans forward to thank the person who had saved him but then suddenly realises that there is no one behind the wheel. There is no one in the front, and no sound of an engine but the car starts moving slowly The guy looks ahead at the road and there is a curve coming. Scared almost to death he starts praying to all the Hindu Gods for his life when just before he hits the curve, a hand appears through the window and moves the steering wheel and the car makes the curve safely. It continues to the next bend and every time at the last moment the hand appears and steadies the wheel just enough for the car to make the bend safely. He is now scared shitless. Finally the guy sees lights ahead. Gathering courage he wrenches open the door of the silent slowly moving car, scrambles out and runs as fast as he can, towards the lights. It is a small town and he stumbles into a small cafe, asks for a drink and completely breaks down. Then he starts talking about the horrible experience he has just been through. There is dead silence in the cafe when he stops talking............... .......and that's when brothers Mohan and Krishna walk into the cafe. Krishna points to the man and says, 'Look Mohan , that's the weird guy who got into our car when we were pushing it!'
Archived comments for A Chilling True Story
e-griff on 08-03-2010
A Chilling True Story
Har-har! 🙂

Author's Reply:
JohnG
Thanks. Was nervous when I posted it.

sunken on 09-03-2010
A Chilling True Story
Hello Mr. Chrisk. I had no idea you were related to Soman. He's a nice fella. Enjoyed the story and must admit, it had me fooled right to the end. Ok, I am easilly fooled, but still, I think others will be too. Well done and no mistake.

s
u
n
k
e
n

prepare for lift off in 5, 4, 3, 2... Hang on - Did you pack a flask?

Author's Reply:
Soman? Have known him all my life! Wasn't a nice man when I was staying with him in Calcutta, West Bengal. He would sit in a cafe, drink beer, wouldn't offer me, said I was too young. I was 21!

Thank you for your kind comments, better get back to writing some more!

chrissy on 09-03-2010
A Chilling True Story
This was very funny.
Thought I noticed one little thing 'he can hardly see a feet ahead of him.' but it didn't spoil it.
You say you've started writing again, good and welcome back.
chrissy

Author's Reply:
Thank you Chrissy. I have corrected it, and a few other mistakes! I will try and write on a regular basis.

RedKite on 09-03-2010
A Chilling True Story
Liked this a lot and well spun my friend Daniel

Author's Reply:
Hi Redkite,
My grateful thanks to you. I feel good that the story is being appreciated.

soman on 10-03-2010
A Chilling True Story
Up to your old tricks again, eh chrisk - pinching my things like pen and notebook behind my back when you were 4. Dont worry, I shall be prepared with the old cane for old times' sake, when you come calling again next winter.

Frankly though, I'm glad you aired it, it would never have occurred to me.

Soman



Author's Reply:
Dear Cousin,
I know this has touched a very delicate, sensitive part of your anatomy!
Now everyone knows what a meany you were , Lol.!

ish on 11-03-2010
A Chilling True Story
Enjoyed the joke, Ha-ha-ha.

But surely driving with only one hand on the wheel is dangerous!

Ian

Author's Reply:
Ya, Ish, the question is what is he doing with the other hand? Lol


Synopsis of an Indian Movie (posted on: 11-07-08)
Hi Guys and Dolls, I know its been a couple of years. This is based on an e mail sent to me by a friend in India. Any similarities to any living actor is intended!

Synopsis of an Indian movie By C R Krishnan Kundi Vijay has a brain tumour which, according to the doctors can't be cured and his death is imminent. In one of the fights, our great Kundi is shot in the head. To everybody's surprise, the bullet passes through his ears taking away the tumour along with it and he is cured! Long Live Kundi Vijay Kundi is confronted with three gangsters. Kundi has a gun but unfortunately only one bullet and a knife. Guess, what he does? He throws the knife towards the middle of the gangsters, shoots the bullet towards the knife The knife cuts the bullet into two pieces, which kills both the gangsters on each side of the middle gangster and the knife kills the middle one. A gangster chases Kundi. Kundi has a revolver but no bullets in it. Guess, what he does. Nah? Not even in your remotest imaginations! He waits for the gangster to shoot. As soon as the gangster shoots, Kundi Vijay opens the bullet compartment of his revolver and catches the bullet. Then, he closes the bullet compartment and fires his gun. Bang... the gangster dies... The 'climax' finally arrives. Kundi Vijayan, our hero gets to know that the villain is on the other side of a very high wall. So high that Kundi can't jump even if he tries like one of those superman techniques that our heroes normally use. He has to desperately kill the villain because it's the climax. Kundi suddenly pulls two guns from his pockets. He throws one gun in the air and when the gun has reached above the height of the wall, he uses the second gun and shoots at the trigger of the first gun in air. The first gun fires off and the villain is dead. In between all these scenes he meets a girl and sings and dances in the garden and hills. He goes boating horse riding, helicopter flying, jumping from a plane without a parachute and lands safely etc.,. In the last scene he boards a spacecraft destined for Mars, the only Indian to do this to the great dismay of the Americans and the Russians.
Archived comments for Synopsis of an Indian Movie
e-griff on 11-07-2008
Synopsis of an Indian Movie
*yawns*

typical day for me, buddy ... *preens*

Author's Reply:
Atleast you are safe. I am not sure whats gonna happen to me when I land in India in September.
If this actor finds out that I am talking about him, then I have had it!

sirat on 11-07-2008
Synopsis of an Indian Movie
A cinema of social realism like that is exactly what India needs.

Author's Reply:
James bloody Bond does all these!

niece on 11-07-2008
Synopsis of an Indian Movie
Could imagine the scenes full with the background score and sounds of dishum-dishum...also liked the name of the hero...

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Its my brother in law's name and wife unhappy about it as 'Kundi' in Malayalam can also mean 'arsehole'. Coincidence?

Sunken on 12-07-2008
Synopsis of an Indian Movie
Lol. And don't tell me, not one hair on his head gets outta place during all of his adventures? A very entertaining piece of writing, Mr/Ms. Chrisk.

s
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n
k
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n

i know this pretty rave girl, 3 - pamela anderson, 0

Author's Reply:
Thanks for ur kind comments sunken. But Mr /Ms ?!

delph_ambi on 12-07-2008
Synopsis of an Indian Movie
Haha! Nice one, Krish.

Author's Reply:
Hey, nice to see you. Many thanks for ur kind comments.

Sunken on 13-07-2008
Synopsis of an Indian Movie
Ahem. Oh, I just noticed that your avatar has a moustache. This surely makes you a Mr? Chris can, of course, be female (as in short for Christine). I do apologise Mr. Chris. You are the second person this week who I've sexually realigned. I must pay more attention.
Thank you.

s
u
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k
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shoot to kill, 1 - cup of tea, 4

Author's Reply:

Doughnut on 15-07-2008
Synopsis of an Indian Movie
Yes, Indians are inspirational. I once had a University Dean, called G**h who, in the middle of a day's conference, insisted all the professors do star jumps. He stood on the table to demonstrate. Nice bit o' writin' Chris! Liked it. Doughnut.

Author's Reply:


Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert (posted on: 17-03-06)
This is based on an e -mail I had from a friend in India. Alas, the author of the original idea is unknown. Wherever you are sir/madam, I thank you. India is the country of my birth. I know that unlike many other countries, we are allowed to laugh at ourselves. We also like to speak and write English in our language.

Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert By C R Krishnan I am an older uncle living only with myself in Thrissur, Kerala, India. Having seen your advertisement for marriage purposes I decided to press myself on you and hope you will take me nicely. I am a soiled son from inside Kerala State and I am six foot tall and two inches short. You may think that its very short for a six foot man but don't worry my body is filled out with hardness as because I am working hardly. I am playing hardly also. Especially I like cricket and am a good batter and I am a fast baller too. Whenever I come running in for balling with my balls, other batters start running. Everybody is scared of my rapid balls that bounce a lot, especially when I am running. I am very nice man. I am always laughing loudly at every one. I am jolly brown giant, ho ho ho! I am very gay. Especially ladies, they are saying I am nice and soft when I am near them. I am always giving respect to the ladies. I am always allowing ladies to get on top. That's how nice I am. I am not having any bad habits. I am not drinking and I am not sucking tobacco or anything else. Every morning I am going to the gymkhana and I am pumping like anything. Daily I am pumping and pumping. When you are with me we can pump together. Come and see me and see how much I am pumping all the dumb belles in the gym. I am having a lot of money in my pants and my pants are always open for you. I am such a nice man but still I am living and playing with myself only. What to do? So I am taking things in my own hands every day. That is why I am pressing on you, so that you will come in my house and take my things in your hand. If you are marrying me madam, I am telling you, I will be loving you very hardly every day, in fact, I will stop pumping dumb belles in the gym. If you are not marrying me madam, and not coming to me I will press you and press on you hard until you come. So I am placing my head between your nicely smelling feet and looking up with lots of hope through a jungle of obstacles. It looks very dark and cloudy up there and hope it does not rain on me. I am waiting very badly for your reply and I am stiff with anticipation. Expecting soon. Your future husband, yours and only yours, Kundappan Nair ( call me 'Kundi' -every one else does--meaning arse hole in my language--but who cares, as anything coming out of your mouth must be sweet, my future lovely bride.)
Archived comments for Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
niece on 17-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
I am only thinking that you should not be making fun of your own country cousins sitting in the United Kingdom...if people like you do this, what is becoming of other people from other countries...very badt!
Actually, very good...Chrisk...with a touch of your own genius, you've come out with a masterpiece.
Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Niece
Well atleast an Indian appreciating it is good news. No 'fatwa' on me then? lol

Romany on 17-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
Lol! What a catch! Very cleverly and comically done. Brilliant!
Romany.

Author's Reply:
Romany
Thanks. I added a little spice here and there to make it more interesting for the European lot, thats all.
chrisk

Apolloneia on 17-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
This is hilarious! One of my favourite funny lines (it's full of funny lines by the way) is:
"I am very gay. Especially ladies, they are saying I am nice and soft when I am near them. I am always giving respect to the ladies. I am always allowing ladies to get on top. That’s how nice I am."
rofl.
Loved it!
😉
love
nic.

Author's Reply:
Nicoletts
Its sweet of you. Then you always liked my funny stories. Will try and post more like this. I may get murdered in the process, but what the hell , If I am making people like you happy? Thanks for the 9.
Love
chrisk

red-dragon on 17-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
Well, nobody else could probably get away with this, so well done -am I allowed to say it made me smile? I do have several similar examples of 'English' as written by the 'English'! Ann

Author's Reply:
Hi RD
If I can make one person happy then I am rewarded. Why don't you post some of the examples of English written by English? I would love to see some, and many others here, I am sure.
Regards
chrisk

Andrea on 17-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
Oh strewth, oh Gawd...

*wipes away tears of mirth*

Author's Reply:
Andrea
I am pleased to see your comments. If I have made you happy then i am happy.
Love to u
chrisk

shadow on 17-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
This is fantastic. How could I get in touch with this gentleman?

Author's Reply:
You want to touch me madam? I must assure you that i am no gentleman. If you still want to touch me thats your problem.
Well shadow, thanks for liking it.
Regards
chrisk

Jen_Christabel on 18-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
Hilarious Chris, and a ten from me :o)
Jennifer :o)

Author's Reply:
Jen
Thanks a lot for the 10. It was fun writing it. Very rewarding.
Chrisk

Kat on 19-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
Wonderful - thoroughly enjoyed it, chrisk!

Kat :o)

Author's Reply:
Kat
Thanks a lot. Glad you enjoyed it.
Regards
Chrisk

Gerry on 19-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
Chrisk, the last time I was in India I read a quote in the Times. 'my friend is so crooked he could hide in the Shadow of a corkscrew' I just loved reading the way Indians write English--good stuff.


Author's Reply:
Gerry
Lol, thats a good one!
Thanks a lot mate.
chrisk

Jolen on 19-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
LOL. This had me laughing all the way through, but the ending just killed me. I love it!

blessings,
Jolen

Author's Reply:
Jolen
Well, I made it a little bit more spicy, thats all.
Thanks a lot and am pleased that you liked it.

teifii on 21-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
Hilarious. You just made my day and from now on you are likely to be the exception to my reading only poetry here.
Daff

Author's Reply:
teifii
Thats very nice of you, and I am flattered. I wish I could write poems like some people here. Having said that I have a couple of funny ones on the site ( and a sad one),
Regards
chrisk

RDLarson on 22-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
This knocks me out. I use to live in a large Indian population and sometimes US slang made for the most odd problems. One older man put his motor home on "cruise" and went back to be(!) with his wife. They found them minutes later on a rural road in the ditch; no one was hurt but they were both naked. This is great fun. A gentle poke.

Author's Reply:
RDL
Thats very funny, Lol.
I better compile another one then.
I am grateful.
chrisk

chrisk on 22-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
RDL
Thanks for the 10! Wow!
chrisk

Author's Reply:

wfgray on 22-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
I just couldn't stop laughing at this letter. I wonder if there was a reply to this letter. Brilliant

Author's Reply:
Thanks for the 10 my friend. It would be very difficult to follow this, thats the problem.
I will work on a reply.
Regards
chrisk

woodbine on 22-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
Hi Chrisk,
I always enjoy your readings at UKA Live gigs. After this I can't help wondering if you are not Peter Sellars in brown make-up. Very funny.
Nicely done.
John

Author's Reply:
John
Thanks mate. I have enjoyed your readings too.
I remember Peter Sellers in that film with Sophia Loren. Hilarious it was.
Regards
Chrisk

thehaven on 22-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
What can I add to the above.Brilliant .Charlotte has also read it and tears are running down her face and says sorry for not replying to the advert,

Mike

Author's Reply:
Mike mate
Thank you for your kind comments. I am trying to work out a reply but its gonna be tough.
Regards to Charlotte and yourself.
chrisk

soman on 24-03-2006
Reply to an Indian Matrimonial Advert
Man. is it phair phor you to make phun oph us poor Indians?

Iam still crying from lauphing.


Soman

Author's Reply:


THE SNAKES OF PULLOONI (posted on: 06-01-06)
The house In India, now a place for snakes.

THE SNAKES OF PULLOONI By C R Krishnan One of the places I wanted to visit while I was in India this time, was my father's house, 'PULLOONI', the place he was born. I had not been there for some 25 years. It so happened that there was a wedding of one of our clan members and my cousin invited me to join him and his wife together with my friend John Barker from UK, who was staying with me. The venue was not far from the old house. The wedding was a grand affair like most Kerala functions; guests numbering to 300 or more and every one are given food, a feast on banana leaves. John was quite adept at using his fingers and though the food was chilly hot he managed to eat well and ended the lunch with delicious sweet milk pudding. After leaving the function we went to see the house. The sight that greeted us was unbelievable. It was virtually falling apart and the places where we used to play, as children were overgrown with tall grass and stingy nettles, a very suitable abode for cobras and other poisonous snakes. The stairs, bricks and windows were all standing precariously, ready to collapse on any one who ventured to enter. My cousin explained to me that nothing could be done to the house as there were about sixty people who had the right to the land where it stood and they were distributed all over the world. To get every one to sign the document that would enable some one to renovate the place was therefore impossible. I peeped into the room where my father and his siblings were born and the place where we used to play and sleep as kids. The last time I was in that room, it was used to lay the body of my grandmother, which was about to be taken out to be cremated. She had delivered all her seven children in that room! The beautiful shiny floor was now damp and fungus ridden. John was busy taking pictures of what was left and walking about among the overgrown plants. I shouted out to him to be bewaring of snakes and then to my surprise I saw a snake right inside the room and disappearing into a hole on the side of the wall. This reminded me of the last scene in that great film 'Pather Panjali' by Satyajit Ray. An abandoned house now a place for snakes that could kill you within minutes with one bite. The house will eventually be flattened when the government takes it over. However they are reluctant as any one of the sixty people involved may dispute the take over. In any case I am not going that way, ever. By the way I forgot to tell you, my cousin and I, are part of that sixty lot!
Archived comments for THE SNAKES OF PULLOONI
niece on 06-01-2006
THE SNAKES OF PULLOONI
Chrisk,
The old houses of Kerala had a charm of it's own...was this one a "nallu-kettu"? Fortunately I have been able to see a few of them...the last one I saw was my father-in-law's ancestral home which is supposedly haunted by his aunt's ghost. No one lives there anymore, but the house is still there.
Regds,niece

Author's Reply:
Niece
It is a 'Nalu kettu'. For the benefit of our European friends it means there is an open roofless place inside the house , like an indoor garden! That means the house was quite big.

Gerry on 06-01-2006
THE SNAKES OF PULLOONI
Chrisk, a charming little tale. The only snakes I have seen in India were coming out of baskets lol.

Gerry.

Author's Reply:
Gerry
Its okay in the city area, you are quite safe. However overgrown grass, nettles and the like are the places where they come out to look for their prey. They don't attack humans deliberately but then we step on them! Thank you for appreciating my story.
chrisk




thehaven on 07-01-2006
THE SNAKES OF PULLOONI
Descriptive and sad journey down memory lane.

Mike

Author's Reply:
Mike
Thank u mate. It is sad.
chrisk

wfgray on 07-01-2006
THE SNAKES OF PULLOONI
A nice little story.

Author's Reply:
Wfgray
Thank you for appreciating the story.
chrisk

soman on 07-01-2006
THE SNAKES OF PULLOONI
Chrisk,

I find the comparison with Satyajit Rai's great classic film very apt indeed! I too am familiar with the type of mansions you describe, once throbbing with life but now fallen on bad days and left to the mercy of the four winds. A poignant recollection!

Soman

Author's Reply:
Soman
Wish I had a lot of money, you know, like a lottery win or something like that. I would have done something to that house. Certain parts of the building still looked strong. The photos which John took
are amazing. Thanks for the comments and the rating.
chrisk

e-griff on 07-01-2006
THE SNAKES OF PULLOONI
another dose of charm! 🙂 G

Author's Reply:
e-griff
Thanks. May be good for my next book?
chrisk

Romany on 08-01-2006
THE SNAKES OF PULLOONI
Sounds very interesting - quite poignant I imagine, for you. Any chance of you or John subbing a photo, if it's not too personal a thing for you to share that is?

Author's Reply:
Romany
Thanks a lot for your comments.
I can send a few pics of the house to you.
To which e mail?
chrisk

Micky on 08-01-2006
THE SNAKES OF PULLOONI
Nicely done ,chrish
very enjoyable peek

Micky

Author's Reply:
Micky
Thank you. Its straight from my heart.
Grateful for the 9.
Regards
chris

Jen_Christabel on 09-01-2006
THE SNAKES OF PULLOONI
A lovely slice of Indian life - nicely done Chris
Jen :o)

Author's Reply:
Hullo Jen
Thank you.
Lovely but sadly though! I am never going to see that place again. All I have are pics!
Kind regards
Chris

eddiesolo on 14-03-2006
THE SNAKES OF PULLOONI
Hi Chris,

Nice write, enjoyed very much.

Take care.

Si:-)

Author's Reply:
Hi Si
Thanks a lot, sorry about the delay in responding. Sad sight it was though.
Regards
Chris


THE GIRL I ONCE LOVED (posted on: 04-11-05)
Okay, Criticise me hard folks! This is my third attempt at poetry. Well, I am trying hard.

THE GIRL I ONCE LOVED By C R Krishnan The girl I once loved, My ex-girl friend, not wife! Is now looking rather old. I look in the mirror, I see a handsome brute. And I smile and say to the reflection Hey, how could you look so good, Even though you are bald and old, The reflection smiles back, and says 'You are only kidding yourself, you silly old fool.'
Archived comments for THE GIRL I ONCE LOVED
niece on 04-11-2005
THE GIRL I ONCE LOVED
This sounds good, Chrisk! Don't we all keep fooling ourselves into thinking we are what we are not actually. I've stopped depending on the mirror these days...I ask my kids...the result is more or less the same!!!
Regds,niece

Author's Reply:
Niece
Sh......mum is the word!
Was just looking at Baby's photos which I took together with Ian and 'Pazham' Gopi, last year and noticed that she looked old!
Yours confidentially,
chrisk

Claire on 06-11-2005
THE GIRL I ONCE LOVED
I gotta say I love the pic hun!

I ain't that good at critting poetry, but I would suggest getting rid of the brackets, I think they look awful in poetry, but that could be just me...

Otherwise, I love your poem, it surely made me laugh... ;^)

Author's Reply:
Claire
The cartoon pic? E griff did it!

chrisk on 07-11-2005
THE GIRL I ONCE LOVED
Claire
Thank u my love. I am pleased u like it. Getting rid of the brackets now!
chrisk

Author's Reply:

expat on 07-11-2005
THE GIRL I ONCE LOVED
Hi, Chris,
As I've mentioned to others before about non-rhyming poetry: I know nothing about it except what I like.
Well, this one's cool (plus the content applies to me as well).
:^) Steve.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 08-11-2005
THE GIRL I ONCE LOVED
Steve
To tell u the truth I was expecting to be torn apart. To many people here on our site, Poetry is a serious business and I can never be anywhere near them. I am glad u liked it mate.
chrisk

Author's Reply:

soman on 11-11-2005
THE GIRL I ONCE LOVED
Chrisk,

Glad to see you strike off on a new track, i.e. poetry. All the best.

And what better topic than nostalgia (tempered with relief, naturally!) on the numerous "misses" you have gone thru in your life.

Soman

Author's Reply:

eddiesolo on 17-01-2006
THE GIRL I ONCE LOVED
Hi there Chrisk,

To say you don't 'do' poetry its dot bad at all...people also say that I don't 'do' poetry but crap to them what do they know...lol

I would change a few things like: My ex-girl friend, not wife!

I would change to: My girl the ex, no, not the wife

Just to change the line by arranging the words makes it more interesting. You already told is it was your ex so no need to tell us it was your girlfriend, if it was a boyfriend well that's different, a shocker.

Also you have: I look in the mirror
Followed by: I see a handsome brute.

Two 'I's' Just like in storytelling just change one of the 'I's' or loose it all together.

This is a small free form poem that I think would benefit from smaller lines IMO.

Still a nice piece and please feel free to rip mine to bits...I probably deserve it.

All the best.
Si:-)







Author's Reply:

chrisk on 17-01-2006
THE GIRL I ONCE LOVED
Si
Thanks mate. I am not very confident when I write poems, thats the simple truth.
I am always grateful when people comment constructively like you have just done.
Thanks.
Chrisk

Author's Reply:


A USEFUL BODY (posted on: 31-10-05)
The writing part of my brain was asleep until a week ago. Then I was presented with an e mail from 'soman' who in turn was given this by a friend Jayprakash from Kottakal, Kerala, India. I know all about the respect etc., to be shown to the dead. However this is based on a true incident, could be incidents, as there are many Keralites working in the middle east, tens of thousands, in fact. names and places have been changed to avoid a murder, ya mine!

A USEFUL BODY By C R Krishnan A family in Thrissur, a small town in Kerala was very happy (in a sad way) when the coffin of their dead mother arrived from one of the Middle Eastern countries (there are quite a few Keralites working in these regions). When the coffin was opened they found a letter on top of the inner coffin, which of course was hermetically sealed to keep the body fresh. It read as follows: Dear brothers and sisters, 'How are you? How was the Thrissur Pooram? (A Hindu festival). Did it rain as usual? Which temple had the best-decorated elephants? Did they trample on any one? Did any one get blown to pieces during the fireworks display? I am attaching herewith our mother's body as it was her wish that she should be cremated and her ashes immersed in Bharatha Puzha (a river in Kerala) so that she can get to heaven to be with her husband, our father. (I told her that there is no guarantee that father will be there, as its quite possible he could be in the other place!)' Before continuing to read the letter further, the inner coffin was opened which revealed a body tightly packed with many goodies. The letter continued ' Sorry I could not come along as there is going to be a review of the nurses' salary and if I am not here I may not be entitled to it as I will not be able to entertain the Hospital Administrator in my house. He is the one who decides who gets what. He is like an uncle to me and he is always giving me cuddles and tells me that I am his favourite niece. He also kisses me whenever he cuddles me and tells me that I smell very nice especially when I have had a bath using perfumed coconut oil. Well, enough about the uncle.' 'Under mother's body there are 12 packets of cheese, 12 bars of chocolates, some dark and some milk, which you may kindly divide among all of you. Make sure the milk ones are given to Ammu, as it is softer in texture and will not displace her new dentures. On either side of her head there are tins of sainsbury's wild salmon, forget the dents, and the sale by date, as I got it on offer from the shop. The tins in good condition and with the latest dates are very expensive.' 'On mother's feet there are two pairs of trainers (size8) for Raju. There are also on either side of her feet, two more pairs of size 7 and 10 for the other boys. I do hope the sizes fit or I am in shit! Mother is wearing 6 marks & Spencer T shirts. The large size is for Raju and the others for Vijay and Ramu. She is also wearing 6 wonder bras and a dozen or so Tesco panties. Mother is also wearing a couple of incontinent panties not only to protect the items mentioned but also to make sure that she feels comfortable in case she wets herself, or you know what, during the long journey. Just distribute them fairly as I do not want any complaints when I visit you next year.' 'The two jeans, Levis brand seconds, which mother is wearing are for the boys. The legs on the pairs on each of the jeans are of slightly different lengths, what do you expect, as they are seconds slightly imperfect. The local tailor can easily do it for you and please don't ask me any money for the tailor. That's your problem. The watch on mother's left wrist is for uncle Krishnan and the one on the right is for his wife. Its not ladies', so what? She has very thick wrists like a man's. There are also various jewelleries on her ears and ankles and fingers and neck and all these you can take and distribute to any one you like, except Sarojini as she is a bitch. I don't like her as she commented on my hair colouring and said that she could still see some grey hairs. 'The three white and the three coloured socks are for the boys and girls for wearing with their uniform. I have chosen red for Janaky's daughter to match with her green uniform skirt. I am also squeezing on the sides of mothers' body 25 envelopes, which contain letters to my friends. Please do not try and steam it open or anything as it contains nothing but letters. They contain no money, I swear upon Lord Shiva.' 'Since there are no more spaces left, and to make mother comfortable in her journey I am not putting anymore in. You must be happy with what I have sent you and if you still want more, its just tough. It will be a long time before I get to send you another body.' 'Rest in person'. Sharada
Archived comments for A USEFUL BODY
niece on 31-10-2005
A USEFUL BODY
Hey Chrisk,
That's quite mean!.....but also very funny...! Good one. Can't deny that there is a ring of truth in this one...
Regds,niece

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 31-10-2005
A USEFUL BODY
Hey Niece
Blame 'soman'. He is the one giving me these ideas. I only elaborated on what he sent me. I feel a bit uneasy as I suspect some one will be waiting for me at Kochi Airport to assassinate me!
Thank u for ur kind comments
chrisk

Author's Reply:

e-griff on 31-10-2005
A USEFUL BODY
Excellent!

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 31-10-2005
A USEFUL BODY
JOhng
Thank u. I am very happy to see that you liked it.
One day soon u might get to edit it! That worries me, Lol.
Chris

Author's Reply:

Apolloneia on 31-10-2005
A USEFUL BODY
Read it earlier this one and made me smile 🙂 :)) 🙂 Well written!

Author's Reply:

Apolloneia on 31-10-2005
A USEFUL BODY
I love macabre humour btw.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 31-10-2005
A USEFUL BODY
Nicoletta,
I was groping in the dark, I have been suffering from the 'bloc' for some time now. Then this e mail landed in my comp, kindly send by 'soman'.
Thank u for liking it.
Love to u
Chris

Author's Reply:
Nic, should read' sent' by soman!
Chris

soman on 01-11-2005
A USEFUL BODY
Chrisk,

Dont shoot me please, I'm only a messenger; it was Jayaprakash who done it (and he is a messenger too).

I'm now scared to walk on the main roads in case some 'Gulfwallah' on a mobike or car spots me and decides that I am a fit case to be run over, LOL!

All the same, I knew you were the one ideally suited to repackage all those goodies embedded in the coffin. Congrats!

Soman

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 01-11-2005
A USEFUL BODY
Soman
Well, I am grateful to you really.
It lifted me out of that 'bloc cloud' and I think I will be flying around for a while!
Thanks,
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

Kat on 02-11-2005
A USEFUL BODY
Hi chrisk

What a read - very visual - great stuff!

Kat :o)

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 05-11-2005
A USEFUL BODY
Kat Hi
Thank you for your kind comments. I know its a bit unusual to write about or mock the dead in this way, but then we are mere writers!
chrisk


Author's Reply:


GIRL FRIENDS, THEN (posted on: 10-10-05)
A slice from my life in the sixties and early seventies. Another shortie.( Thought about this after two large whisky & soda)

Girl Friends, then.
By C R Krishnan

I have this one principle. If you ever break up with a girl, you never sought her friend, as your next one. In the same vein you never sought the ex girlfriend of your male friend. To me that's taboo.
So I told my ex girl friend's friend Elena that I can't go out with her.
'Why not?' she asks.
'Elena, I can't do it, you are Maria's friend.'
'But she is no longer here, she is in Milano and never coming back'.
I explained to her that it was just not on, and that was that.

A few days later I saw her with a beautiful girl and she, Elena made it a point to avoid me and never introduced the new girl to me. She had introduced Maria to me!

A couple of months passed by. I saw this girl holding hands and walking with a friend of mine who was from Bangladesh and studying here to become an accountant. (Not working in a restaurant!). I am talking about the sixties, a very long time ago. Elena had introduced her to him before she went back to Italy.

All these girls were au pairs working for rich families and at the same time learning English. They were given about 5 a week (In today's money, 20, not a lot)) and usually Thursdays off. All the bachelors like me flocked inside the dance halls in Leicester Sq, London, especially on Thursdays to meet (in today's language 'pull') these girls who were easy target.
A friend of mine who had a German girlfriend explained to me that whenever he bought her a nice meal instead of a hamburger or fish and chips he got a special kiss, and the embraces, tighter!

I had a few girl friends from such encounters. Most went home after their three months stay and new girls took their places. There were no commitments; it was all a relationship of convenience.

The Bangladeshi friend eventually got married to this beautiful Italian girl, took her home. A few months later there was a political upheaval ( they called it a massive upsurge) in that country and many 'Educated intelligent' people and their families got murdered in their hundreds. I later learned that my friend and his wife were among them.













Archived comments for GIRL FRIENDS, THEN
Apolloneia on 10-10-2005
GIRL FRIENDS, THEN
Hmm. You did it again. You surprised me with a very deep meaning in a seemingly simple story. Elena was unintentionally the person responsible in a weird way for this girl's death. That's how things work inside my head. Sometimes the consequences of what we choose to do or who choose to be are vaster than we could ever imagine. Hope my comment makes sense to you. Cheers! Nicx.

Author's Reply:
Nicoletta


Well you have surprised me now. I will tell you why. How many times have I thought about what could have been, if Elena had introduced her to me or some one else and then she would have most probably gone back to Italy, married some Italian guy and lived happily ever after with children and grandchildren etc.,. Elena had met my friend from Bangladesh in my flat when I was having a small party! This is so spooky you just stepped inside my mind and had a ride, and then got off!


Love


chrisk

niece on 11-10-2005
GIRL FRIENDS, THEN
Dear Chrisk,
This piece which is written in your typical matter-of-fact style was sad, yet interesting!
Regds,niece

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 11-10-2005
GIRL FRIENDS, THEN
Niece
Thank u.
Unwittingly we influence some one else's fate. Well, its happening all the time, my dear, all the time!
chrisk

Author's Reply:

soman on 11-10-2005
GIRL FRIENDS, THEN
Chrisk, another typical piece of your nostalgic memories! Life has more misses than hits, isnt it? In this partdicular case I think you were lucky you Missed, as otherwise you might have been HIT like the Bangladesh chap!

Soman

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 12-10-2005
GIRL FRIENDS, THEN
Soman
I suppose one can never tell.
All I can tell you is that right now I am happy with my lot!
I said 'right now'- things may change! Lol

Author's Reply:

ish on 23-10-2005
GIRL FRIENDS, THEN
Chrisk
Sometimes life seems to me to behave like an algebra question -- if y = x and b = c squared what would happen if b and x where the same. We all make choices and sometimes they have far reaching consequences.

P.S. I was never much good at algebra anyway
Ian

Author's Reply:


MISSING FRANKIE (posted on: 02-09-05)
I just wanted to prove to myself that I am not suffering from the 'block'. So I wrote this in fifteen minutes.
All crits welcome as long its not from 'anon'! Lol

MISSING FRANKIE
By C R Krishnan


I am missing Frankie. I must unashamedly admit that. Ever since I moved from Brighton to Hastings I have been missing my long time neighbour who though a pain in my arse, has at times been very entertaining in a rather strange way.
After his trip to Portugal he had been avoiding me. He told all his comrades that I told him to learn Spanish so that he can chat up girls in Portugal. He conveniently forgot to mention that only at the last minute, while I was giving him a lift, he mentioned Algarve,where he was going.
There was something else he did. Having established from me that he can make himself understood to the people in Miami, (I assured him that American is same as English, almost, apart from a few spelling differences) he booked his flight with his friend who had a wife and a young girl aged 18 months.
They duly checked into a self-catering apartment and the couple went out almost immediately leaving the little girl in Frankie's care. In fact every day the couple went out leaving Frankie in charge of cooking and the kid. They even taught him how to change nappies. When he ran out of nappies he went out to buy some but the local girl could not understand what he was on about. Some other tourist in the shop told him that he has to ask for 'diapers'. He said that he had been assured by a friend back in UK (meaning me) that the language is the same but only some spellings are wrong in 'American'! Eventually he asked for the diaper that was too large for the girl and when all the poo and pee started flowing out into the cot later in the flat, he scratched his head, puzzled.
Any way on his return he presented me with a dozen of 8mm films for me to transfer to a VHS tape.
'Hey Chris, don't edit anything out mate'
'But Frankie this is 13 hours of tape!'
'You see Chris, when my friend and his wife went out I gave them my camcorder so that they can film everything they were seeing'.
'But Frankie, 13 hours mate, that's too long, it will take me ages, may be a month to do it'.
Some how he knows my weakness for whisky. He left me and was back with a bottle of the 'duty free' Kentucky'whisky' and assured me that despite the spelling mistake it's the same as 'whiskey'. I told him its actually 'bourbon', not scotch, and the spelling could be either. He simply shrugged his shoulders.
He told me that he was being very smart. He was left to look after the child and never went out to see the sights.
'You see Chris mate I didn't have to go out in the hot sun, these people did all the donkey work for me and every day they came back knackered and also they spent a lot of money eating out. All I have to do now is to take my own time and watch all the sights and places they went to, in the convenience of my sofa and bed'. You see mate, I ain't just a pretty face, am a ''clever'' when I want to be'.

You see, I miss Frankie.










Archived comments for MISSING FRANKIE
Michel on 2005-09-02 08:01:17
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
Really made me laugh

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-09-02 11:16:11
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
Michel
I must admit I was not laughing when he gave me those tapes. My revenge is that I liked writing this at his expense. Thanks for appreciating it.
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

thehaven on 2005-09-02 21:57:02
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
This story carries on the magical work of a master writer.

You have got to read FROGS UNDER THE WHEELS
for more brillaint stuff to rival this.

Mike

Author's Reply:

niece on 2005-09-03 09:41:43
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
You are justified in missing Frankie. Who wouldn’t when they had free entertainment at their doorstep regularly? This may be spontaneous, Chrisk, but it is still great stuff!
Regds,niece


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-09-03 11:00:59
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
Mike
Thank u for ur kind comments. I am glad u bought a copy of my book. I bought the other copy!


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-09-03 11:05:41
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
Niece
Thanks. As a matter of fact I drove past my old neighbourhood last night and I suddenly realised I don't miss him anymore!
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

soman on 2005-09-03 19:42:27
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
Chrisk,
It seems to me that our characters run on parallel lines, viz misfits and oddventurers. With one small difference. Your friends operate on a much higher plane - i.e. life itself - whilst mine confine themselves to the shallower level of the sports field.

Enjoyable read, as your stories always are.

Soman



Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-09-03 21:24:29
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
Soman
I kid you not, but this fella is something. Ian will second the motion as he also knows him thru me!
He, Frankie, is the real hero and I am grateful to him for his contribution to my writing.
Thanks
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

Griffonner on 2005-09-04 12:43:11
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
Fifteen minutes! Wow! You would never have guessed.
You were obviosuly using your golden pen again, Chrisk - the one reserved for the use of masters of the art!
Terrific read.

*Amused*
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-09-04 13:07:16
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
Griffoner
Thanks a lot friend. I think this was just a fluke. It just happened. I don't think I can do this again!
You know, write in a short time. It is not healthy.
I am flattered mate, very.
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

ish on 2005-09-05 21:55:58
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
Chris
Now that you have moved to Hastings what do you do for entertainment?
I'm sorry I only gave you 9, but if you got another 10 you might start to get big headed!
I'm just glad I don't have to go to your old house anymore, because everytime I saw Frankie it was very difficult to say 'hi' without laughing out loud.
Ian

Author's Reply:

Apolloneia on 2005-09-10 11:50:08
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
I can see why you miss Frankie. A good story Chrisk. Cheers. Nic.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-09-10 14:16:40
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
Nicoletta
Nice to hear from you.
Then u always like my stories, don't u? Ya I miss him, Lol.
Love
Chris

Author's Reply:

eddiesolo on 2005-10-07 11:39:53
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
Talented bugger 15 minutes!

This is a great write...can I borrow your mind for a while then maybe I may come up with something as good as this!

Enjoyed the read.

Si:-)

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-10-07 12:43:45
Re: MISSING FRANKIE
Si
Thank u, u flatterer!:-)
This was a one off, a fluke. The writing part of my brain growled like a sick lion and is now gone back to sleep, again!
chrisk

Author's Reply:


FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY (posted on: 01-08-05)
Memories of love.

FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY BY C R KRISHNAN She breaks my heart, cuts it into a thousand pieces and throws it on my face and then says 'I still want to be your friend!' I am not interested, period. She has lied and cheated and pretended that she is mine. She thanks me for the cuddles and thousand kisses. She remembers how courteous I am. How I always open the car door for her, pull out the chair in the restaurant and compliment her on her dresses and tell her how nice she smells. She has met some one else. That much I know. Now she wants to be my friend! No more kisses, no more cuddles and no more gazing into each other's eyes. I never saw it coming. The fellow she met drives a Porsche, and owns a palatial penthouse flat. He is a jet setter. Not handsome but rich, very rich. I drive an old battered MG and live in a one room flat. I work for an Airline, junior officer, not rich but comfortable 'Pamela, I don't want to be friends with you. I don't want to see you ever again, just go, and leave me. I don't like you anymore, and I hate the whole world.' That was a long time ago. 20 years have gone by. Today she rang me up. I am married now and live fairly comfortably. I am a senior Manager with the same airline. I arranged to meet her in a restaurant. She was smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of white wine. My heart sinks. Her speech is slurred, has wrinkles on her face covered in make up. She looks older and hard. Her designer clothes look well worn. Her husband, the man with the Porsche is in jail. Financial irregularities, but he is innocent, she says. They have lost all their possessions and she is now destitute. In any case she says she was going to leave him but now she is going to be alone anyway. She doesn't want anything. I offer her money, a place to stay for a while (my wife will understand) but she refuses. She says she just wanted to see me and then move on. I kiss her on the cheek and hold her hands for a while. 'John, wish I had you as a friend.' 'But I am your friend.' ' No, you never wanted me as a friend'. Remember you told me you hated me. You never wanted to see me again.' And then she was gone. I wondered why she wanted to see me again. It's a sad old world, you know.
Archived comments for FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
tai on 2005-08-01 11:20:53
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
Hi Chrisk, a lucky escape for you I think! and she got her just desserts! Money alone, is exactly what you get.

A good story.

9 from me.

Tai

Author's Reply:

Hazy on 2005-08-01 11:58:55
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
Liked this lots 🙂

Sometimes we like to glimpse back at 'what might have been' when we make the wrong choices in life. The grass certainly isn't always greener...

There's usually at least one we regret letting go of!

Hazy x

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-08-01 12:23:30
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
Tai
Thank u very much. Didn't I put this under 'fiction'?Lol. Well okay u r right.
LOve
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-08-01 12:26:05
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
Hazy
How true. Then no one knows what might have been. You can't go back in a time machine, get off and start all over again, Lol.( Wish I could though!)
LOve
Chris

Author's Reply:

niece on 2005-08-01 12:39:49
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
Dear Chris,
This was a beautiful article….so well written…!
Regds,niece


Author's Reply:

e-griff on 2005-08-01 12:45:31
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
excellent shortie!

a small thing

Today she rang me up. I am married now and live fairly comfortably. I am a senior Manager with the same airline. I saw her sitting in a restaurant ..

this was a bit confusing. she rang him up/I saw her sitting... do you mean you arranged to meet her there? you could say. I met her in a restaurant, she was ....


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-08-01 13:16:18
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
Niece
Thank u very much. Its sad isn't it?
Love
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-08-01 13:18:35
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
JOhnG
Thank u for ur nice comments. U r right. I will edit it now.
Regards mate
Chris

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2005-08-01 15:05:18
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
Chris this is a wonderful story. Very sad. It works well as a short piece.

I noticed a few missing fullstops at the end, other than that, it's great. ;^)

The quicker they get the time machine working the better!

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-08-01 16:28:18
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
Claire
Thank u. You are sweet. I will do the full stops straightway.
LOve
Chris

Author's Reply:

Lulu on 2005-08-06 11:16:42
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
Yes I know! but beautiful too.

It's funny, but I just found out the first boy I ever loved got married last month, so I get the meaning very very well! 😉

Beautifully written! thanks

xx.
Lu

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-08-06 11:25:57
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
Lu
Thanks for commenting. We all have memories of love , haven't we?
LOve
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

eddiesolo on 2005-08-08 12:46:37
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
Lovely written, a joy to read.

Si:-)

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-08-08 12:52:08
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
Si
Thank you my friend. It was a joy to write but sadly, Lol.
Chris

Author's Reply:

soman on 2005-08-14 08:01:27
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
Nostalgia is a luxury which doesnt cost anything. However there is always the sneaking suspiciion that if she had capitulated then, it could have turned out much worse, isnt it? (I too have such sweet memories, thanks for reminding me!)

Good story, short and sweet!

Soman

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-08-31 21:47:50
Re: FRIENDS & LOVERS OF DAYS GONE BY
This is the human thing isn't it? We are the only ones in the animal kingdom who have memories of sadness, happiness, love and other emotions. and thank God for that!
Thanks for your comments
Chrisk

Author's Reply:


The Inmitable M N Menon (posted on: 06-06-05)
With fond memories.

THE INMITABLE M N MENON( my father-in law) By C R Krishnan This story has to be read in conjunction with 'Religious Breakfast', which is shown below: Towards the end of 2003, my father in law, 97, who lives in India had a nasty fall and had to be rushed to hospital for some stitches to the back of his head. By the time my wife and I got there he was back in the house and recovering nicely. In the next few days he was almost back to normal and reading his newspapers and walking about with a 'stick' which he hates he says as sticks are for very old people. I agreed with him but told him that though he is not 'very old' he is older than me and what his secret was. He says to me that every morning he has religious oats. 'Religious oats' ? I say. He says ,'ya the quaker one'. He also tells me that he has two brandies and a couple of long thick cigars in the evenings and despite his wife's complaint that the house stinks he has been doing this for the last 70 years or so. Then he asks me if I can keep a secret.'Definitely yes' I say. He says that the night he fell he had three brandies instead of his two and as he was pouring the third one into his glass, his hand was shaking so badly he couldn't control the amount that was going into the glass. He also asks me not to mention this to his wife, as the version of events told to her is somewhat different from what he just told me. Since I have returned to U.K, I have been drinking brandy and smoking cigars much to the surprise of my wife as she cannot understand that how a man who is used to drinking whiskey and smoking a pipe could suddenly change his habits. When she was going out shopping I reminded her that she shouldn't forget my religious oats, as I do not love cornflakes anymore. Epilogue. On the 14th of April 2005, my father-in law died. He was 98 years old and was terminally ill not only of old age but also of cancer of the prostate. Before he was taken to the ICU, he wanted to know how his son's book was coming along. His daughter, the elder sister of my wife reminded him that Krishnan, the one who wrote the book is actually his son-in law! Never mind he said, could he atleast have a look at the book before he leaves town, meaning this world.The book was given to him and he read it in two days. He wondered whether some of the stories Krishnan had written especially about other women are a true account of what he had really done or just made up. He felt that though he enjoyed the stories he was worried about his daughter being married to such a cad! My sister-in-law assured him that the stories can only be fantasies as they are, (meaning me and my wife) are together for the last 30 years. 'Oh! But I have been married to my wife for the last 70 years, and if only she knew!'
Archived comments for The Inmitable M N Menon
ish on 2005-06-06 13:23:14
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
I was sorry to hear that 'M.N' died. Last year when I was in India I had the opportunity to meet and talk with him and he had some funny stories to tell.
He told me that he had been keeping a diary for the last 75 years or so. See if you can get it Chris! You will get many stories out of it!
Ian

Author's Reply:

niece on 2005-06-07 13:10:31
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
Hi Chrisk,
Such a great read! It looks like you were a mutual admiration society. So sorry that your dad-in-law is no more!
regds, niece

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-06-08 09:54:58
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
Ian
Thank u. He was a great story teller. I shall miss him.
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-06-08 10:01:48
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
Niece
Thank u. Ya, I quite liked the man, he was fun to be with and very generous. He told us many interesting stories and even towards the end he shaved and showered every day and read newspapers and books regularly!
chrisk

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2005-06-08 21:01:49
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
And may you continue his tales...

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-06-08 21:20:15
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
Thank u Claire. I will, when I get hold of his diary in November this year.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

soman on 2005-06-09 07:46:23
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
by Soman, Thursday June 9 @0645 GMT

Good show, Chrisk. I'm convinced that, up there in his heavenly abode, the Old Boy must have slapped his thigh in delight at his favourite son-in-law's parting crack. ... I can visualise him, ensconced amidst a bevy of admiring Apsaras (divine dancers from Lord Indra's court), recounting his earthy escapades, to their great awe and wonderment!

More of the same, please?

Soman

Author's Reply:

Kat on 2005-06-10 02:47:44
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
I really enjoyed this story. I love wonderful characters like your father-in-law surely was.

Can I just mention that it should be 'prostate' and not prostrate?

All the best to you.

Kat 🙂

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-06-10 09:50:10
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
Kat
Thank you for your kind comments. I am grateful.
Re the spelling, I should have used the spell checker, silly me!
Changing it.
Regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-06-10 23:46:40
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
Soman
Thanks. I think I will get some stories out from some of his diaries.
Regards
Chrisk


Author's Reply:

e-griff on 2005-06-11 11:10:43
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
contains the usual gems of your individual humour, which you know I like... glad he saw the book.. G

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-06-11 20:46:07
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
JohnG
Thank u for your kind words. I wrote this after a two month break! Writers' block or whatever you call it.
Regards
CRK

Author's Reply:

tai on 2005-06-16 09:45:31
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
Hi Chrisk, I really enjoyed reading about your Father in Law! What a character?lol He gives hope to us all.

All the best

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-06-16 10:41:50
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
Tai
Thank you. The sad thing is when I go to India in November he wouldn't be there!
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

eddiesolo on 2005-08-18 13:33:30
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
Wonderful write Chrisk, I enjoyed this read very much.

Tops.

Si:-)



Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-08-18 20:22:25
Re: The Inmitable M N Menon
Si
I am grateful for your comments. I am going to India in November and I will walk into the house for the first time in my life, without him being there. an unberable thought.
Chris

Author's Reply:


DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS (posted on: 25-04-05)
I made this trip atleast half a dozen times, but after the first time, never at night!

DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS. By C R Krishnan Selsey is by the sea. A small town, in West Sussex close to Chichester, a holiday resort to many British, lower and middle class families. I am a Print Salesman. I have a client there who owns an Indian curry house. He wants some menus printed. It is 6 P.M. These restaurant people are only available from then until midnight, I mean that's when they open and ready for business. I am driving from Brighton, some thirty miles from Selsey. It's December and it is dark. After Chichester bypass on A27 you turn left to where it is sign posted to Selsey and I am driving listening to some chat on Southern Counties Radio. The road winds and winds and I am doing may be 20 miles an hour, not a great speed but I have to be careful as it is a 'B' road and it's dark This is my first time out on that road. I see in the headlight a man wearing a raincoat and hat in the middle of the road. I slow down and almost come to a halt. The man comes to the passenger side and peers in. 'Hey buddy, any chance of a lift?' 'Where are you heading?' 'Selsey', he shouted at the closed glass window of the passenger door. Well, the fellow took his hat off to show a shaven head and he looked like Telly Savalas, the Greek-American actor who used to be on telly sucking a lolly and saying 'who loves ya baby?' I unlocked the passenger door and he got in. 'Hey, you look like Telly Savalas, the actor.' 'I am Telly savalas, the actor!' I told him I don't believe him as Telly Savalas died a few years ago. He said that I should not believe all I read in the newspapers. How could he be dead as he is sitting with me? He then took out a lolly from his pocket and started sucking it. 'Hey man, did you want one?' I told him I will probably be offered some food by my client and didn't want to spoil my appetite. We were approaching the High street and it started raining heavily. 'Just pull up here man, and thanks a lot and hey who loves ya baby?' With that he opened the passenger door and was gone. In the early seventies Telly Savalas gave an interview on TV. He mentioned then about his driving one rainy night to Selsey to see a friend of his, a Greek restaurant owner. It was nighttime and he saw a man walking in the middle of the road. He stopped the car to avoid hitting him just like I did. He eventually gave him a lift to the town. The fellow said he was a Doctor and he was in an accident. He mentioned this incident to his Greek friend. 'Telly my friend, this Doctor you mentioned died a few years ago in a car accident not far from here. He used to come and eat here at least once a week. You couldn't have given him a lift!' Telly Savalas had died in 1994, ten years before I gave him a lift.
Archived comments for DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS
discopants on 2005-04-25 13:37:18
Re: DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS
An interesting read- so was it the ghost of a ghost? One other comment I'd make is that I wondered why you used reported speech so much rather than direct speech. After the 'I am Telly Savalas, the actor', I thought you could have cut down on the number of times 'he said' and 'I told him' appear.

By the way, is it Telly or Tele?

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-04-25 15:41:59
Re: DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS
Discopants,
Interesting comment. Sorry, I lost you when you mention 'he said' and 'I told him'. I don't understand what you mean. I do not see a problem there.
It is Telly and his real name was Aristotle Savalas.
Regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

niece on 2005-04-26 07:07:12
Re: DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS
Dear Chrisk,
Very interesting story! Could it be a prankster who took advantage of his resemblance to the TV personality? I am a real scaredy cat, so I always try to find an explanation for these kind of things.
Regds,niece

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-04-26 09:05:54
Re: DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS
My dear niece
I did warn you and all here that this is 'fiction'. So u better be really scared. You see my dear, when u see ghosts in fiction they are for real! Lol.
Love
chrisk


Author's Reply:

discopants on 2005-04-26 13:05:25
Re: DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS
Chris

I was referring to the following section:
'I told him I don’t believe him as Telly Savalas died a few years ago. He said that I should not believe all I read in the newspapers. He said how could he be dead as he is sitting with me? He then took out a lolly from his pocket and started sucking it.'

Rather than have 'I told him' etc I think it would flow more smoothly if it went along the following lines:
"I don't believe you; Telly Savalas died years ago."
"Don't believe all you read in the newspapers. How can I be dead- I'm sitting right beside you."
He then took...

Does that make sense? Of course, this is just my personal preference so feel free to ignore!

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-04-26 14:09:25
Re: DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS
Discopants
Ya, it makes sense now. You are right. I shall change it tonite with a few other corrections.
I am grateful to u
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2005-04-26 16:09:14
Re: DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS
Nice creepy edge to it... very creepy actually! Enjoyed the read.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-04-27 20:49:41
Re: DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS
You know Claire my dear, I always look forward to your comments mainly because they are positive and makes me feel good to know that you enjoyed reading it.
Love
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

Apolloneia on 2005-05-04 10:03:47
Re: DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS
For me this wasn't creepy, it was quite sad, made me think of life, of people, of Savalas's "Who loves ya baby?", a good very Greek question...

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-05-04 10:13:53
Re: DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS
Nicoletta
Fond memories for me too. Despite his image on TV he was a modest man especially when being interviewed here in UK. He said the lollipop was making him fat! He always managed to put a smile on my face whenever he was on TV.
Thank you, and Nicoletta, who loves ya baby? Lol
Chris

Author's Reply:

Apolloneia on 2005-05-04 10:22:20
Re: DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS
See? a good question, no answer, just a Mona Lisa smile.. I think I have a poem in my mind, Savalas and Mona...
😉


Author's Reply:

eddiesolo on 2005-08-06 11:38:18
Re: DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS
Nice and creepy and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Si:-)

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-08-06 11:59:27
Re: DRIVING TELLY SAVALAS
eddiesolo
Thank u. The road is off A27 in Chichester and it winds and winds and goes to wittering/selsea.
Chrisk

Author's Reply:


KUTTAPPAN THE GREAT(In his own English words)) (posted on: 14-03-05)
Based on a joke sent to me by my nephew Mohan Poonthottam.

He is a South Indian from Kerala working for a multi national company in Bombay. Not well educated and he is working as a cleaner. This Kuttappan he is having a problem, If he hear somebody talks he will come in between saying that I know that very well I know him very well, like that. One day Kuttappan's boss a foreign educated person, he is a North Indian,he was saying something about Arnold schwarzeneger. Kuttappan was passing thru that way suddenly he came in between saying that oh Arnie, he's my best friend. Kuttapan's boss laughed at him saying that how can you be a friend of Arnold schwarzeneger you are only a South Indian cleaner living in Bombay. Kuttappan said if u won't believe it's your problem I can't help you. Okay, boss said I am going on a trip to US next week you come as my assistant and we will go to Arnold's house and see what happens. Kuttappan agreed with a smile. A week after they landed in US first they went to California, Arnold was there in California they went to meet Arnold. Seeing Kuttappan Arnold ran towards Kuttappan and hugged him asking that hey Kuttappan long time not seen where were you man? Kuttappan went with Arnold to have some coffee. Boss he stunned. When kuttappan came back boss said, next we go to Bush's place lets find out whether you know him or not. Kuttappan agreed with another smile. At Bush's home Bush also did the same as Schwarzeneger asking that where were you my friend for long time? Kuttappan went to have tea With Bush while the boss was sitting out side the gate of the white house. When Kuttappan came back boss said I have to go to England to see Prince Charles and Camilla who recently got engaged and they will appear on the Buckingham Palace Balcony along with the queen. At the palace crowd from all over the world is waiting to see Prince Charles his fianc and the Queen. Kuttappan and his boss are also there. Boss asked Kuttappan, do you know Prince Charles. Kuttappan said why not? Boss told Kuttappan that he will not believe this. Kuttappan asked boss to wait for some time and went inside the crowd. After 15 minutes Kuttappan came on the balcony along with the queen, Prince Charles and Camilla. Charles was not holding camilla's hand but Kuttappan's. Kuttappan's boss he became unconsious and fell down. When Kuttappan came back his boss was on a stretcher by his side nurses and paramedics. Kuttappan asked Sir, what happened. Then boss told; Kuttappan you know Arnold I believe, you know George Bush I believe and You know Prince Charles I believe that too but WHEN U CAME WITH PRINCE CHARLES AT THE BALCONY THE CROWD WERE ASKING WHO IS THAT OLD MAN HOLDING THE HAND OF KUTTAPPAN after hearing that I became unconscious. LESSON FROM THIS STORY NEVER EVER UNDER ESTIMATE A SIMPLE SOUTH INDIAN CLEANER FROM KERALA.
Archived comments for KUTTAPPAN THE GREAT(In his own English words))
ish on 2005-03-14 10:02:37
Re: KUTTAPPAN THE GREAT(IN HIS OWN ENGLISH WORDS)
Chrisk
This is funny, laughed my head off. Is this Kerala English? Only one complaint. You shouldn't describe the future monarch as 'old'. What you say about Camilla is not my concern!
Ian

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-14 13:41:58
Re: KUTTAPPAN THE GREAT(IN HIS OWN ENGLISH WORDS)
Ian
Thanks for the nice comments and I apologise on behalf of Kuttappan for describing Charles as'old'.
He said it, not I!
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

soman on 2005-03-15 03:17:14
Re: KUTTAPPAN THE GREAT(IN HIS OWN ENGLISH WORDS)
by Soman, Tuesday March 15 @0220 GMT

I must say it was an excellent idea to retain K'pan's picturesque lingo. The story would have gone flat
any other way! ..... We Keralites are like that only, no?

Soman

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2005-03-16 19:54:45
Re: KUTTAPPAN THE GREAT(In his own English words))
This is very amusing! It made me laugh a lot too.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-16 20:14:30
Re: KUTTAPPAN THE GREAT(IN HIS OWN ENGLISH WORDS)
Soman
Thank u for ur kind comments. I don't know how we are managing to communicate with these English speaking 'natives' when we were actually taught English in Malayalam!( the language of Kerala)
chrisk

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-16 20:17:37
Re: KUTTAPPAN THE GREAT(In his own English words))
Claire
Thank u. It is pleasing that u laughed and enjoyed this. You see, it started as a silly joke but there was something in it whch touched a very important part of my Kerala anatomy!
Love to u
Chris

Author's Reply:

Apolloneia on 2005-03-29 11:38:08
Re: KUTTAPPAN THE GREAT(In his own English words))
Exactly what I needed right now, a light, brisk and funny story Chris, made me laugh 🙂

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-29 13:18:30
Re: KUTTAPPAN THE GREAT(In his own English words))
Nicoletta
Thank you. Anything to make u happy and cheerful, okay?
Chris

Author's Reply:

Apolloneia on 2005-04-01 00:54:01
Re: KUTTAPPAN THE GREAT(In his own English words))
Thanks Chris! I'm sending you and Beks nice ouzo caramels by the way, and guess what, many people know Kuttappan the great here in Greece. :^)


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-04-30 14:38:43
Re: KUTTAPPAN THE GREAT(In his own English words))
Nicoletta
U know something? One of my favourite people is Zorba the Greek in the guise of Anthony Quinn!
Love
Chris

Author's Reply:

brie on 2005-06-21 21:13:29
Re: KUTTAPPAN THE GREAT(In his own English words))
I liked this cross between a story and a sort of joke.
Surely the true moral of Kuttappan has to be never underestimate anybody irrespective of race,creed, religion or standing in life. Rags to riches is always a great story line and we all love 'characters'.... sometimes however we really do meet somebody who 'floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee'.
regards
Brie
Ps I know I am in a minority but I rather like Charles and think Camilla is Ok

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-06-26 19:34:07
Re: KUTTAPPAN THE GREAT(In his own English words))
brie
Sorry bt this delay in responding.
Thank u for ur kind comments. It is a joke, and I thought putting it in writing made it interesting.
Regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:


KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST (posted on: 07-03-05)
Keith Bartlet who lived a few streets away from me, died on the 13th November 2004. The real cause of his death is not known.


KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST
By C R Krishnan


Keith Bartlet's ghost came to me on the night of Christmas 2004, and nudged me awake from my drunken sleep.

'Hey Chrissie boy, you are not dreaming. It is really me'
'Nah, Keith mate I am dreaming coz I know you are dead. Remember I attended your funeral.'
'True Chrissie, true, but touch me and you will know what I mean'
I touched him and my fingers went straight through his body. It was cold, freezing.
'Chris mate, better take your fingers out or you get frost bite, okay?
Now that I have established the fact that I am a ghost, listen to me, as I need your help.'

I never cared for the fellow when he was alive. He was one of those people devoid of human warmth and only talked to you if he wanted something. Borrow a few pounds for his Cider (White lightning 2 litre at 1.99) or tobacco for his roll ups. I never got the money back. It never stopped him asking again and again. So why the hell should I care for him now.
'Chrissie baby, I know what you are thinking, remember I am a ghost. I can hear you thinking.'
Now I have a problem. There he is sitting on my bed and I am afraid he is going to wake my wife up.
'Okay Keith's ghost, what can I do for you?'
'Hey Christopher, don't try and be smart, just make it Keith'
'Sorry.'
'You see Chrissie (he always called be Chrissie, especially if he is after something) I am in between two worlds, heaven and hell. And since I am dead I am supposed be one or the other of these places.'
'So Keith, what's your problem? Why are you stuck here?'

He explained to me that his death was not natural because he was strangled while unconscious. He was dying anyway but his wife nagged her lover to finish him off quickly as he was taking a long time to say bye, bye. The hospital was doing everything to keep him alive and he could have lived, say another week and gone to heaven. He also reminded me about the old adage about if you don't die a natural death you've had it. You become a ghost and you are stuck here on earth. He said the only way he can get out of here is if the murderers are caught and punished or if they are dead.
'But Keith, how the hell can I help you?'
"Hey Chrissie don't mention the word 'hell'. My destination is heaven mate."
My wife moved in her sleep and if this conversation is not ended soon I am going to be in deep shit.
'For God's sake Keith, tell me what you want me to do.'
'You got to exhume me.'
'You are kidding me.'
'Does it sound like I am kidding? Look at me.'
In the semi darkness all I could see was his eye sockets, dark with no eyes in them. A cold shiver went through my bones.

'How the hell can I exhume you? I can't go to the cemetery and just dig you up.You are crazy, mate. Besides I don't know the exact spot where you are buried.'
'No Chrissie, what I mean is you have to get the police involved and they will dig me up for an autopsy and all that shit they do when they want to find out about the true cause of any deaths.'

In the next few days I wrote at least a dozen anonymous letters and no one took any notice.
Many days passed. Nothing happened. Keith did not appear again either, ever.

Then I met an old friend who knew the couple; you know Keith's wife and the lover. Apparently they had disappeared in that Tsunami in Sri Lanka on Boxing Day 2004. Their bodies have never been found.





Archived comments for KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST
Jen_Christabel on 2005-03-07 09:25:42
Re: KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST
Good read :o) - not factual is it ? LOL
JayCee

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-07 09:28:20
Re: KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST
JayCee
Aha! At least it made you wonder eh, jayCee? Lol.
Thank you.
Chris

Author's Reply:

Emerald on 2005-03-07 10:18:23
Re: KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST
At least that got you off the hook! Enjoyed the story -

Emma:-)

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-07 10:22:17
Re: KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST
Hi Emma
Right. At last I can sleep in peace now, lol.
Many thanksfor the 9.
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

AnthonyEvans on 2005-03-08 11:42:33
Re: KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST
dear chrisk, i was just getting into this (it flows very well) when suddenly it stopped. i think you could extend this story, make it more plot-driven. best wishes, anthony.

Author's Reply:

shadow on 2005-03-08 13:43:38
Re: KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST
I agree with Anthony on this one. It starts very well, gets you interested - but the abrupt ending leaves you frustrated - it's too convenient.

Author's Reply:

OolonColoophid on 2005-03-08 14:26:43
Re: KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST
Hi Chris

This has to be one the first fictional reactions to the Tsynami (or at least, the first piece that's mentioned it) that I've read. Some very nice touches: I liked the part when the ghost leans forward and the main character sees he has no eyes. Overall, a nice little story.

Cheers

Ian

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-08 14:34:43
Re: KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST
Anthony
You guys are demanding, you want my blood! Lol. Don't you see I am a lazy bugger? I am impatient thats why I can't write 'long' short stories. When they died, it ended.The ghost never came back. Okay, I will try and do some more editing and extend the story for the book.
Are you happy now Anthony mate?
Kind regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-08 14:37:19
Re: KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST
Moya
Can u kindly read my reply to Anthony's comments and that encapsulates my answer to your kind comments. I know its too convinient for me, Lol. I am lazy Moya.
Kind regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-08 14:40:23
Re: KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST
Ian
Thank you very much for your kind comments. Actually it game a slight shiver when I was writing that part about the eyes. I must be one of the very few authors who are freightened of his own characters!
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-09 09:45:52
Re: KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST
not 'game' should read 'gave me'.
Sorry
C

Author's Reply:

thehaven on 2005-03-11 00:30:46
Re: KEITH BARTLET'S GHOST
Now all three are wherever spirits end up no doubt getting there revenge for wrondoings

Just one small crit.As there are just the 2 main characters I don't thinks its nesscesary to repeat the names more than ,say,twice at the most.

Enjoyable read.

Mike

Author's Reply:


THE POETRY MAN (posted on: 04-03-05)
This is my second attempt at writing poetry. Recent events forced my hands, honest.

THE POETRY MAN
C R Krishnan


His name should remain anonymous
You know, the writing name
When he gets up in the morning and farts
He puts the blame on his arse

Then he enters the bathroom
Looks at his face in the mirror
Sees an angry image of doom
And puts the blame on his creator!

Sitting in front of the computer
He gets into the writing site
Some one has more hits
And that upsets him to bits!








Archived comments for THE POETRY MAN
mynci on 2005-03-04 10:59:14
Re: THE POETRY MAN
you and sunken crack me up!!!!!
Nice one!!

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-04 11:03:23
Re: THE POETRY MAN
Natasha
Atleast I wrote my second poem. Glad it made u laugh.
Love
Chris

Author's Reply:

thehaven on 2005-03-04 11:28:42
Re: THE POETRY MAN
You know who you mean we all know who you mean but he is too blind to see who we mean.

Brilliant.

Mike

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-04 11:34:06
Re: THE POETRY MAN
Mike
Thanks for the comments. I don't know who u r referring to Mike. Its all in my imagination, honest.
(nose starts getting longer!)
Chris

Author's Reply:

Jen_Christabel on 2005-03-04 18:48:22
Re: THE POETRY MAN
LOL LOL - and even more LOL
Nice one!
JayCee

Author's Reply:

Sunken on 2005-03-04 19:52:36
Re: THE POETRY MAN
Well I have no idea who everyone's going on about I'm sure. Where the hell is that munky....?

Nice 1 Chris (-:

s
u
n
k
e
n

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-05 08:59:52
Re: THE POETRY MAN
JayCee
Thank you. I am very pleased and flattered,lol!
Regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-05 09:02:04
Re: THE POETRY MAN
Sunken
Ya, I was asking the same question? I have no idea either!
Regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:


Antibiotics with Whisky (posted on: 28-02-05)
This is based on a poem sent to me by grand nephew Nikki in India. The author of the original is 'anonymous' from whom I have borrowed freely. All I have done is to westernise and personalise this to make it more pallatable to people outside India. I wish I had done this as a poem but alas I am not a poet! Thanks a lot Nikki Menon.

ANTIBIOTICS WITH WHISKY By C R Krishnan 'Okay, Chris I am going to put you on antibiotics, you have bronchitis and an infection in your lungs'. The good Doctor pronounced. ' And, Chris, no alcohol as the effect of the antibiotics will be minimised'. I have heard all that before! I ring my wife and say, 'Hey Sarala, guess what?' 'What?' ' Got the old bronchy, getting some pills, okay?' 'Make sure no drinking on the way as you are not supposed to drink while on antibiotics and keep away from your drinks cabinet when you get home'. (The silly cow!) I don't believe in that crap about antibiotics and drinks do not mix. They mix nicely. Washing the pill down with the whisky and soda covers the bad bitter taste of the medicine. My wife says that these pills have no taste, just swallow it with water. I disagree. I arrive home and as I enter I can smell the cooking and as usual my wife is making a lot of noise with the utensils and the water hitting the metal sink from the tap etc., and do not hear me closing the front door. I go and take out the bottle from the black drinks cabinet and I see my son Ramu looking at me from his photo. I take out a glass from the shelf and quickly have a large shot of whisky, which I feel warming my throat, as it is getting ready for the pill. This is followed by another large shot, okay I tell a lie, two more large shots. When the pill gets to the stomach it will be sitting cosy between the two layers of whisky and gets absorbed quickly into my organs. This secret is told to me by a very loving cousin of mine who unfortunately died of liver problems at the age of forty-five. After the two large shots I take the glass to the bathroom sink wash it and put it back on the shelf. My son is giving me a smile. I peep into the kitchen and my wife is peeling the potatoes. She is not aware of what I have done. 'Hey Sarala, any news of your niece's wedding plans?' 'Chris, you are home, I didn't hear you coming.' 'Oh! I just walked in.' 'No, no news of her wedding, but she is still engaged to that boy form the circus, you know the one who trains the horses?' I come back to the lounge and there is a clinking noise in the cabinet but I don't make any sound when I take out the bottle. I also take out the glass from above the bathroom sink and quickly pour two large shots one by one both ending up in my stomach through my throat via my mouth. Great warm feeling. I stand there for a minute or so looking in the mirror above the bathroom sink and wonder myself, 'Hey who is that handsome brute staring back at me?' Both the handsome brute in the mirror and I smile at each other. 'But your niece is not that old, is she?' 'What do you mean Chris, she is 28! She is going to end up an ageing horse.' I have forgotten she is 28. 'Oh! That old?' I again take out the glass from my black cabinet. What's the potato doing here? . So I take out the bottle from the shelf and quickly enjoy two large shots in the sink. My son laughs loudly from his photo. I keep the shelf in the potatoes and wash my son's photo and keep it in the black cabinet. Wife is keeping the sink on the cooker and she still does not know what I have done. I am getting angry.' You call your niece a horse? If you say that again I will kick your arse.' Wife says, 'Don't talk stupid nonsense, go and sit there quietly and watch TV or something.' I take out the bottle from the potatoes go in the black cabinet and enjoy two more large shots, wash the sink and keep it over the shelf in the black cabinet. Wife is giving me a smile. My son is still cooking. No one knows what I have been doing. 'So your niece is marrying a horse?' Wife says go and sprinkle some water on your face. I again go to the kitchen and quietly sit on the shelf. Cooker is also on the shelf. There are noises of bottles and glasses in the next room. I peep and see my wife enjoying a large shot from the sink. None of the horses are aware of what I have done. Niece is still cooking and I am looking from the photo and smiling at my wife and son and they are all smiling back at me. The antibiotics seems to be working!
Archived comments for Antibiotics with Whisky
Apolloneia on 2005-02-28 10:00:29
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
Why of course Whisky works with antibiotics :oO did you think that it wouldn't? Whisky works with everything, so go on take your medicine, and don't worry about the whisky :0)

Very nice I liked this humorous story of yours.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-02-28 10:19:05
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
Hey Apolloneia
Thank u. I was'nt very sure how this was going to be received as I myself was confused towards the end, lol. Thank u for the big ten! My wife is not talking to me and the whisky bottle has disappeared!
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

Emerald on 2005-02-28 11:45:32
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
Ah the medicinal qualities of whiskey! I enjoyed this.

Emma:-)

Author's Reply:

thehaven on 2005-02-28 15:12:47
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
Chris. I told you about that stuff before now you know why i got rid of it.lol

I'm typing on my wife and the computer tastes good with my pills too.

Mike

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-02-28 15:26:08
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
Mike
Ya and I should have gone easy on that 27 year old whisky u gave me. Any more hanging around? Lol
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-02-28 15:28:44
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
Emma
Thank u my dear. Its all Mike's fault (thehaven), He gave me a bottle of strong whisky for helping him to get to the UKA do last year!( 27 year old malt)
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

Kat on 2005-03-02 04:26:43
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
This is brilliant - you've put a big smile on my face and I must go and have a whisky!

Kat *grinning from ear to there*

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-02 10:16:54
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
Kat
I am glad u liked it. Whatever u do, don't eat the whisky with any antibiotics drink okay? Lol
Regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

red-dragon on 2005-03-02 21:04:37
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
Taken neat, it's very effective. Glad you're not taking salts, though (especially somersaults) Red

Author's Reply:

shangri-la on 2005-03-02 22:33:10
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
Wonderful little tale, I laughed so hard I have tears in my eyes 🙂

Author's Reply:

glennie on 2005-03-03 05:28:42
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
Brilliantly surreal. I was told the same thing - not to mix antibiotics and alcohol so I drank wine lager bitter and cider. I was sick for days and couldn't even keep water down. Not so clever now, eh? Glen.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-03 10:44:15
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
Glennie
Thats where u went wrong my dear. Antibiotics goes well only I repeat only with whisky!
Thank u so much for your nice comments.
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-03 10:45:20
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
And thank u for the 10, Glen
C

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-03 10:47:39
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
Hi Red
Lol, thank u. Tastier with soda!
Thanks for the top mark. I am overwhelmed.
Chris


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-03 10:49:22
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
Emma
I can't believe I am getting so many 10s, Wow. Thank u.
C

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-03-03 10:52:52
Re: Antibiotics with Whisky
Hi Shangri-la
The credit really goes to my grand nephew Nikki for sending this to me. My wife and I laughed so much reading the original Indian poem, amd a bit more when I read my own draft.
Thank u so much.
Chris

Author's Reply:


Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation) (posted on: 11-02-05)
This artcle is based on facts.

CORPORATE GREED
(Screw the corporation)
By C R Krishnan


I just read Soman Panicker's ( Soman) 'Economy Drive (Corporate Style)' on the site
And this reminded me of certain people, and the things they did while I was working for an Indian Government company at London Heathrow airport.
In the early part of 1970's the company had a staff of around 500 of which around 100 worked in the City of London, at the Headquarters.
The employees were a mixture of Indians around 40%, and the rest British. All senior personnel including the Managing Director were posted from Bombay. I, like a few other Indians were locally recruited and as these managers came on a posting lasting just 3 years all the real work was carried out by the local staff. A majority of the overseas postings were given to the Indian staff as a reward for long service and some of them were given these lucrative postings because they were arse lickers of the bosses back in India. So the general standard was very poor and most of them were there to screw the company and get most out of it before their postings were over.
Out of many, three examples spring to my mind.
1) My boss in 1973 was a Bombay fellow posted here for the usual three years. He was one of those vegetarian Madrasee Brahmins who was so transparently honest, and everyone felt that he is above board in all the things he did. Not so. He was travelling from Bombay to London and his baggage was over carried to New York JFK Airport. Now this fellow was already here for about a year so he was not going to miss his personal belongings for a few days, right? However there is a proviso that if your baggage is missing for more than 24 hours you can claim compensation. Knowing well that his baggage has landed safely at JFK (there was a telex confirmation) and knowing that it will take well over twenty four hours to get back, he immediately filed a claim for loss and made me go all the way to the Accounts office to get the money, a mere 100! The baggage landed the following day and he was smiling from ear to ear as he had the compensation as well. This man was a senior officer of the company who was supposed to lead by example.
2) The second officer who was given a posting was initially staying with me, in my house for about a week before his accommodation was sorted out. However he was entitled to claim for hotel accommodation amounting up to 20 a day (about 100 today's price). I did not charge him for the stay but he claimed around 100 (500 today) from the company for hotel accommodation. Those days' officers were trusted so there was no need to produce a bill or receipt.
3) This is what a Security Officer who was posted from Bombay did. This fellow had the power to investigate and question staff about anything. He had on rental, a TV/Video and a fridge. Just before he finished his posting he instructed the rental people to remove the goods and the following day reported that his flat has been burgled and a TV/Video and fridge were missing. He even called the police to make it look authentic. However some one ratted on him and he was sent back pronto and never got another foreign posting.


I am an Indian by birth and many people might feel why I should bring my own people down. In any country there is corruption and greed and we are no exception.

The company paid a very heavy price due to these peoples actions. It is now handled by a local firm and most work has been contracted out and the total employees now stands at around 40, including only a handful of Indians from Bombay.






Archived comments for Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
Apolloneia on 2005-02-11 23:51:56
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
You are very right to say that this is based on facts, on reality, a sad reality. The three cases really gave me an idea and although I was not aware of how exactly things work, I managed to fully grasp the situation you described and agree with your conclusion. So indeed in any country there is corruption and greed and this is what those two FACTS create: an unpleasant, unfortunate future state of things "only a handful of Indians from Bombay" in this case, a situation probably irreversible for future generations who would only want to make a decent leaving and who would not be greedy or corrupted at all like their predecessors.

Apolloneia

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-02-12 00:50:44
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
Apolloneia
Thank u for your comments. You hit it right on the nail. Well, the future generation suffered as atleast some of them were not bad, especially the engineering staff who serviced the big engines and some flight crew.
Regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2005-02-12 09:08:08
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
I can't believe they tried those! I'm speechless!

What an eye opener. This has been a very interesting read.

Author's Reply:

Kat on 2005-02-12 09:36:10
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
Hi Chrisk

I really enjoyed reading this informative piece and what a great title!

Cheers

Kat 🙂

Author's Reply:

tai on 2005-02-12 10:19:27
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
Hi Chrisk, this is the first piece of your that I have read, it was very well presented in a, dare I say it civil servant, neat way. I read till the end and understand your reasons for exposing your countryman. I could not help but feel however that this is a very tiny tip of the iceburg of corporate corruption and fraud in the world. It made me smile infact, but all theft is theft, I would agree.

I look forward to reading more of your work.

tai

Author's Reply:

gouri on 2005-02-13 20:02:43
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
Chrisk, the title is skillfully elaborated. These greedy fellows can swallow anything for their own profit.

This reminds me of something relating to your first point. Recently, my son was back from USA. After reaching IG International airport he found his baggage missing. He got it three days later. He was late in lodging his claim – a genuine claim – could have claimed compensation. At the end of the day he was happy to get back his baggage.

If greed possesses you, it’s hard to get rid of it.

Well crafted - clever and cunning.

Love
Gouri.



Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-02-13 20:16:36
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
Hi Claire
How r u? Many thanks for your comments. There were many similar cases, believe it ,my dear.
Love
Chrisk


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-02-13 20:19:57
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
Kat
Thank u. That was what it was. Greed. These people had handsome allowances. They had free flights for all the family, full rent and extra money given to them to live here besides their Indian salary.
Love
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-02-13 20:22:05
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
Tai
Thank u very much. It was rather painful for me to write this. Its not very nice, is it? Wish I was writing well about something else!
Regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-02-13 20:25:45
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
Hi Gouri
Thank u for your comments. I am grateful. I had thought about this for a long time and always hesitated to write about incidents like these as it exposed one's own countrymen. But they are very tiny tiny percentage of people and thats my consolation.
Love to u
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

soman on 2005-02-14 03:26:10
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
by Soman, Sunday February 13 @1620 GMT

I can't fault you, Chrisk, there is no denying that graft is the most thriving industry in India, - as in many other Asian & African countries. But then look at what US invaders were doing in Iraq, where one of the top Oil corporations siphoned off billions; or the UN administration itself which is under a cloud today!..... back in India, I would have a few funny tales of this genre which I hope to narrate - some other time!

Soman

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-02-14 05:02:39
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
Soman
Many thanks for your kind comments. Well this was for me sad episodes. You are in a foreign country and you get a chance to work for an Indian corporation, wow, to me that was a fantastic feeling. Then these people virtually rape the company in front of you and you are helpless to do anything about it. Here in UK also there are many who have, by their greed ruined other peoples livelihood. I look forward to seeing some of your observations.


Author's Reply:

ish on 2005-02-14 23:21:13
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
Hi Chris
It seems to me that there are some wicked people about who have an eye for a bit of corruption if it comes their way. I don't think this sort of thing is limited to your former company.

Ian

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-02-15 02:17:47
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
Ian
I know its not limited to one company, but it happened in the company I was in and I lost faith in my boss whom I looked up to. Thats the sad part for me.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

walters on 2005-02-17 09:49:52
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
You are right. And it is okay to point out the corruption wherever you find it. Odd as it may seem, Cuba was once rated as the least corrupt country. However the workers have become so impoverished that many of them think it is moral to steal from their state-owned businesses. Their code word for this "moral" theft is "Resolve."

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-02-17 19:51:15
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
Walters
Thank u for ur comments. Its everywhere and thats a tragedy. Just a few rotten apples etc.,.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

Mehitable on 2005-02-18 12:19:47
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
What an interesting and refreshingly recounted story. I used to live in Italy, which, as you may well know is famous for its corruption - but I really fear that corporate corruption in the UK could top the charts now and that it's perpetrated by those we trust most.
Hey ho, dark times
X Mehitable

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-02-18 19:36:25
Re: Corporate Greed (Screw the corporation)
Mehitable
Thank u for ur comments. The strange thing is that people who are doing this are all well off anyway. They don't really need these small amounts. I think if u r gonna steal, steal a million! (kidding):-)
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:


FRANKIE'S ANSWERED PRAYERS (posted on: 31-12-04)
This is what Frankie did after 'The Eskimo Trick' episode.

FRANKIE'S ANSWERED PRAYERS. By C R Krishnan Truman Capote, the American writer wrote a book called ' Answered Prayers' and the moral of the articles he wrote was that sometimes answered prayers can be a curse. This is what happened to Frankie, my neighbour but never a friend! After the Eskimo Trick episode Frankie kept well out of my way until I got back from my holidays in India recently. After the death of his father a couple of years ago his mother had taken in a lover and Frankie soon got kicked out. A friend of his fixed him up with a couple who were on benefits and had a one-bed council flat. Frankie had moved in and slept in the lounge on a sofa. I did know that the landlady was the object of his affection at the time of the 'Eskimo Trick'. The husband was a no good alcoholic and was drinking more than ever since Frankie moved in, for that brought him extra money. Not a lot, but Frankie was paying some money for board and lodge. Most of the time the husband was dead drunk and sleeping it off on park benches. Frankie told me that the wife was feeling very cold at night when the husband was sleeping elsewhere and he just wanted to oblige and be a teddy bear. 'Nothing sexual ever happened ', Frankie said. I was not surprised. Frankie was never really a great talker about women or sex. However, the woman now wanted more than a teddy bear as the husband, according to her, had a permanent brewer's droop. ' What's a droop?' Frankie asked me. ' Something that hangs down' I said.' What's this all about Frankie'? 'Well it's my girl friend, my landlady, says her husband has a droop, something to do with a brewery.' 'Frankie, she means a brewer's droop meaning he can't make love as he can't get it up because of too many drinks, too much alcohol in his system'. I suddenly realised the reason why he was after me to help him out with his problems with the landlady. Sometimes you can't help feeling sorry for the man. 'But Frankie you are not in that category since you don't drink much'. ' I drink a sweet cider once a week'. 'Frankie, that's not drinking and that's not going to give you a droop'. 'But I am droopy Chris mate that's why I came to you before and that penguin egg business didn't work. You gotta help me mate or I am gonna be kicked out, please mate' I wondered why this bugger was giving me all these things to sort out as though I am a qualified sexual counsellor. However I just wanted to get rid of this fellow from my face. 'Frankie, there are two kinds.' 'Of what Chrissie baby?' He was trying to be intimate! 'Of droop Frankie baby, of droop.' People who drink whisky for example have no problems. As a matter of fact it makes them opposite to droopy. So I suggest you start drinking whisky and then things will naturally progress from teddy bearing to the real thing.' With that I went inside my house brought out the cheap whisky he had bought me which still had a few drops left in it, about one third at least and asked him to try that at least an hour before going to bed etc.,. The next day he came to me grinning from ear to ear and said that he owes me a half bottle of whisky. I always like a good ending! But it was never to be. Frankie said to me that things were so good between he and the woman they wished the husband was out of the way like having a fatal accident or illness. A few months after that conversation the husband got killed by a truck while walking in the middle of road, dead drunk! The last time I saw Frankie he said how he enjoyed drinking the whisky and the reward this brought about and has increased his dose from one third of a bottle to half a day.
Archived comments for FRANKIE'S ANSWERED PRAYERS
ish on 2005-01-17 08:13:01
Re: FRANKIE'S ANSWERED PRAYERS
Chrissie, baby

I didn't think this was up to your usual standard of Frankie episodes. It was more 'sober' (??) and not so funny. I still enjoyed it though

Ian

Author's Reply:


Religious Breakfast (posted on: 27-12-04)
This was originally posted as a journal but some one suggested that more people will access this if posted here.

RELIGIOUS BREAKFAST Towards the end of last year, my father in law, 97, who lives in India had a nasty fall and had to be rushed to hospital for some stitches to the back of his head. By the time my wife and I got there he was back in the house and recovering nicely. In the next few days he was almost back to normal and reading his newspapers and walking about with a 'stick' which he hates he says as sticks are for very old people. I agreed with him but told him that though he is not 'very old' he is older than me and what his secret was. He says to me that every morning he has religious oats. 'Religious oats' ? I say. He says ,'ya the quaker one'. He also tells me that he has two brandies and a couple of long thick cigars in the evenings and despite his wife's complaint that the house stinks he has been doing this for the last 70 years or so. Then he asks me if I can keep a secret.'Definitely yes' I say. He says that the night he fell he had three brandies instead of his two and as he was pouring the third one into his glass, his hand was shaking so badly he couldn't control the amount that was going into the glass. He also asks me not to mention this to his wife as the version of events told to her is somewhat different from what he just told me. Since I have returned to U.K, I have been drinking brandy and smoking cigars much to the surprise of my wife as she cannot understand that how a man who is used to drinking whiskey and smoking a pipe could suddenly change his habits. When she was going out shopping I reminded her that she shouldn't forget my religious oats as I do not love cornflakes anymore.
Archived comments for Religious Breakfast
Griffonner on 2004-12-28 03:40:37
Re: Religious Breakfast
Out of the mouths of babes, eh?
I can tell a similar tale that involves red wine. The very reason I changed my tipple away from whiskey.
(smiling)
Griffonner

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-05-02 22:40:14
Re: Religious Breakfast
Griffoner
I am so sorry I missed your comments somehow. Just saw it tonite. Thanks for the 10. I am sorry to tell you that my father-in-law passed away on the 14th April last. He was able to read my book a week or so before! He was 98!
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:


DEVIL'S FINGER (posted on: 26-11-04)
Well, recent events in our street inspired me to write this story.

THE DEVIL'S FINGER
BY C R KRISHNAN



The husband died last week. It was expected for he was a heavy drinker and a chain smoker. It was just a question of when it was going to happen, as he was forever walking about with a balloon tummy and wheezy breath.
So the prayers of the wife and the lodger lover were eventually answered. The body remained in the hospital mortuary when the forty-year-old lover and the fifty-year-old widow were enjoying their newfound freedom.
They made love all night. The woman told the lover that the wedding ring must be removed from her dead husband's finger and the lover should wear it, as soon as possible, like tomorrow!
''But the body is in the mortuary, sweetheart. Couldn't we remove it before the undertakers start embalming?''
The woman was indignant. '' No, I want it done tomorrow, or you ain't
makin love to me no more''.
So the next day off he goes to the Hospital with the widow and they tried to wrench the ring off the dead man's fingers but it wouldn't come off. All the pulling and pushing did not help. The attendants left them alone for they knew it is going to be a long job. The widow had a great idea.
She turned to the lover. '' Darling, you got your knife with you?''
''Yes, I have.''
''Okay honey, cut the finger off. Its not gonna hurt him now, is it?''
''Its gonna be difficult cutting through the bone, I have only a Swiss army knife'' the lover pleaded.
''There is one way to do it though,'' the woman said.'' You break it first by bending it backward like you break a frozen chicken leg so that when you use the knife it comes off fine.''
The lover boy reluctantly bent the finger backwards and it broke with a 'clack' sound. The cutting off was easy afterwards and hey presto, the ring came off and so did half a finger.
The dumb fellow then pocketed both items and left the mortuary with the widow clinging on to his arms.
The broken finger was thrown into the first litterbin they found and merrily they walked home holding each other tightly, kissing occasionally.
The ring fitted the lover perfectly, not on the wedding finger but the middle one. According to the Indians, that's inviting bad luck. Only the Indian devil wears a ring on the middle finger.
That night also they made love to exhaustion and because of the wearing of the ring the woman felt that this act of love was somehow justified. However just before he went to sleep the man took the ring off his finger and placed it on the bedside table. He was not used to wearing a ring and the sharp edges was biting into the skin.
Its 2 am. Both occupants on the bed are snoring away.
The thief came through the back door, which was carelessly left unlocked. The couple didn't know that he had entered the bedroom. He was looking around shining a torch, which he was holding in his left hand while a big sharp knife occupied his right.



Suddenly the light rested on the shiny gold on the bed table. At the same time the lover woke up startled and as he was about grab the ring the thief's knife came down hard severing his middle finger clean off. The thief left in a hurry picking up both the ring and the severed finger.
Somewhere in Brighton town that night there were two litter bins each containing severed fingers!



Archived comments for DEVIL'S FINGER
chrisk on 2004-11-27 05:29:57
Re: DEVIL'S FINGER
Radiodenver
Thank u for ur kind comment. Actually he lost two as the second one had to be surgically removed? losing two for one! Gods can be a bit cruel. Theres a rumour that the thief was the husban's brother.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-11-27 15:42:06
Re: DEVIL'S FINGER
Sorry question mark unintentional.
Chris

Author's Reply:

shadow on 2004-11-28 07:47:59
Re: DEVIL'S FINGER
Now that is gruesome! Good story.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-11-28 13:28:47
Re: DEVIL'S FINGER
Moya
Thank u. Thank God I don't wear a weeding ring, as the edges of it cuts the surrounding skin so its safely stored away. (never place valuables on the bedside table!
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-11-28 13:30:06
Re: DEVIL'S FINGER
sorry not 'weeding but' wedding' lol.
C

Author's Reply:

soman on 2004-12-10 13:01:15
Re: DEVIL'S FINGER
by Soman, December 10th 1800 GMT

Thanks for the warning. I shall take extra care!

Soman

Author's Reply:


THE ESKIMO TRICK (posted on: 06-09-04)
I told this to Ian Holt my buddy (Ish) some two years ago and forgot about it. Last week when we were having a drink in our local Ian asked me whether Frankie has solved his love problem.

THE ESKIMO TRICK C R Krishnan (with a lot of help from Ian Holt) Frankie approached me with a problem. At the ripe old age of thirty-eight, after many years of searching, he has finally found a woman. The fact that she is fifty-two and rather plain does not bother him - he says. He also reminded me that I told him once that when the lights are out all women are same. So I told him I couldn't remember telling him that. He swore on his living mother that I did. So I asked him what the problem is and to say it quickly as right then I was fed up. My wife was staying with my son some thirty miles away and I was not looking forward to spending the weekend alone eating warmed-up take away food. He took a deep breath and said 'Can you help me with a personal problem?' I said 'Frankie, please. Spell it out quickly as I got to go and get a bottle of whisky before the off licence people close.' He hurried out leaving me flabbergasted. When he came back a short while later he had a bottle of the cheapest whisky, which I will not drink, in normal circumstances. Right then circumstances were not normal as he was after my blood. Okay I am exaggerating; he was bothering me, making me unhappy. A pain in my arse. I took a swig of the whisky and asked him what the problem was. 'I want to make love to my girl friend. Can you help me?' I said, very quickly, 'No! Definitely not! I really can't!' 'But you don't understand, Chris mate. I have a problem.' 'What sort of problem?' 'I can't - you know - do it.' 'Do what?' said I, mystified. 'You know -.' I have an erective malfunction. As he said he gave a sort of dancing motion, backwards and forwards. I suddenly realised what he was on about, and tried to keep a straight face. 'That sort of thing is a very complicated medical condition and I simply cannot help you, Frankie. You need to see your Doctor.' He sat there looking at me. I took another swig of the cheap rubbish he bought me. But he continued looking at me with pleading eyes like a dog waiting for his chocolate treats. So - just for the benefit of you readers - I was in a wicked mood. So I told him it's to do with his genitals. 'You have to stimulate them by dipping them in cold and warm water to get the sperms awake. Like the Eskimos do when they want to make love. They get two bowls of water, one cold, one very warm. You have to dip your jewels in each bowl of water alternately. Understand?' Frankie nodded. 'You then boil two eggs, again following the example of Eskimos. Boil them hard and eat them, one when you've dried off, and another one a minute later. Each egg you eat strengthens your balls, one after the other.' Frankie looked at me hard. 'You're kidding.' 'Not at all. I'm dead serious.' I was trying desperately hard to keep a straight face. He thanked me and went away. I took another swig of the cheap whisky, and went to the kitchen to warm up a semi-cold take away for my dinner. The next day there was a knock at my door. It was Frankie. He was walking very gingerly and grimacing with pain. I asked him what the matter was. 'I tried your Eskimo method last night. I scalded me balls. You did say one bowl of cold water and one of very hot water?' 'No! I said one cold and one very warm. Not boiling hot. You idiot!' I had great difficulty controlling myself. After I had pulled myself together I suggested he go to my bathroom and apply some petroleum jelly and I also tell him it's in a see through jar and yellow in colour. After 5 minutes I heard him give a big groan. 'What's the matter?' 'It hurts even more.' I went into the bathroom and inspected the bottle he used - and its not petroleum jelly. It's Tiger Balm, a Chinese remedy for headaches and it's ten times stronger than Vicks Vaporoub! 'You picked up the wrong bottle, the second time!' He said he didn't understand what I was talking about and walks away still groaning and holding his balls. I took another swig of this not-so-bad whisky. It's going to be a peaceful night for me, but not for Frankie! The next day Frankie was back. He seemed to moving a bit more easily. 'I got a bone to pick with you.' he said. 'The bloke what lives next door to me told me that Eskimos don't have chickens as it's too cold where they live. So where do they get the eggs from?' I was thinking hard. 'Of course they don't have chickens,' I said playing for time, 'Like you said it's too cold for chickens in the Arctic regions.' 'So where do they get the eggs from then?' He seemed quite threatening. And despite being an idiot, he is quite big. 'It's quite simple', I said, 'Penguins.' 'Oh, yeh' he said.
Archived comments for THE ESKIMO TRICK
Bradene on 2004-09-06 13:39:59
Re: THE ESKIMO TRICK
Chrisk in spite of that sexist bit right at the beginning, it almost put me off reading further, i thought this was the funniest thing I've read for a long time. Thanks for that I was in dire need of a good laugh. Val x

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-09-06 13:54:30
Re: THE ESKIMO TRICK
Val
It wasn't meant to be a sexist remark. I was simply quoting a French saying about plain woman which is not very fair but who r we to judge? We r mere writers, LOl
I am glad u enjoyed it. I was reading your poem about ur daughter and it was so beautifully sad. My cousin from India 'soman' who wrote cindarella 2001 was telling me how much it moved him
Chris.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-09-06 13:59:29
Re: THE ESKIMO TRICK
Val
Thank u for the ten! WOW.

Author's Reply:

Bradene on 2004-09-06 14:00:10
Re: THE ESKIMO TRICK
Chrisk you are sweet I was only pulling your leg love I'm not one of those womens lib types really I'm not.. I love being a woman and thanks for reading my poem. I've just met your cousin, now I'm off to read his story. Bye now love Val x

Author's Reply:

thehaven on 2004-09-06 16:05:05
Re: THE ESKIMO TRICK
Chris this is very funny and those penguin eggs are very tasty or should that be teste.



Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-09-06 16:12:52
Re: THE ESKIMO TRICK
Tasty? I have never tried it LOl For Frankie defenitely teste!
Thank u
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-09-06 16:12:54
Re: THE ESKIMO TRICK
Tasty? I have never tried it LOl For Frankie defenitely teste!
Thank u
Chris

Author's Reply:

ritawrites on 2004-09-07 07:55:05
Re: THE ESKIMO TRICK
chris – this is a riot! Hilarious! I giggled all the way -- as for 'sexist' stuff -- well, like they say -- you can't distinguish one man from another in the night after the lights are out, so there! -- Anyway, hope you have a few of these for October when we meet up – you ARE coming down here aren’t you?

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-09-07 09:17:48
Re: THE ESKIMO TRICK
Rita
Thank u. Thats the kind of response I want. U hit it on the nail and pushed it all the way down. I believe in equality, I was only telling that to my wife the other say when she was polishing my shoes! (Joking) She will not do that but I have polished hers, honest Rita. Why don't u meet me half way in B'lore? I am suggesting the same to Gouri who is in Orissa, close for a Bengali girl I suppose.
Love to u
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-09-07 09:24:22
Re: THE ESKIMO TRICK
Rita
I meant Pune for Gouri, not too far is it?
C

Author's Reply:


BOTTLE OF INK AND A STEEL PEN (posted on: 06-08-04)
The wedding is on again!

BOTTLE OF INK AND THE STEEL PEN By C R Krishnan
That’s what they look like. The bride and the groom, respectively. I have no problems with large people, honest. Some of my best friends are. I even had a girl friend once who was big. The groom that is the steel pen approaches me. ‘Hey Chris, can you take pictures? Frankie says you are a good photographer’ ‘Well, I am not that good, but if Frankie says so, who am I to dispute?’ ‘Well Chris, Frankie is gonna be my best man’ ‘Best man?’ I say. ‘You want me to take photos of your wedding?’ ‘ Hey. Good guess, ya its my wedding soon’. So the steel pen is getting married to the bottle of ink, and I who have never taken any wedding pictures, ever, am right in it. Thank you, Frankie! ‘How much will you charge me?’ ‘Not much, just pay for the film and processing, O K?’ ‘Hey, when is the great event?’ ‘August 21st next year’. I tell the steel pen that’s it’s a long way away as this is only January 2002. I see him the next day and he says as I am not charging him for the shoot he and his fianc have bought me a bottle of whisky and it is safely stored in a cool place. A bottle of whisky not maturing in oak or sherry casks but in its own bottle for the next 18 months! A month pass. I come across the steel pen. I can’t really avoid him as we live on the same street. He is taking his dog out for a walkie. He does it in the morning and the bottle does it in the evening. They have been living together for some months. ‘Not long now, Chris’, says the steel pen. ‘ ya, another sixteen months mate’ Frankie, the best man who also lives on the same street as I says he is learning his speech. Every month and some times every week the steel pen would say, ‘Hey, Chris, not long now’. Its August the 1st, three weeks to go. I go and buy half a dozen rolls of films. Costs me a lot. I ask my friend Ian if he could operate the second camera, just in case. He asks me if I have an extra wide-angle lens as otherwise he may not be able to fit in the bride let alone the groom.I tell him that I have the same problem when I take his picture. (Ian ain't slim, either!) The day of the wedding. Ian and moi are clicking away. The priest conducting the wedding says the usual things like ‘ we are gathered etc., ending with let them speak now’. A heavily tattooed man with a skinhead stands up and says’ I wanna talk some’. He says the bride is his wife. He has been in and out prison for the last fifteen years and has just been released on parole. Pandemonium rules. Bottle of ink looks perplexed. Steel pen asks the woman, ‘Why didn'tnna u tell me you was married before?’ She says she forgot as he is been away for such a long time. Frankie comes to us and says that he has warned the steel pen many times that the bottle is a bit thick like a sandwich short of a picnic etc.,. He also says he has been learning his lines for more than a year and it all comes to nuffing. He also wonders whats gonna happen to all the food. I ask him whats gonna happen to all my film rolls? A few weeks after I come across the steel pen. He says it was all a misunderstanding, as the skinhead was not actually married to the bottle, they were just common law couple. He is going to fix another date for the wedding. However I ain’t doin no wedding pictures no more!
Archived comments for BOTTLE OF INK AND A STEEL PEN
thehaven on 2004-08-13 19:03:30
Re: BOTTLE OF INK AND A STEEL PEN
i missed this one! good read written with your usual off beat humour.

Do I get an invite to the next one!

Mike

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-08-14 03:15:11
Re: BOTTLE OF INK AND A STEEL PEN
Mike
Thank u for the 9! Wow what r u after mate? Invite to the wedding? Thank u for ur comments.
Chris

Author's Reply:

marym on 2004-08-21 14:58:46
Re: BOTTLE OF INK AND A STEEL PEN
Loved the title -- The narration is good. But the ending was predictable as this is a scene from life and not a story.

Nevertheless, it was a good read.

Regards, Mary

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-08-22 02:07:08
Re: BOTTLE OF INK AND A STEEL PEN
Hi Mary
Thank u for ur comments. I am glad u liked it.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:


The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport (posted on: 25-06-04)
John Barker's story, honest!

THE CESSNAS AT SHOREHAM AIRPORT By C R Krishnan Shoreham Airport is situated about six miles west of Brighton, Sussex. I was sitting at the airport caf minding my own business, waiting for my Flying instructor to finish his lesson. He had taken a Kuwaiti fellow up in his Cessna. The Airport is small, has many flying schools and flies to France, Jersey and other short haul destinations. I was looking at the planes taxiing on the tarmac and one of them came to a halt and out came a few passengers, but my eyes caught the attention of one particular passenger, who was carrying a small bag and walking towards the entrance of the hall that I could see from the caf. She was taking small steps like a Japanese geisha and she was gorgeous, blonde hair and with a tight long skirt moving her bum like a model which made me spill my coffee as I was about to touch the cup to my lips, for she took my breath away just at that moment. Slowly she disappeared from view. Well that’s how it is, isn’t it? Oh no, it wasn’t to be. While I was wiping the spilled coffee from my shirt and the table, she walked in and stood over a table not very far from me. I watched her slowly taking the rucksack type bag off her shoulders, placing it on the floor beside her and sitting on one of the chairs, waiting for the waitress. She moved like a dream, reminded me of a ballet dancer. May be she was one. My instructor approached me and told me that he was too tired today. He said he had a bellyful of the Kuwaiti and all he wanted now was a drink. I bought him a coffee and the girl was still sitting waiting for the waitress. You see in this restaurant you can go to the bar and order orif you are lazy you can wait for the waitress for a long time. Suddenly I see the girl looking at Stuart the instructor and smiling. ‘Stuart, is that you? ‘Louisa, hey, I didn’t see you sitting there, come on, come over here’ With that he got up and picked her bag up and brought her over to our table. Must be my lucky day. She walked up to us slowly and sat down opposite to me and completely ignored me, which hurt my pride a little. After the introductions I went up to the bar and bought her a tea, no milk, no sugar. Stuart said goodbye and asked me would I kindly give her a lift. I asked her where she was living, she said Lancing, where she had a flat, only a short distance from the airport. We climbed into my old MG sports, which was slowly falling apart. I helped her to put her bags behind the seats in the little gap. Here I was sitting with this blonde beauty that smelt of shampoo and soap. No conversation for the first 5 minutes. Then she turned to me. ‘What’s your name again? I forget, sorry’. ‘Funny you ask me that, I know your name, Louisa’ ‘O.K, you win Mr, please tell me your name’. ‘Barker, John Barker’ (like Bond, James Bond) We arrived at the building where her flat was. I helped her in. I had a couple of drinks, and said bye and left, after giving her my card. The telephone rang the next day, it wasn’t her. I wasn’t going to ring her, no way. However I couldn’t get her out of my head. Her hair, eyes and lips and the whole face and her arse moving in a beautiful way. Then I have had this kind of feeling before and after a time it slowly fades away. Then a few days after she rang and asked me if I would like to take her to the airport as she is flying out to France. My instructor Stuart was taking her to Le Touquet in his Cessna. Suddenly I am a taxi service, but who cares when the woman is a dream. I thought that the best strategy here is to play hard to get. We were driving. ‘John, Do you like me? I think you do’. I shifted in my small tight drivers’ seat and looked at her and just nodded my head and laughed and told her I adored her, and asked her how she knew. ‘The way you look at me, John, the way you look at me. All girls know when they are liked. I like your looking at me specially, it gives me pimples.’ ‘You mean, goose pimples, or is it turkey?’ ‘Don’t joke, I am serious, Can I ask you something John?’ ‘Louisa, the answer to the questions in the order they are asked is, ‘no, no, yes. Am I married? Am I divorced? Am I seeing any one special’ ‘John, John. Now wait a minute please! I don’t understand, ‘yes’ to third question. ‘ Well, I am seeing some one special, and its you’ She kissed me on the cheek, once, twice and many more times and on my neck and ears and my left cheek was covered in her lipstick and I looked like a circus clown, red paint on one cheek. We reached the Airport and parked. We carried the baggage and all the time talked and talked as though we had known each other for a long time. We kissed and kissed again like long time lovers. There was something unnatural about the situation, something was not right. Things moved so fast my head was reeling. I had been with the girl for a total of 2 hours and now we were in love. I didn’t know anything about her apart from the fact that she was from France and she worked for a perfume company as a seller and demonstrator. She had her own flat and she couldn’t drive. That was all. She said she would be back in a couple weeks and with that boarded the small cessna. A few days later I saw Stuart anxious to make another booking for my lesson. ‘ Hey John the girl has been asking a lot of questions about you, you lucky sod. I told her you are a decent guy but you are a woman chaser and you drink a lot and you are a no good gambler etc.,. Ok naah, am joking. You owe me a double’. I waited for her to return. I waited a very long time. . I telephoned her flat almost every day, but it rang and rang. After a few weeks tried to find out about the company she worked for but with the information I had it was impossible to trace her whereabouts. Stuart had no additional information either. Well these types of happenings are short and sweet and they suddenly come to a grinding halt. Such is life. I decided to go to her flat and found it locked and the caretaker had no information either and he had no keys to the flat. All owners kept their own keys. Months passed and she was a just a pleasant distant memory. Out of the blue I decided to ring her flat. I had just finished my lesson, and had parked the Cessna in its own little space. I rang the number from my mobile. A girl answered. It was her sister. ‘Can I speak to Louisa?’ ‘Sorry, she is not here, who are you, Mr?’ ‘My name is John, am just a friend.’ ‘ She is on honeymoon in Canada and after that won’t be coming back to U.K. She might stay there with her husband. He is Canadian you know.’ It took me a few moments to recover. ‘I have just come to pack her things and put the flat……………………..’ I wasn’t listening anymore; I was looking at the Cessna I had just been flying. There are many Cessnas at Shoreham Airport. They are parked in a row all fuelled up and ready to take off at a very short notice. The Cessnas of Shoreham Airport are a beautiful sight.
Archived comments for The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
sirat on 2004-06-25 04:27:01
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
A good story that will have a sad familiarity for many men. I also thought that the telling was not quite so straightforward and "artless" as I have felt about some of your other ones. It's still a bit conversational (e.g. you say things like "you see" to your reader) but it has a structure that I liked, held together by the airport and the Cessnas. What would make it better I think would be for the narrator to drop his guard a bit more and let us know about how it actually felt to be discarded in that way by a woman that he thought he loved. Despite the first person narration the perspective you have taken is a bit detached and external. Don't be afraid of feelings, they are what we read stories for.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-06-25 05:08:21
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
Sirat
Thank u for your comments and as usual they are constructive. You speak your mind. It took me a long time to get this to paper. The story was based on something that happened. I felt the girl was very quick at showing her feelings but in a selfish way.I like u coz u like me and adore me sort. No depth.
John however according to me was genuine in his feelings from the start. I really don't know how to show any more depth to his feelings.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

dancing-queen on 2004-06-25 10:10:17
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
Hi Chris - interesting story, although a little bit strange, I thought. On their first meeting the girl hardly paid John any attention, even forgetting his name, and then on the second meeting she was all over him. Couldn't quite work it out, but I guess life is strange at times, eh?

Can I point out a few things which will make it a little tidier?

Short hall destination = short haul destination

taxiing at the tarmac = taxiiing on the tarmac

May be she = maybe she

'You had been with the girl for a total of 2 hours may be and now we were in love.' = this was a bit confusing. Perhaps try 'I had only been with the girl for about two hours, and now we were in love.'

Oh, yes, and this line had me in stiches: '...Ok naah, am joking. You owe me a big one.'
LOL - sounds VERY rude, Chris 🙂 I think you meant to say '...ok, nah, I'm joking. You owe me big time.'

You are funny!

Sirat made some good points in his comments, though, Chris. There are certain expressions you use, like 'talked and talked' and 'kissed and kissed' that produce a child-like quality, which is cute but maybe not how you are wanting to be seen. I think maybe his suggestion of experimenting with writing some third person fiction might work for you in some cases. You know I love your humour and your style when writing biographical accounts, but if you are wanting to make something appear more as a fiction story, then third person might work better. It's just an idea to keep you on your toes! LOL

Best wishes - Leahx

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-06-25 10:32:20
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
Hi Leah
Thanx for your comments which sounds reasonable, lol. Ya I have to tidy up which I will do very carefully like short haul etc.,. However I have to do this very slowly as when I start editing the story live I see all kinds of things I do not understand, so have to be very alert and alcohol free or I shall mess it up like I did once.
I think the girl was simply impulsive. She did spent some time with John at her house when he dropped her and since he was quite a handsome fella in a rugged sort of way, she must have fallen for him , well at least temporarily. Then women are strange creatures! He took it too seriously and may be for her it was just a laugh. U get into situations like this when u r at a party and suddenly see this gorgeous girl , start talking, kissing and end up very close. However, the morning after is another day!
I am very grateful.
Leah, I wasn't being rude , I Know Brighton has many gays and by big one I meant a drink!
Grateful
Chris

Author's Reply:

dancing-queen on 2004-06-25 11:05:26
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
LOL - oh, so THAT's what you meant by 'big one', eh? I'm still laughing at it now. Okay, so what he should say, perhaps, is 'Next drinks are on you.' or 'You owe me a double.' (But don't change it too soon 'cos it really is a very funny line - even if it was uninentional) - DQ 🙂


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-06-25 11:51:45
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
Leah
Too late, I have changed it. LOL
C

Author's Reply:

thehaven on 2004-06-26 02:10:30
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
Another great piece Chris.I liked the ending comparing the beauty of the planes perhaps to her.?

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-06-26 02:28:30
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
Mike
Thank u for the 8!
Well it was just a consolation thing, as he had lost her for ever and what is left is just the other things he liked, the planes. They r a beautiful sight. By the way I didn't realise that its now known as Brighton City Airport (shoreham). Did u know that?
Chris

Author's Reply:

drewgum on 2004-06-26 03:22:10
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
You know what, I liked this a lot. I liked it's emotional detachment and it's very precise style. That reminded me of Murakami and because of that I guess I was ultimately diappointed. I would have liked to have seem more interaction between this girl and the narrator. I think you have to show they are in love rather than say they are in love.

The last line is very nice.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-06-26 03:37:39
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
Hi
Thank u.
Tell me more bt Murakami, pls. Is this a novel. a short story?
I know what u mean bt the showing of the feelings etc., but I find it difficult to treat this story anymore. I am very flattered that u like it though. Made my day.
Chris

Author's Reply:

ish on 2004-06-26 10:45:57
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
Chris
I was at Brighton City Airport (shoreham) the other day and I did notice many planes parked in front of the flying schools.
Poor John, atleast he must be happy with his flying.
I did notice the comment from Dancing Queen about big one! Well we do use that expression here meaning a big drink, a double or a pint. I suppose compared to the Londoners' we are just plain innocent!
Ian

Author's Reply:

Gee on 2004-06-27 13:04:01
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
I liked this a lot. I liked the way John responded to the girl, the little touches like the way he spilled his coffee, and the description of her.
I liked the humour in it too, the James Bond bit, for example and I could understand how Louise would respond to that and enjoy John's company.
The ending was quite shocking. I thought that Louise might have had an accident which prevented her from getting in touch with John.
The true reason was completely unexpected yet, because of her sudden attraction to John, it was perfectly believable.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-06-27 13:18:43
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
Gee
Oh, this comment is appreciated. You hit it right on the nail. Thats exactly it. Thank u gee, u shared my feeling.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2004-06-27 15:51:30
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
What a shame! Such a sad ending. I noticed this is under biography, is this true??? Did this happen to you? I would have been totally devastated!

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-06-27 16:19:37
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
Claire, Claire
I love ya, so don't do this to me!
Didn't u read the intro? Didn't I tell that its John's story? LOL. I know how u feel for him. Thank u for appreciating it.
love to u
Chris



Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-06-27 17:51:31
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
Claire
Thank u for the 8

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2004-06-27 18:20:40
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
Yeah, I read the intro, but silly me forgot about it at the end of the story, because I became too involved with the story. Silly me! Not my fault, you shouldn't write such gripping stuff! You did write it didn't you??? LOL.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-06-28 08:01:32
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
Claire
Yes I wrote this. I was sad when I was writing this. I think may be I got into his shoes!
Chris

Author's Reply:

JJJoyce on 2004-07-17 04:48:45
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
THis is a typical male fanstasy, showing no understanding of what it is to be a woman. Grow up and give us some meat to chew on.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-07-17 06:58:36
Re: The Cessnas At Shoreham Airport
jjjoyce
Thank u for ur comments. Fantasy this is not my dear. How about some veg instead of meat?
regards
Chris

Author's Reply:


A GLASS OF ALE (posted on: 21-05-04)
A long time ago.

chrisk

A GLASS OF ALE
BY C R KRISHNAN




What happened to that girl I met in the tube? Oh, I know it was such a long time ago. Tonight I am thinking about her. I woke up from a short nap and I suddenly see her eyes. It is like looking at a glass of ale held to light. Beautiful, darkly translucent.
The tube is jam-packed, because of rush hour. She is standing beside me and I can smell her perfume. Her brown hair looks like it’s been brushed a thousand strokes, shiny and lustrous. I wish I could reach out and stroke it, wish I could kiss her eyes and say, ‘hey stranger, I love you’. Nothing more, honest. I have been travelling the same route many times, from Queensway to Moorgate, but never seen her before.
Then something unbelievable happens.
‘Please Sir, can you help me’?
I am lost for words, so I nod my head. I can’t believe this is happening. So, I say ‘yes, sure, what can I do?’
‘I am going to faint in a minute, hold me, so I won’t fall’. Before I could answer she is closing her eyes and if I hadn’t caught her she would have sagged and fallen to the floor, slowly like tomato sauce from a ketchup bottle. We are in a crowded compartment standing toe to toe, pressing each other and holding on to the strap swinging down from the roof of the speeding train.
She remains in that position and I hold her tight with my right hand while holding on to the strap with my left, and I don’t’ remember, how long.
The train stops. It is Moorgate. People start rushing out and more people are rushing in. I am still holding her. I have missed my station. The train starts moving. She opens her eyes as though she has just woken up from her sleep. She smiles at me.
‘Thank you Sir, It’s a medical condition I have. Sorry to have troubled you’.
And with that she goes to the door as the train is coming to a halt. She looks at me, smiles and she is gone. I follow her, have to any way as I have to double back to Moorgate station. I look around the platform and try following the throng of passengers rushing out. I can’t find her anywhere. She has disappeared.
There is tomorrow, and many other days ahead, so why worry, I am bound to see her again and then I will ask her name and go and have coffee with her, get her telephone number and get her to see a specialist for her condition.
I will tell her how much I love her and I will gaze into her eyes that look like ale held to light, darkly translucent, and stroke her beautiful brown hair that has been brushed a thousand strokes.

I never saw her again.



Archived comments for A GLASS OF ALE


Sunken on 2004-05-21 08:30:26
Re: A GLASS OF ALE
Something similar happened to me Chrisk. I'm on a restraining order at the moment that forbids me from going anywhere near her. Give up this dream my good man. Stalking is not the answer (-;
Interesting piece. I like the way you liken her eyes to ale. Not exactly the most romantic analogy, but I know exactly what you mean. I just wish pretty girls would faint more often. Good stuff.

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n
k
e
n


Author's Reply:

dancing-queen on 2004-05-21 08:56:33
Re: A GLASS OF ALE
Gosh, interesting life you've had Chris! Bet you thought it was your lucky day, eh? LOL

I liked this one, Chris, even though there were some real mushy parts - but I'm a romantic so I don't mind all that stuff.

I did spot something in your second para - 'The tube is jam-packed, because of rush hour. She is standing beside me and I could smell her perfume.' Somehow you've got your tenses mixed up in there. I think it should read 'She is standing beside me and I can smell her perfume.' (You're relating it in present tense, like you're actually there, so need to follow that through -is/can, was/could).

By the way, a teacher at my daughter's school has that sleep apnoea problem. She teaches IT and ends up hitting her head on the keyboard throughout the lesson, where she drops off in a split second! Must be awful thing to have.

DQx

Author's Reply:

uppercase on 2004-05-21 10:31:43
Re: A GLASS OF ALE
Mushy and I do love the romance. Very good...Erma

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2004-05-21 12:27:37
Re: A GLASS OF ALE
Those brief loves we have can keep us going for years. I find it amazing how we remember the detail about something like this but when it comes to remembering something special with your partner - the mind goes blank.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-21 12:30:43
Re: A GLASS OF ALE
Hi Leah
Thnak u. I am correcting it straightway, the tense thing? Mushy? Has this got anything to do with peas? lol
Love
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-21 12:32:12
Re: A GLASS OF ALE
Hi Uppercase
Thank u for ur kind comments. One of u better tell me what 'mushy' means lol
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-21 13:03:03
Re: A GLASS OF ALE
Hi Sunken
Thank u. I have no chance of stalking her, I don't know where she is and even if I come across her in a street somehere, I don't think I will recognise her. I was just explaining that to my wife, the other day, when she was reading the draft of this.LOL
Regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-21 13:06:33
Re: A GLASS OF ALE
Leah
Pls ignore the '?' after 'the tense thing'. It should be a full stop.

Author's Reply:

TheGeeza on 2004-05-21 16:13:49
Re: A GLASS OF ALE
I tried fainting into the arms of a pretty woman at Moorgate station, but it didn't work, so I picked an ugly one, but she dropped me and everyone watched me laying on the floor, rubbing my head. I walk to London Bridge now.
Seriously, can be interesting to consider what might have happened to your whole life if you'd managed to catch her or spot her again. You never know what might've been.


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-21 16:41:58
Re: A GLASS OF ALE
Hi mate
Well that we will never know, what might have been.I think u better get back on the train as fainting n walking don't go together.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

ish on 2004-05-23 14:13:14
Re: A GLASS OF ALE
Chris
This is sad. However you had that moment, which I never had, nothing like this ever happens to me. Its a kind of sweet sadness.Well, what could have been is something else, eh, Chris?
Ish

Author's Reply:

thehaven on 2004-05-24 13:08:41
Re: A GLASS OF ALE
Great piece Chris.Was that her I saw in Churchill square?

Mike

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-24 13:21:26
Re: A GLASS OF ALE
Hi Buddy
I doubt it. Was she a middle aged woman with eyes like yale............lol, then its probably her. I am not sure abt her hair though.
regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-06-17 17:22:47
Re: A GLASS OF ALE
Claire
I am not saying anything as my wife would read this.LOL
Thank u for voting for me.
Love
Chris

Author's Reply:


Landscaping By Moonlight (posted on: 17-05-04)
Loosely based on true events. All the names have been changed.

chrisk

LANDSCAPING BY MOONLIGHT
BY C R KRISHNAN





A full moon peeped out of the clouds as Nigel was digging. A solitary figure in a field
that used to grow corn. The field was reached by walking down a valley overgrown with shrub and some gnarled trees. Foxes and rabbits and some cats roamed there at night. A few trees had birds’ nest in them, high up.
He had killed his wife and was trying to bury her. The sudden brightness from the sky startled him. It was a cloudy night when he started his work and now he was exposed to the houses that overlooked the valley and the field. The houses were situated way up and unless one was awake at 1a.m and had a pair of binoculars, it was difficult to see that far down the field. So for the time being he was safe.
He finished his digging and having had a cursory look around, he dragged the lifeless body and placed it doubled up in the hole. The young woman lay there wrapped in the black satin king size bed sheet that she had bought only a few days ago He filled it up with the earth and slowly placed the top part of the earth with all the weeds and other growth over it. He had cut it out carefully beforehand so when any one looked at the ground which he had just dug up it didn’t show any disturbance. A few days and it would be undetectable. Clever Nigel.
The body had a name. Jane Jones, wife of Nigel Jones, Landscape Gardener, and had been married for four years. The gardener had not been doing any landscaping for some time now. Of course jobs were available but he was not interested as his wife had inherited some money from her aunt and the cheque for some 50,000 was duly deposited in their joint account. You see all finances were in the control of Nigel as his wife was not very good with figures and implicitly trusted him. She was also deeply in love with her husband, but the husband was deeply in love with someone else. That was the problem.
For the last three months all they did was shop, shop and more shop. All credit cards were paid up and new store cards were being given by generous departmental stores, generous until the end of the month when the money is due, if you didn’t pay promptly, then they would add generous interest on it. This couple never had so much money and why then should Nigel do any work or his wife do any part time work in the Woolworth’s? 50,000 is going to last for ever!
In a family when old people start to die they do it in quick succession. It is as though they were supporting and encouraging each other to live and some times when one goes the other usually follows suit. You call it heartbreak or something like that. A few months after the auntie’s death the very rich uncle followed her to the grave. The uncle left everything to the only niece, Jane, the wife of Nigel.
The whole estate was worth around half a million pounds. The couple were rich beyond their wildest dreams.
The day before the killing, the cheque arrived from the solicitors who were administering the estate. It was brought in by one of the staff from the company and duly handed over to Jane who in turn immediately handed it over to Nigel, her true love and husband. It was a Friday and too late to go to the bank The bank can wait until Monday and the cheque was not going anywhere. It was, it was going Nigel’s way.
A year ago Nigel had met a girl, the daughter of a rich widow who had commissioned him to landscape her large garden and had promptly fallen in love, deeply, madly, lustily! She was just eighteen and her attention to him, a much older man had flattered him and she was beautiful, sophisticated fresh meat unlike his wife. However being a hand to mouth person he was not going to be able to keep her in the way she was accustomed to. So for the time being it was just love and sex.

Now the situation had changed! Nigel planned his actions carefully. He was going to kill his wife and after getting rid of the body he would tell every one that his wife had gone away to her country of birth, Ireland, and he was to follow her later. She couldn’t say goodbye to all her friends, as she had to look after her late uncle’s affairs back there and the solicitors wanted to see her in a hurry. She had no other relations here in U.K., apart from her husband.
On Saturday, the day of the killing, he had told Charlotte, the young girl that his wife was leaving him and going back to Ireland to a remote village in County Cork or somewhere, as they had been unhappy for a very long time. She had already asked him for a divorce. He kissed the young girl and held her and made love to her in her room and never wanted to leave. The fire was burning full furnace. Hot! He had decided that he was never ever going to make love to his wife. She was cold and old, much older than this young beautiful thing.
That night while his wife was sleeping he suffocated her with the pillow with the black satin cover on the king size bed with the satin bed sheet. The lady struggled for a while and then went limp. She was a tiny little thing anyway. It was so easy, like suffocating rabbits that he used to do as a kid. He had killed many times, but this was his first human.
Having buried the body he came back to his house over looking the valley, showered. He would have to remove and get rid of some of the clothes and her handbag etc to make it look as though she had gone on a journey. He will also buy a ticket to Dublin through the Internet in his wife’s name and that way cover all the tracks. He went to the bedroom and through the window he could see roughly the area where he had just been. He made the bed that was in a mess and looked at the big cheque, which was lying beside the bedside table. He picked it up and kissed it, ummma…
Before turning in he decided to have a last look at the site. He picked up the binoculars and looked down the field to wards the spot. The moon was shining so bright everything around was visible in a milky sort of way. He even noticed a fox sniffing around the spot.
Everything went Nigel’s way. All the people concerned accepted his version of her not being around and in a few months she ‘died’ in Ireland and he disappeared for a few days only to re appear and tell every one how sad the funeral was. Nigel married his sweetheart and lived happily ever after, until a construction company purchased the land and wanted to convert it into a theme park with garden, fountain, play area for kids and a few shops.
Nigel panicked. They will soon start digging the place up and that would be the end. The body had been there for a year. There is no alternative but to dig it up and bury it somewhere else, but where and how? Going downhill was easy and the body was freshly killed. No smell of decomposition but now he has to bring the body uphill, at night unseen by any one. He no longer lived in the house where he killed his wife and from where he could see the burial site. He was now half a millionaire with a new rich wife and that enabled him to buy a house in a posher part of the town, a few miles away. However the job had to be done or he was finished, end of the road, kaput.
One night he went down with a spade, big garden refuse bags, tapes and all the necessary paraphernalia to do the job. He dug the body up which was decomposed and soft but somehow managed to put all the body parts in the bags. He even had to fill the bags with soil from the immediate area, as they were all discoloured and gooey. It took him about 3 to 4 hours to fill his car boot with the bags. By the time he finished, the boot was jam-packed and it took him a lot of force to close it. Dawn was fast approaching as he started driving away from the area, a very tired and exhausted man.
The car stopped by the seaside. Dozens of small fishing boats were on the shore and he had hired one. The idea was to take the body parts to a distance of about a mile or two into the sea and just dump them. The fish and the crabs will do the rest.
Nigel parked the car by the side of the promenade where by now there were early morning joggers and walkers. Some with their hungry dogs who would get their food when they get home. One dog that was very hungry pulled its master and started to sniff around the boot and seeing the liquid oozing out started licking it. Soon a few other dogs gathered around with their masters who were all trying to pull them away with their cries of Tiger, Flop, Patch and Rover. Pandemonium broke. The stench was overpowering to humans but to the dogs it was a treat, like the aroma of the chicken tikka masalla to the humans.
This man was now well and truly trapped in the car. If he gets out he would have to confront these dogs and their masters. This particular model of his Jaguar had a switch inside which would unlock the boot. He was fiddling with it, contemplating whether he should or should not, and suddenly in his nervous state, pressed the switch and the boot door was unlocked, and as it was jam packed to the brim, it partially opened up and one of the bags fell out. The dogs immediately went for it and started tearing it into pieces revealing a partially skeletal hand and a hairy skull. One of animals started to bite off whatever flesh was left on the body parts. One should remember here, that dogs can be taken to all kinds of obedience and behaviour classes but they are pack animals and if two or three of them get together they can behave badly, like their wild ancestors.
All Nigel could hear was the frantic barking and growling of the dogs and the chorus of the approaching sirens.







Archived comments for Landscaping By Moonlight


ish on 2004-05-18 09:51:21
Re: Landscaping By Moonlight
Chrisk
I think the fellow is languishing in a prison nearby.
I remember this incident some 5 years ago. It is simply told, and then, you always do.
Ish

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-18 12:32:55
Re: Landscaping By Moonlight
Hi Ish
Think he got life. Many thanks for ur comments. I did get some help from one of the Police officers who was at the scene.
Chris

Author's Reply:

marym on 2004-05-18 14:50:40
Re: Landscaping By Moonlight
... felt a bit scared after reading this -- barking dogs do that for me...
can you tell me which place this happened (if it doesn't reveal too much).

much regards, Mary

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-19 02:37:19
Re: Landscaping By Moonlight
Hi marym,
Thank u for ur comments. There is a proverb here in UK, 'Barking dogs do not bite'. However it would be wise to remember that a doberman or a pitbull terrier would'nt know that such a proverb exists!
This incident took place in the South of the British Isles.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2004-05-19 14:42:31
Re: Landscaping By Moonlight
This sort of happened!!!!! How awful! I like the way you've told it. I enjoyed the read it had me hooked.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-19 15:33:52
Re: Landscaping By Moonlight
Claire,
Well now this is manna to me from heaven. I was not happy the way my writing went on this. I even posted my feelings on the critique , but John G, told me to just get on with it. I suppose he meant 'stop moaning and groaning'!
Thank u, u made my night lol
Chris

Author's Reply:

dancing-queen on 2004-05-20 18:34:09
Re: Landscaping By Moonlight
Hi Chris - saw your forum post and quickly scooted over here to check out your story. I thought it was an interesting read, although I'm not sure it reads as a short story, more like a report of the incident. It's under the 'horror' category, so I don't know if, indeed, you wrote it as a short story. Anyway, I'll assume for now that it was a short (correct me later if I'm wrong).

I didn't notice any dialogue in here, or even the main character's thoughts. Perhaps, if you were to do a rewrite, it might be an idea to let us see the mind of this murderer at work, rather than having the whole thing related to us second hand, if that makes sense. I just think it would make the whole thing a lot more intense and horrific for the reader. You're usually so good at the dialogue in your writing, it really brings the piece alive.

Um...a couple of typos I spotted:

'...overgrown with scrub' - do you mean shrub?

'...to covert it into a theme park' - should be convert

I would also remove the bit about the chicken tikka massala as it makes it sound a bit jokey, which seems a bit out of place considering the circumstances (IMO).

I think you made a good effort considering it was your first attempt at this type of crime/horror genre. It certainly is a gruesome tale, isn't it? Those poor people with the dogs who discovered the body parts must be having nightmares about it. I know I would!!

If you need any more help just give me a shout (okay, a PM then, since you're all the way in Brighton) LOL.

Regards - DQ x

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-21 05:25:12
Re: Landscaping By Moonlight
Hi Leah
Thank u so much for taking the trouble to read and your valuable comments. I an correcting the typo error now.
I see what you mean and I will try and rewrite but it going to be a herculian task.
Will talk to u soon ok? Ya PM is a good idea, but last time I send u 1 u never replied lol
Love
Chris


Author's Reply:


THE MORNING TRAIN 1947(Fond memories of Vallathol, my grand uncle) (posted on: 14-05-04)
This was lost some where in the system.I had originally submitted this piece some six months ago! I can't find the original manuscript either.So I am re writing this from memory (sketchy,as a very long time ago!)
. It does not rhyme, as i don't know how to.

chrisk



MORNING TRAIN 1947
(Fond memories of Vallathol, my grand uncle)

The train comes in
People start boarding
The guard waves the green flag
As the sun rises one more yard
Above the horizon.

On the station's only bench
A man is lying
In tattered clothes.
Looking like an abandoned mannequin
Dying of starvation
No one sees him.
In a poor country,
No one cares when you die.

Hey people, forgive me,
I've got to be on that train!




Archived comments for THE MORNING TRAIN 1947(Fond memories of Vallathol, my grand uncle)


richa on 2004-05-14 03:37:47
Re: THE MORNING TRAIN 1947(Fond memories of Vallathol, my grand uncle)
I really like this one. It never ceases to amaze me how we've just stopped caring. The last two line are very powerful.

Author's Reply:

Gerry on 2004-05-14 14:50:11
Re: THE MORNING TRAIN 1947(Fond memories of Vallathol, my grand uncle)
I remember clearly the horrors of this period across the World. You did it well.

Gerry.

Author's Reply:

Skeeter on 2004-05-15 09:22:45
Re: THE MORNING TRAIN 1947(Fond memories of Vallathol, my grand uncle)
Wow! I like this too, says such a lot. the absence of rhyme doesn't matter. Actually, few people do it mow anyway. You have said in these few words a great deal about the human situation, how under duress things change, values change, and sometimes humanity lets go of its ideals. But it doesn;t let go forever.......

Author's Reply:

ritawrites on 2004-05-15 11:43:34
Re: THE MORNING TRAIN 1947(Fond memories of Vallathol, my grand uncle)
i've read this before of course chrisk -- and i liked it -- though i doubted how a ten yearold could write with such asuteness (i was told it was written when you were ten or thereabouts by someone, i forget who now) about poverty. i remember i told him and repeated in my first journal entry out here that at ten though i was confronted with the same sights and experiences was largely oblivious, caught up in my own insulated and privileged childhood world. but nevertheless, a strong poem chrisk -- and i never bother about rhyming -- poetry is not about that i feel --

Author's Reply:

ritawrites on 2004-05-15 14:17:38
Re: THE MORNING TRAIN 1947(Fond memories of Vallathol, my grand uncle)
in that case chrisk -- great poem! (i know malayalam is the language of kerala chrisk, c'mon i am an indian!) --

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-19 18:57:31
Re: THE MORNING TRAIN 1947(Fond memories of Vallathol, my grand uncle)
Hi Skeeter
Thank u so much for those comments. Its still out there, the misery, the poverty and complete disregard by many.
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-19 18:59:14
Re: THE MORNING TRAIN 1947(Fond memories of Vallathol, my grand uncle)
Hi Gerry
Thanx a lot for ur comments. Its still out there in some places.
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-19 19:05:26
Re: THE MORNING TRAIN 1947(Fond memories of Vallathol, my grand uncle)
Hi Richa
How r u, long time. Thank u very much for ur comments. I remember it as though it was yesterday. some of us still don't care.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

Texasgreg on 20-07-2012
THE MORNING TRAIN 1947(Fond memories of Vallathol, my grand uncle)
Photobucket

Chris,
Took a look-see at a couple of your poems and had to stop to comment on this one. The brevity of the poem its self tells me that either you couldn't or wouldn't linger. By looking at the other submittals you've made, I've surmised that you both couldn't and wouldn't. In short verse, you have described something that you have seen often and though you feel that you must say so, you cannot bear to elaborate. I feel that comes through in your last line. To me, good poetry stimulates the mind and moves the heart; therefore, this is good poetry.

Photobucket.
Greg 🙂



Author's Reply:
Thank you Greg. You are right. Even with short stories, I tend to make a quick exit!
A local News paper guy, when reviewing my book, commented that some of my stories leave the readers high and dry! Think I have a very limited vocabulary!


THE ASHANTI(REVISED & EDITED) (posted on: 03-05-04)
This story was posted some time ago and though it attracted a few readers most felt that it should be rewritten. This is what I have done for what it is worth! My grateful thanks to all those who commented.

chrisk

THE ASHANTI (Revised & edited)
BY C R Krishnan




Sean O'Reilly slept uneasily.
He had arrived in London on a cold February night. When he started his journey from County Cork, Ireland, by ferry, it was a fine day. By the time he arrived at Fishguard, Wales, it had started snowing. He took a train from there to Paddington, London. After drinking a few beers in the Railway tavern he walked from the station to his digs, a few yards away and by now the snow was ankle deep on the road.
The room was a small bedsit in Porchester Terrace, Bayswater, in West London, a few hundred yards from the Bayswater and Queensway Tube stations. This was a busy shopping centre and, in 1961, when Sean arrived looking for a job, that area of London was known as ''Bedsitterland''. Most of the houses in this rather quiet street were divided into bedsits; accommodation for lowly paid workers and students. The room boasted of a sink, a gas cooker, a single bed and wardrobe. An old noisy gas heater was fixed on to the wall on the floor level and you put your old pennies in the meter. Central heating was not so common in those days. There was usually a bathroom or two positioned near the landing.
Sean woke up shivering, his feet and hands freezing. He reached out to pull up the blankets, but could not find them. He opened his eyes and in the semi darkness, got out of his bed and tiptoed to the other side of the room to switch the light on. The low 40-watt bulb blinded him for a second or two but then he found what he was looking for. The top sheet, the blankets and one of his pillows were laid neatly on the floor near the gas fire, which was off. The pillow had a dent in it, as if a person's head had recently rested there.
He could not work it out. He had specifically asked for a single occupancy and the landlady had assured him that what he was paying - 2.10 shillings would more than cover that. It meant he could do what he liked in his own room. All his life he had been sharing his room with his brothers and now for the first time in his life he had a place of his own. He should have a word with the landlady in the morning. He picked the bedding up and went back to sleep.
The landlady shook her head. ''No,'' she said emphatically, it is a single room for a single person. 'Were you drinking last night?'
'Well, I had a pint or two', Sean admitted sheepishly.
'Young man that means you had 4 or 5!'
Sean did not argue. It was true; he had drunk a little too much. But this was nothing unusual for him, and that didn't make him throw the bedding on to the floor and sleep on it! May be he under estimated the strength of the English beer!
The next night the same thing happened again. He changed the position of the bed, pushing it from the middle of the room so that it was against the wall. Still the blankets and the pillows ended up on the floor. No amount of bitter or Guinness helped him to enjoy a good nights sleep.
One night he woke up to find the blankets still over him. ''Thank God,'' he muttered to himself.
He opened his eyes and he was surprised to see a figure standing at the foot of the bed. In the poor light that came from the street, he could make out that it was a black man and he saw the white of his eyes and his gleaming white teeth. He was pulling the blankets and sheets off the bed from his body. Sean pulled them back. The black man would not let go. Sean pulled it back using such force that he promptly hit his head on the wall and passed out. When he woke up the bedding was missing from the bed and was laid neatly on the floor like every other night.

A Year ago.
Kojo was from the Ashanti tribe. He had been well educated at home in Ghana and had worked briefly with the local village newspaper as their reporter. The editor was his brother-in-law and had sent him to the UK for further training and to improve his English.
The journey by ship had been exhausting. It had taken the best part of a week. And the food was atrocious: he missed his Ashanti food. He tossed and turned in his bed.
He had never slept on a high bed before. Always, in Ghana, he had made his bed on the floor, and he had never been as cold as he felt now. It was freezing! He decided to do the natural thing. He pulled off all the sheets and the blankets, took one of the pillows and laid them neatly on to the floor near the heater that was fully stocked with pennies as his brother-in-law had warned him that during winter one must have heating in the room all the time. He lit the ancient gas heater and went to sleep almost immediately.
The weather was, even for England, unusually severe, and there had been many cases of burst pipes both water and gas due to the hard frost. That night a temporary failure of the main gas supply occurred in the Bayswater area. Kojo's gas heater along with many others went off. It took the gas people an hour or so to fix the broken pipe. By three o'clock the gas supply was back on again.
The unlighted poisonous coal gas from the gas heater filled the room. Kojo never woke up from his sleep.
The landlady discovered the body, a few days later, when she came to collect the over due rent.


Archived comments for THE ASHANTI(REVISED & EDITED)


ruadh on 2004-05-03 04:54:51
Re: THE ASHANTI(REVISED & EDITED)
I remember reading this the first time round and enjoyed it then, as I do now. I was wondering, do you think the last line is really necessary? It jarred with me last time and still does. Maybe change the preceding line to;

Kojo slept blissfully on, never to awake from his sleep.

Or something like that, just so it doesn't end abruptly....?

ailsa

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-03 12:32:38
Re: THE ASHANTI(REVISED & EDITED)
Hi Ailsa
Thank u. You think so? O.K. What I will do is to wait for some more comments and then in a day or two I will try a different ending. Yours is good, really!
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

ruadh on 2004-05-03 14:04:05
Re: THE ASHANTI(REVISED & EDITED)
You're welcome Chris. It was only a suggestion, yours to take or leave as you choose 🙂

ailsa

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2004-05-05 16:50:05
Re: THE ASHANTI(REVISED & EDITED)
Hi, I didn't read it first time round. I like this. As you know I adore anything spooky. This is very spooky, well done.

Sorry, but I do have a problem about it. the first section is brilliant but, when you get to the last para' it changes voice too much. Hope you know what I mean.

A thought for the last para': Instead of having a description about Kojo and his life I would combine it into the story as if a drunk at the bar was telling him the story. I think this section needs to be blended in a bit more. But it's your piece you do what feels best for you.

You have a great story here, keep at it! I'm really enjoying your work.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-06 03:28:32
Re: THE ASHANTI(REVISED & EDITED)
Claire
Thank u for ur constructive comments. I am glad u like my stories and that makes me feel positive.
I will give it a serious thought, O K?(your suggestions)
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:


The Snakes Cannot See (posted on: 19-04-04)
Click to see more top choices

A love story.

chrisk



THE SNAKES CANNOT SEE
By C R Krishnan


Long time ago love marriages were rare in India, especially in the South. Most marriages were arranged and of course horoscopes were looked at and an auspicious time fixed for the wedding. That was the norm.
But then here and there some people escaped that, for better or for worse.
Ravunni was one of those. He had met this girl, Janaki at a wedding of some relatives and fell in love instantly. Then he was training to be a Doctor, some 300 miles away in a big city.
The courting was a problem. Those days you just met and talked in front of your folks, no holding hands and definitely no kissing! If you were lucky some nice auntie or sister would disappear for an hour or two, which will give you that special time together.
During his vacations from the Medical College he used to walk some twenty miles from his home to see his girl. The journey was mostly during the night after his supper and those days the remote villages had no bus service, as the roads were impassable. So you just walked. He had to cross paddy fields and coconut groves or just miles of fields with nothing but overgrown plants and many snakes, some of them extremely poisonous. One bite and you are dead. There is an old Indian wife's tale that when a snake hears it cannot see. So this young man clapped his hands from time to time to ward off the snakes, as a blind snake cannot attack. He was just lucky!
He would arrive at dawn as his love was milking the cow, and she would give him warm fresh milk straight from the churn. Then he had his bath in the pond, which was naturally decorated with lotus flowers, and their plate like green leaves. This courting went on for about four years! Ravunni got qualified and then they were married.
Some 12 years later his wife Janaky died. Nobody knew until the last moment that it was rabies. A dog had not bitten her, but the saliva of a rabid dog had infected her wounded feet. She used to feed this stray dog from time to time and even allowed it to come to the porch. Many doctors, friends and colleagues of his milled around, but they could not help her. She was just 37 years old and left four children behind. He was devastated. A doctor who couldn't help his own wife
. Recently he was attending the wedding of one of his sons and this was in a big city, a place where he spent his youth as a medical student and from where he travelled many times back home to see the one he loved and drink the warm milk, straight from the udder of the cow, after escaping the snakes!

The Doctor shifted in his bed. He just had his third heart attack. Most of his family are around him, but he is far away, walking. It's late at night and the sounds of the tropical insects are deafening and he is clapping his hands to ward off the snakes, and then it's suddenly dark, very dark!



Archived comments for The Snakes Cannot See


bluepootle on 2004-04-19 04:09:23
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
you have a style all of your own and it really worked here. Wouldn't change a word of it.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-19 05:00:26
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Hullo Bluepootle
Thnak u for ur kind comments. I wasn't very sure about this. So I thought put it under'experimental' and was nervously waiting for comments. So today u made my day!
Regards
Chris


Author's Reply:

ruadh on 2004-04-19 05:12:10
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Enjoyed this Chris!

ailsa

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2004-04-19 05:42:58
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
A lovely sad tale. Hope he meets up with the love of his life, a very good story here.

Author's Reply:

uppercase on 2004-04-19 11:01:25
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Now that he is dying he will begin to live with his love as it should be ...I adore this story and your style....Erma

Author's Reply:

dancing-queen on 2004-04-19 11:05:10
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Yes, I enjoyed this, too, Chris. Is it a true story? Sounds like it is, the way it's written. A tale of true love. He must've loved her to have walked so many miles every day to see her. That's dedication for you! DQ

Author's Reply:

Gerry on 2004-04-19 14:44:47
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Your experiment worked very well for me.
Nice one.

Gerry.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-19 16:33:16
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Hi Leah
I can never lie to u, ok? Ya its a true story. The story of my father and my mother.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-19 16:35:15
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Hi Ruadh,
Thank u so much. I enjoyed writing this too.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-19 16:38:02
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Hi Claire,
Thank u very much. I do hope he will.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-19 16:47:51
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Hi Erma
Your comments made me very happy. I admit that this is based on a true story and its too close to my heart.
Love
Chris


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-19 16:53:38
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Hi gerry
Thank u so much. I might as well tell u that this is bio and non-fiction. Thats the right place for this story.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

shangri-la on 2004-04-20 04:14:52
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
I enjoyed this. As I read I felt, as I often do when I read your work, that this came from true experience, it's this essence that always makes your work so enjoyable and easy to read. I see from the comments to others that it is indeed a true love story, a very beautiful and poignant one, so obviously written from the heart with your usual refreshing flair and style.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-20 05:35:06
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Hi Shangri-la
I am amazed and touched by your comments. I never expected this kind of reaction from you and the others. You see, I felt this was something special only to me and may be boring for others. Thank u so much.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-20 05:35:09
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Hi Shangri-la
I am amazed and touched by your comments. I never expected this kind of reaction from you and the others. You see, I felt this was something special only to me and may be boring for others. Thank u so much.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

thehaven on 2004-04-20 10:58:12
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Gob smacked as ever by the clarity and feeling in your writing Chris.

I can only add my 2 pennorth and say Wonerful.Well worth another 10.

Was that you in your car this PM ? Sorry ddint see til to late.

Mike

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-20 11:52:32
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Hullo Mike
If award winners like u think that this is good, then what more can I ask buddy? Thank u so much.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

expat on 2004-05-17 12:21:23
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
I like your style of writing, Chris: simple and effective. I haven't read a story of yours that I didn't like.
:^) Steve.


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-21 17:10:18
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Hi Steve
Thank u for ur comments. This story is of course very close to me. The other day my sister who lives in India read this and her daughter says she cried a lot. She was only 5 years old when our mother died.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

soman on 2005-08-22 19:43:11
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Hi Chrisk,

This one stirred up a lot of childhood memories in me, and I felt as if someone very dear to me was involved. Brought tears to my eyes, too. Very touching story.

Soman

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-08-22 19:57:59
Re: The Snakes Cannot See
Thank u for that.
The edited version is much better, I am told. Its in the book but then u will have to buy it!
Our uncle Kuttettan (Kunair) told me the story. Some times he used to accompany him on his nocturnal trip as he was courting Thathamma at the time!

Author's Reply:


The Last Train To Wales (posted on: 12-04-04)
Just a story about an Indian on his first visit to U.K.

chrisk

THE LAST TRAIN TO WALES
By C R Krishnan






Winter is not the best time to visit U.K, especially when you are from India. Some one should have told Kishen Patel that.
Forget the culture shock for a shopkeeper from Ahmedabad, India, but the cold hit him hard. He has come to stay with his Doctor cousin in Cardiff, Wales, for two weeks. He has been planning this journey for years and now at the ripe old age of 50 he has made it. He carried just one suitcase and a handbag, filled with all the nice Indian sweets and many other goodies. These Gujaratis are great sweet lovers. Did you know that they start their main meal with a sweet? Most of them do!
A taxi deposited him at Paddington Railway station at about 11 30 PM just in time for the last train to Cardiff. The station was virtually deserted and it was very cold. The Indian shivered in his clothes. No one told him about the benefits of wearing a scarf and a hat.
He got his ticket and boarded the train and selected one of the many empty cubicles, you know the type of train where you have one long corridor on one side and the other you have cubicles with seat numbers. Each one seated about 6 passengers, three on one side and three opposite. Luckily the train was warm and he was feeling good but tired due to the jet lag. Kishen shut his eyes for a minute but was disturbed by a well-dressed old man opening the cubicle door and taking a seat opposite to him. He wore a suit, an overcoat and a hat. The dim light in the carriage showed a very ‘white’ white man.
‘Good evening’ the old man said ’I hope I didn’t disturb you Sir’
‘No, not really, am a bit sleepy’ and then explained that he had a very long journey and that he is going to Cardiff. He also said that he was glad of some company, as he didn’t want to miss his destination by falling asleep. In Indian trains every one talked and read each other’s newspapers and many cases shared food and drinks. Kishen was so used to that.
‘Where are you going Sir?’ Kishen ventured.
‘Oh, Wales, I just travel every night, trains are much safer you know, safer than cars. You can get killed in a car especially if you are travelling alone at night.’
Kishen didn’t want to argue or voice an opinion. He just nodded his head. Let the old man talk as much as he wants. He liked the sound of the English language anyway, the spoken word, especially coming from the mouth of a ‘native’.
‘To while away the time, could I tell you a story’? The old man must have read his mind.
Kishen didn’t care to reply, just nodded his head as most Indians do. If the answer is ’no’ you shook your head from left to right and if its ‘yes’ you nodded by moving your head up and down. I should know!
The old man began.
‘There were two friends, Albert and David, both pensioners and living in single, one room council flats in an estate in the south of England. Both were widowers and had been out of touch with their children and other family for years. They had originally come from Wales and had not bothered to go back that often.’
‘Are you with me so far, Sir?’ the old man wanted to know.
Kishen moved his head up and down.
‘Every day they went to a betting shop and had a small bet. They always chose a “Lucky31” which is a bet covering 5 horses in 5 different races and even if 1 of the horses won you got some money back. Considering that they only bet a pound each, it didn’t show a big dent on their pension. They always travelled in Albert’s car, an old Ford Cortina which he had for years, and David shared the cost of the petrol. All expenses were shared equally as David always said, ”Good accounts make good friends”’.
‘One day David was taken ill and was hospitalised with a mild stroke. Nothing to worry about, just resting for a few days. That day he asked Albert to put the bet on for him and gave him 50, all in10 pound notes. Albert thought that his friend had gone mental, may be the stroke was responsible for this erratic irresponsible behaviour. Albert insisted that he was not being irresponsible but he had a good reason for asking his friend to put this heavy bet. He had dreamt the names of the horses while having his stroke and so he asked Albert just to do it. 50 bet based on a dream?’
‘Albert thought, Ah well its David’s money, he can do whatever he wants with it. So off he went to the betting shop put his bet on his own selection of 5 horses and then put 50 on David’s.’
‘He came out, did his shopping and went home for an after noon siesta and got back in time to look at the results. He had won nothing. To his great shock all David’s horses have come through netting him an astonishing sum of 7000. Pension those days was 20 a week! He hurried to give the good news to David but was told by the Doctors that since he had a second, more severe stroke, was unconscious and not going to make it.’
‘That night, he died’
Kishen was getting a bit bored until then, but he perked up to hear the rest of the story.
‘Now Albert has got all the money. David had never discussed any thing in detail about his family back in Wales, except to say that he had one daughter who is a widow with three children and living a poor life. Albert thought about it for a while and then he decided to keep the money. What the daughter didn’t know she was not going to miss’.
‘The funeral was conducted and Albert saw the daughter with three screaming children and they did look impoverished. Well that’s life, the money is his, he put the bet on the horses himself and that, as far as he was concerned was that. Even the funeral expenditure was covered by the state’.
‘A week later Albert started his journey to Wales and boarded this same train, the one we are sitting in, the last train to Wales. He wanted to show off his newfound wealth to his poor relatives. They will show some bloody respect this time. He was nearing Cardiff and he was the only one in the cubicle. As the train was about to enter the Severn Tunnel he saw a figure entering the cubicle and it sat beside him. Albert felt an icy cold hand gripping his shoulders and heard a loud whisper’.
“Hey, Albert buddy, where’s my money?”
‘He froze on the spot for a second or two, tore himself away from the cold hands and rushed out into the corridor screaming his head off, opened the door and jumped out of the train. He hit his head on the side of the tunnel and died on the spot’.
At this part of the narrative, the train entered the same tunnel he was talking about, under the Severn River, and the noise inside the carriage went up an octave or two. The dim lights flickered and then went out. The cubicle became pitch dark.
Kishen shouted out so the old man could hear him above the din of the noise.
‘Just one question, Sir?
‘Ok, the old man said, ask away’
‘How do you know all this? You were not in the train and only Albert will know exactly what happened? You said this is a true story.’
‘That’s right, young man, I am Albert!'
And with that the train came out of the tunnel and the lights came on. Kishen found himself alone, all alone in the cubicle.
The Indian ran out of the carriage leaving all his stuff and spent the rest of his journey in the Guards room.








Archived comments for The Last Train To Wales


sirat on 2004-04-12 03:27:13
Re: The Last Train To Wales
I enjoyed the "story within a story", but my immediate thought was, why is it packaged in this way? I don't think there is any particular need to introduce Mr. Patel and the Indian connection. I think the story would work better from Albert's point of view, perhaps even told by him in the first person, but not including his death by jumping out of the train. The story is actually more horrifying in my opinion if the appearence of David is something that he has to live with, and that may happen again at any moment. I did enjoy it as it though.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-12 03:54:10
Re: The Last Train To Wales
Hi Sirat
Thanx a lot for ur constructive comment, I appreciate it. Some one told me this story about 20 years ago and it so happened I had to catch the last train to get to MerthyrTydfil a small town between Cardiff and Swansea, a few weeks after that.I was on my way to stay with my cousin who was a GP there. I was alone in a cubicle and as the train went inside the Severn Tunnel I wondered how I would have reacted if something like this happened to me?
Kind regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2004-04-12 04:46:43
Re: The Last Train To Wales
I've heard the tale about the bet before. I like the way you have laid this story out.

I think if you leave the following sentence out at the end, it will give the story a better ending. You don't need the explanation.

That’s right, young man, I am Albert! Well now his ghost” and he laughed so loudly, the whole carriage shook.

I suppose you could cut some of the start of the story with the Indian background, like sirat said, as it will push the story forward quicker.

Enjoyed the read, spooky ending, great build up, looking forward to reading more of your work.

Author's Reply:

chrissy on 2004-04-12 08:49:42
Re: The Last Train To Wales
I love your spooky stories and the conversational way you write. I took your advice and read this one in day light. It's still spooky.
Chrissy

Author's Reply:

Gerry on 2004-04-12 13:07:17
Re: The Last Train To Wales
Nice one--had me hooked.

Gerry.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-12 13:57:00
Re: The Last Train To Wales
Gerry Hullo
Thanks a lot. Enjoyed writing it.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-12 13:59:40
Re: The Last Train To Wales
Claire hullo
Thank u for taking the time to read and comment. I have made a few changes to the end. If i take any more off like the Indian etc., then the authentcity of the story will be affected.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-12 14:04:04
Re: The Last Train To Wales
Hi Chrissy,
You are very kind and my wife wants me to promise her that for atleast a few months I stop writing these type of stories.
Not fair, is it Chrissy?
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2004-04-12 15:48:38
Re: The Last Train To Wales
The ending is much better now. If you are happy with the Indian then leave him. Great little story still!

Author's Reply:

shadow on 2004-04-13 03:45:37
Re: The Last Train To Wales
I enjoyed the story - lovely spooky ending - but one thing puzzled me. The train with the corridor and 'cubicles'. I remember corridor trains, we called them 'compartments', but I thought they all disappeared when they got rid of steam engines. Do they still have them on the London-Cardiff line? Or is the story set in the past?

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-13 04:21:13
Re: The Last Train To Wales
Hullo Shadow,
This was in the late sixtees, but even until late 80s there were trains with these type of seatings mostly commuter trains where the same bunch of people sat in the same seats reading the same papers. I have done it many times lol
Thanks a lot for enjoying it.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

richa on 2004-04-13 07:39:47
Re: The Last Train To Wales
Ok, now I'm never boarding the last train alone. Enjoyed the read. Very conversational tone, kept me engrossed till the end. Also the way we Indians nod has fascinated a flatmate of mine!

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-13 12:32:56
Re: The Last Train To Wales
Hi Richa
How r u?
Of course u r in Cardiff! I didn't mean to spook any one. Even I won't do it unless I have company. I feel that the ghosts and spirits don't want us to believe they exist, so they never appear unless u r alone! Have u checked the history of your flat yet?lol
regrds
Chris

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2004-04-13 13:00:21
Re: The Last Train To Wales
'nice Indian sweets and many other goodies'? this description sums up the rest of the story - it is very predictable, sorry to say, Chris.

Author's Reply:


Strange Places, Strange Voices (posted on: 05-04-04)
I should categorise this as fiction. However some incidents mentioned here are based on true events.

chrisk

STRANGE PLACES, STRANGE VOICES.
By C R Krishnan






There is a place in the United Kingdom, a cat-loving nation, where a cat is buried alive under a building to bring good luck to the owners and all that stay in it. One can view it through an inlaid plate glass sheet in the lounge area.
It is an hotel, recently refurbished, in Sudbury, a town in the Essex/Suffolk border area where a group of people stayed while making a short film about The Borley Rectory which was at one time the most haunted place here in U.K, destroyed by fire in 1939.
One checked in, and on the way to your room you pass this burial site and there you will find this cat lying as though it is having a nap.
That was a good start! They did not know what more to expect as this was a very strange beginning to their project.
At about 11 am they prepared to go to the area where the Rectory once stood and now houses have been built on it. What is still there is the Borley Church, still open for worship and surrounded by well kept graveyard on one side and nettle filled unkempt ground on the other. Opposite side of the road, the only old building left is the Stable cottage. The place is deathly quiet, and the silence is deafening! No birds, no insects, everything is as lively as a picture on a wall.
They suddenly encounter this family (Their car was the only vehicle parked in the vicinity of the church and they all wondered later how this family suddenly appeared!) of a father, mother and a daughter. They have come to see the place, as the young girl, very beautiful, is doing some research for her studies in some University. They exchange pleasantries and even agree to be photographed. A nice looking family.
From the cemetery side of the church they move to the other side where there are overgrown bushes and nettles with a couple of old trees and they start filming. There are three in the group. Soman operating the camera, Ian the sound, and John a young man who is taking still snaps and he takes quite a few pictures of the pretty girl.
Soman starts filming but the camera suddenly shows low battery level and in a few seconds just stops. So he is thinking now, how could it be that a fully charged battery suddenly won’t function? So he takes the spare fully charged battery and replaces the old one in the camera, starts filming, and the same thing happens again. Low battery level and the camera is dead!
He shouts out, ‘Hey guys, its no good the batteries are packed up, both of them’. Ian says it’s impossible, as a normal battery on this camera should last at least one hour each. ‘That may be the case but its gone, the juice is gone, so we better take some stills and come back tomorrow with fully charged batteries’
Soman suddenly feels a light breeze around him and voice unfamiliar to him whispers in his ears. ‘Don’t come back!’
‘Hey who said that’?
They shout almost together, ‘Who said what, Soman?’ So it can’t be any one in the group, as no one was standing close enough. The whisper was clear!
The family says good bye.
They return to the hotel go past the dead cat and to their rooms and having had dinner decide to have an early night so they can get an early start. Soman puts the batteries on charge.
He is fast asleep but some one nudges him awake. The room is dark. He can’t see a thing but feels a cold breeze around. Some one is in the room and is looking at him. He feels the eyes boring into him and suddenly hears the same voice which he heard in Borley, ‘Get out, go away’ This time so loud that it hurts his ear and he jumps up from the bed and knocks at Ian’s and asks him whether he heard anything. ‘Yes I heard “Get out” and I thought you were having a night mare but then I thought it doesn’t sound like you!’ So Soman explains what happened. Ian says he is also feeling uneasy in his room and felt some one or something watching him from the dark corners of the room.
John complains that he couldn’t sleep all night as he had visions of the young girl with a white cat on her shoulders coming towards him! Ian and Soman wonder how any one can be disturbed with the vision of a young beautiful thing! The man is an idiot!
Next morning they pack their bags and want to leave as its pouring buckets and therefore it would be wise to temporarily shelve the project.
The still films were given for processing but came back, blank, no pictures. Soman rings the number given by the family and asks for Emma, the girl as he had promised to send copies of photographs. He might as well give her the bad news.
‘Hallo, Can I speak to Emma please’?
‘Emma?’ Silence for a few moments. .
‘Sir, What is your name?’
‘Oh, I am Soman, just want to have a quick word with her, are you the father?’
‘ No, we are the new owners of the house. The family who used to live here, Emma and her parents died in a car crash about a year ago while on a trip to see some church in Sudbury or some where. I am sorry.’





Archived comments for Strange Places, Strange Voices


Zydha on 2004-04-05 07:07:54
Re: Strange Places, Strange Voices
I am so glad I read this at lunchtime and not late at night when I often enjoy visiting here, Chris. This gave me shivers. A well written account, I wonder if you mean the place is real or that some of these 'happenings' actually took place.

Either way, I love your style of writing, Zydha

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-05 08:28:15
Re: Strange Places, Strange Voices
Hi Zydha
Thank u. The place is real, there is a cat buried under that hotel, still visible, all the buildings mentioned are there but I have added a few bits here and there to polish the story but overall its based on true events. Now you are far away from that place so don't have any nightmares!
Regards
Chris


Author's Reply:

Claire on 2004-04-05 14:07:20
Re: Strange Places, Strange Voices
I like this. Nice and creepy. Gave me shivers. Keep 'em coming.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-05 15:53:06
Re: Strange Places, Strange Voices
Claire Hi
Do u really mean it? Thanx a lot. You like getting the shivers? Watch this space , young lady,lol.
Regards
chris

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2004-04-06 11:58:34
Re: Strange Places, Strange Voices
I love being scared shitless!! I read, watch and try to write horror.

I know when I've read a decent one - they always give me the shivers.

And when I've watched a decent horror movie I can't sleep! Worst film ever is 'IT' I still have nightmares, hate bloody clowns as well!

And if I ever write a decent horror I'll know - cause I won't be able to finish it!

I'm looking forward to reading more of your work.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-07 02:28:09
Re: Strange Places, Strange Voices
Thank u Claire, u r on! I think I have a couple more floating about.
Regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

SmirkingDervish on 2004-04-07 07:31:46
Re: Strange Places, Strange Voices
Pretty standard horror material executed competently enough but as with every piece of writing there is room for improvement. However, I liked the style because it sounded more like a script of someone speaking rather than a written horror story and that was effective.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-07 11:26:17
Re: Strange Places, Strange Voices
Hullo SmirkingDervish,
Thanku for that. I find that even using a third party you can still effectively communicate with the reader. Thats been my style for a long time and am very pleased that you liked it.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrissy on 2004-04-07 14:40:26
Re: Strange Places, Strange Voices
Scary enough for me Chris and I felt sorry for the cat. Liked it a lot and I read it just as it's getting dark. Oooh.
Chrissy

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-07 14:50:48
Re: Strange Places, Strange Voices
Chrissy Hi
Thank u. Next time u read my horror stories read it when its day light. lol. The cat is still there for all to see!
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:


Rain Clouds over Marroccos (posted on: 02-04-04)
Click to see more top choices

My good buddy Ian says it is safer for me to categorise this as fiction! I ask him why? He says for obvious reasons, and I say I don't know what he is talking about, It is fiction!'

chrisk

RAIN CLOUDS OVER MARROCCOS
BY C R KRISHNAN


Sunday afternoon.

Its 5 30 p.m. and I am depressed and I know the reason why. The short film I am making is not coming up the way I want and time is running out as the TV company who has commissioned it and paid an advance for it is getting impatient There is no escape now. It’s been like that for many months. I just can’t get it right. You see, it’s like a plant you have been nurturing for months and months. Its been watered, fed, stroked and you are hoping for the flowers to appear. But now for no apparent reason it is dying on you and you are helpless because you do not think you can save it. It’s withering in front of your eyes.
Long time ago there was a writer called Honore De Balzac, a French writer who was paid a lot of money to write some stories but he frittered the cash on drinks and women. The publishers then took the drastic step of locking him up in a room until he finished his stories for which they have already paid for. The story was known in English as ’Droll Stories’, fascinating short stories. No need to lock me up, as I am in my own prison.
I take my car to the Hove seaside by the King Alfred and the place is virtually deserted and I park in one of many empty spaces. Its cloudy and the sun will not get a chance to peer through before it disappears over the horizon. There are patches of rain clouds gathering.
I walk down to the pebble beach and I lie down looking at the cloudy sky. I can’t see many people around, but I notice a young woman sitting by the concrete thing that reduces the force of the waves coming to the shore. She is reading a book.
For some reason my tear ducts suddenly become active as it is so easy to cry when no one is looking! Since I am lying face up they roll straight down to my ears and I feel it dampening my shirt collar. Suddenly I am aware of the pebbles making noise under footsteps and I open my eyes to see this young woman looking down at me and asking, why am I crying? I say I am not, it’s the wind. (Men are not supposed to cry!). She says there is no wind, and asks me again why am I crying? So I admit and say O.K, I cannot control my tears and I tell her about the crisis I am facing.
Its starts to drizzle and we make our way to my car which is parked almost opposite Marroccos , the Italian caf, where you get the best cappuccino in all of Brighton and Hove. I open the passenger door and ask her to sit in the front passenger seat and I sit in the back behind the driver’s seat. I say to her by sitting in this manner one can look at each other when talking and there is also space in between, which is more comfortable. She agrees with a smile. Then I say ‘hey, why sit here when we can go and have a coffee right across the road’?
She agrees to that too but tells me she has no money. I say that I have and that I am buying. So we go inside and I buy a cappuccino and she wants a milk shake and its quick service today as the place is almost deserted like the beach.
She is not British. From her accent I think she is Spanish or somewhere from the South American continent. She says she is from Barcelona. I ask her does she know a fellow called ‘Manuel’ who works in a hotel called ‘Faulty Towers’ and he is also from Barcelona? She says she does not. I then explain that she possibly wouldn’t as it’s from a T V show and she laughs and laughs as she also remembers it on Spanish TV when she was little.
One of the girls in the caf who looks familiar (as I have been to this place umpteen times) comes over and asks why are we laughing so much and I tell her. She also laughs and goes and tells the other staff and they are all laughing.
Monica, the Spanish girl says I am funny and says she hasn’t laughed like that for some time. I feel good.
We come out and it’s still drizzling. I ask her where she is staying and she says at a house in New Church Road. So I drive her and we approach the house. I get out and open the door for her and suddenly realise what a beautiful girl she is. Shiny curly brown hair, with large brown eyes with long eye lashes and cherry red lips with no lipstick and virtually no make up. I wish I could kiss her and hold her tight to my chest.
I ask her how long is she staying in this country. She says another week and she is going back to Madrid. Madrid? I say. I thought you were from Barcelona like Manuel! She laughs again.
She says she is going to a convent and is going to be a nun. I do not know what to say and what to feel. I am numb. I take her hand and lift it up to my lips and kiss it as I feel its inappropriate to kiss her on the cheeks, but she kisses me on both cheeks slowly and also kisses me on my forehead, and says something in Spanish. I ask her what did she say?
She says it means ‘God bless you’ and laughs and I say God bless you too.
I go towards my car, open the door, and look towards the direction of her house, but she is gone.
I switch on my mobile to check for any messages and my wife’s voice comes on. She says please get some food from the take away .
So I drive towards a restaurant and the drizzle has now become a fully-fledged rainfall and I switch the wipers on. I look at them moving up and down from left to right and up and down and I am no longer depressed but I am sad, very sad.

Archived comments for Rain Clouds over Marroccos


Claire on 2004-04-02 13:59:09
Re: Rain Clouds Over Marocco's
An interesting read. Maybe a section from your hidden diary?

Author's Reply:

jay12 on 2004-04-02 17:32:35
Re: Rain Clouds Over Marocco's
This is a nice read. Bad luck that she was a nun. Half way through reading it I thought you were "Game On." (Although a married man should never wander!)

James.

PS Im not married. Bring on the nuns!

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-03 01:44:54
Re: Rain Clouds Over Marocco's
Claire Hi
shhh......! No, Its pure fiction. Honest! lol.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-03 01:49:04
Re: Rain Clouds Over Marocco's
Hi James
Thank u for ur kind comments. But buddy, its just a story, pure fiction!
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

shangri-la on 2004-04-04 04:01:19
Re: Rain Clouds Over Marocco's
I really enjoyed this, made me laugh in places..reminded me of how surprised I was when I realised the guy who played Manuel is English. This is a delightful tale, quite reflective and a good illustration of how even the most briefest of encounters can deeply touch our lives.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-04 12:12:53
Re: Rain Clouds Over Marocco's
Shangri-la, Hullo
Thank u and am glad u enjoyed the story. It did touch my life. No, no, I am telling a lie, remember, its fiction!
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

ritawrites on 2004-04-05 01:57:52
Re: Rain Clouds Over Marocco's
it must be from life -- we do have such intense encounters don't we from out of the blue -- a sudden short meeting of minds on plane rides or train journeys -- when i was in the hospital recently for my dad i had one such encounter -- brief, without any fruit -- but intense nevertheless -- makes life interesting don't you think -- so you really shouldn't be sad if you ask me -- great read!

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-05 03:08:48
Re: Rain Clouds Over Marocco's
Ritawrites Hi,
Yes. It doesn' have to bear any fruits, the memories will last for a long time u know Rita.
Why don't u write about that encounter u had?
It will make u sad but sadness goes hand in hand with happiness and love.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

ritawrites on 2004-04-05 03:57:49
Re: Rain Clouds Over Marocco's
yes, i'll write about it or put it in somewhere -- right now i'm caught in a bit of a writer's block which i must work out of my system -- but actually it really won't make me feel sad -- when one encounters love or affection out of the blue one is reminded again about this wonderful mystery that life is and how good it is to be alive -- 🙂

Author's Reply:

ritawrites on 2004-04-05 03:59:06
Re: Rain Clouds Over Marocco's
yes, i'll write about it or put it in somewhere -- right now i'm caught in a bit of a writer's block which i must work out of my system -- but actually it really won't make me feel sad -- when one encounters love or affection out of the blue one is reminded again about this wonderful mystery that life is and how good it is to be alive -- btw, why don't you just call me rita -- shorter y'know -- 🙂

Author's Reply:

ritawrites on 2004-04-05 04:01:35
Re: Rain Clouds Over Marocco's
oops sorry about that -- glitch in the internet connections --

Author's Reply:

Pilgermann on 2004-04-06 09:47:44
Re: Rain Clouds Over Marocco's
Great read - though the ending jars - you have the take away to look forward to!

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-06 10:35:20
Re: Rain Clouds Over Marocco's
Hi Pilgermann,
U mean u like the ending? Jar? sorry didnt understand that. Ya t/away and wife's company, but then this is fiction,lol.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:


A smell Of Sandalwood (posted on: 29-03-04)
Based on the experience of some one I know. He says that he managed to sell the property the same day and never stayed there another night!

chrisk


A SMELL OF SANDALWOOD
BY C R KRISHNAN


The house has been lying vacant for the last 10 years. The last people to live there, my uncle and his wife, who were childless have died. Now, since most of us either living abroad or far away from that remote village cannot be expected to look after it or live there. So the place has to be sold off. That was the general consensus of all concerned that had any interest in the house and the coconut groves and the paddy fields surrounding it
The decision was made. Find a buyer. The responsibility to do this? Well, you have guessed it, Mois. ‘Gopi will do it as he can get along with any people anywhere anytime’. Flattery got to me, it always does. Ask my wife, she’ll tell you. I am going to do it. The fact that I am living 7000 miles away has nothing to do with it. I am the right man, so say all of them.
I packed my bag, said bye to my wife and son and just flew off to Kerala, India. The flight landed at Cochi Airport some 60 miles away from the village where the house is. So it took another 5 hours to get there by car. The last mile has to be walked.The house, which is approached across paddy fields, is also surrounded by trees and beyond them is the sea.
In the past 10 years the house was being looked after by a tenant farmer that has been with the family for years. He also tilled the land with the help of paid workers and generally kept an eye on the property. Cleaned it from time to time. So I arrived exhausted and was taken to my room, which was one of the 5 rooms, three upstairs and two on the ground floor. The house was built some 100 years ago and is enormous. The farming community especially middle class people who owned coconut groves and paddy fields had big houses and annexes, places to dry the rice and husk them and processing the coconuts before selling them. The next day the agent who will arrange the sale will come to see me.
The house has no electricity as it was disconnected long time ago. It was getting dark and a hurricane lamp was brought in, which one carried about like a torch
The caretaker’s wife had cooked something for me and this was brought into the house and with Raman, the caretaker looking on, I ate the very spicy hot food greedily.
Sleeping time. I tell Raman unashamedly that I can’t sleep in this house alone. He says he only has a one-room hut where he sleeps with his wife and three children. So I am now in deep shit. So I ask him could he kindly stay the night and he agrees as he knows that he is definitely going to be rewarded for this great favour and these people from foreign places paid quite a lot.
So he gets out a grass mat and puts it down on the floor in the lounge. My bedroom is upstairs and I have to pass two other bedrooms, which are locked up. There are some pigeons on the loft, which are making a lot of noise, and I also am suddenly aware of the continuous noises made by tropical insects. After a few days usually one got used to it. I don’t have days, only tonight.
The house is surrounded by coconut; mango and jackfruit trees and some of them are huge. Most of the trees have bones of ancestors buried under them, as that was then the custom. You cremated the dead relatives and a few days after you picked some bones, which are always left after the burning, and you collected them in a jar and simply buried them. So each tree represented a dead relative. It was all coming back to me now. You see, I have been away for 30 years and sometimes you forget these things.
Raman accompanies me and opens the heavy door all inlaid with brass and some four inches thick. He says, keep the hurricane lamp but lower the wick so it doesn’t shine so bright and he will find his own way downstairs and go to sleep on his mat.
The hut is the only house near this great big house. The nearest neighbour is at least a mile away. Another farmer with another house like this one. So I settle down on the bed which has been freshly made but since it is a hot day a grass mat has been put on it. Its an old four poster bed with a mosquito net which was white but now dark brown due to the age and of course it had not been washed for years.
I am dog tired and I want to sleep. I lower the wick of the lamp and lay on top of the mat and I could hear pigeons and insects and the whole night is noisy. I toss and turn and get up and peep out of the window but its pitch black and I can hardly see the trees. I suddenly remember that all these trees have my ancestors under them.
I cannot sleep. I curse all the people who persuaded me to come to this house and I pray for the morning to come. I am a bit relieved to know that I have Raman downstairs so am not really alone. Then I doze off.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Gopi, Gopi!
I call out, ‘Is that you Raman?’
Silence.
‘Hallo, Raman?’
I hear footsteps, receding.
I open the heavy door with difficulty and look out. The room is facing a corridor, which covers the length of the other two bedrooms and ends at the staircase. I can’t see in the dark. I call out again and go inside and get the hurricane lamp and put the wick up. No one around, but I smell sandalwood. Well I could have dreamt that knock, couldn’t I? No point in going down so I go back inside and close the door and try to sleep. I am sleeping and I am hearing the knock and some one whispering my name but convince myself that I am having a nightmare but the knocking is relentless. So I get up, open the door with my hurricane lamp and look to the right to the end of the corridor where the staircase begins. No one to be seen.
I close the door behind me and walk towards the staircase and go down the stairs and I still smell sandalwood. I go to the lounge and I see an empty mat. Raman is gone. I look at my watch. And it is 3 a.m. I don’t want to go up to my bedroom. So I wait. I am tired so I decide to sleep on the vacant mat. I try to get some sleep and as I am dozing I hear some footsteps approaching me and am relieved that Raman is back. But it is not Raman. I don’t see any one but I feel a presence just for a second or two but then its gone. Strong smell of sandalwood.
Raman turns up at dawn and simply says, ‘Well Sir, I hope you had a good night sleep and my wife is bringing your tea.’ He also says that since one of his children was not well he couldn’t really sleep here and so spent the night in his hut.
‘But Raman, you knocked at my door?
‘No, Sir I didn’t’
‘But someone did Raman, I even heard footsteps.’
‘Well sir, I think it’s the old man’
‘Which old man, is there an old man staying in this house?’
‘He used to sir, but not any more but keeps coming here. Whenever I stay here especially when I had some drinks and had an argument with my wife, he often kicks me awake before he goes to his room upstairs, which is the room you stayed last night.’
‘Sorry I don’t understand you Raman’
‘The old man, sir, your grandfather the one who bathed three times a day, always used sandalwood oil on his head after. I think he was here sir, today, as I can smell sandalwood’
‘Raman, he died in 1970.’
‘ Of course, he did sir!’






Archived comments for A smell Of Sandalwood


Claire on 2004-03-31 10:53:17
Re: A smell Of Sandalwood
Well I'm glad I can remember reading this one. Can't think what my other comment was but I think it was: Enjoyed the read, found no flaws, and whatever else you can remember as well!

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-03-31 11:00:31
Re: A smell Of Sandalwood
Claire Hi,
I had about 34 hits and 6 or 7 comments but Its been reduced to 6 hits! I think it was due to the tec problem we had. You had indeed made kind comments about this before.
Regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

shangri-la on 2004-04-01 07:26:02
Re: A smell Of Sandalwood
Just comming back to comment again after yesterday's techy glitch. As I think I said before I really enjoyed reading this charming, atmospheric tale.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-01 10:01:33
Re: A smell Of Sandalwood
Hi shangri_la
Thank u very much for taking the trouble and doing it again for me.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

richa on 2004-04-01 11:54:28
Re: A smell Of Sandalwood
Oh my god!!!! I could visualise every bit of the description. It's one of my biggest fears to have such an experience. Enjoyed the read.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-01 13:06:17
Re: A smell Of Sandalwood
Hi Richa
Thank u, u r very kind. Well u never know whats around the corner. I do not think one wants to stay in such old houses unless u r a parasychologist but then they all go in groups!
Kind regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

Claire on 2004-04-01 14:58:01
Re: A smell Of Sandalwood
At least we know you did have more hits and comments. But from what I read before the glich everyone loved this anyway. You should still be proud of it.

Author's Reply:

Zydha on 2004-04-04 08:32:26
Re: A smell Of Sandalwood
This is an enthralling read, Chrisk, I had read it before the wipeout, but always read passages twice and, I have enjoyed this as much for the second time as the first.

Yes, you had quite a few responses when I first popped in and I am not suprised, a wonderful read, Zydha

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-04 12:21:45
Re: A smell Of Sandalwood
Hi Zydha, Thanx a lot for commenting on this story.
I was alone in the house when i wrote the first draft and I was uncomfortable as I was following him into the house. Yet, I was alone.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

KevTheRev on 2005-02-21 19:48:44
Re: A smell Of Sandalwood
Epic in visualization,

I have just returned from Sri Lanka, sandalwood I brought with me, this led me to read your post. I’m extremely happy I did and will be reading the rest of your work.

Thanks for the joy and experience.


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-02-21 20:09:27
Re: A smell Of Sandalwood
Kevin
Thanks a lot for ur kind comments. It was a very memorable experience. My book 'Frogs Under the Wheels' is being published by UKpress and this story and 26 others are in it, okay?
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

KevTheRev on 2005-02-22 19:37:51
Re: A smell Of Sandalwood
Will look out for it, and I know a copy will go as a gift to a woman I know in Sri Lanka.

Author's Reply:


Learning Frankie, Spanish (posted on: 26-03-04)
He is learning Portuguese now, I know!

chrisk

LEARNING FRANKIE, SPANISH by C R Krishnan Frankie rushes to my car just as I am parking. I really want to go straight to the toilet as I am bursting. After 4 hours sitting in the car from Cardiff to Brighton and drinking water all the way I might have an accident if I don’t. ‘Hey, Chrissie baby, Can I ask you a favour?’ ‘ Frankie, could you give a minute as I need a pee’ ‘But this won't take a minute mate’ ‘Frankie, don’t be a pain in my balls ok?, Come with me and tell me what you want while I am inside the house’. So he follows me like a faithful dog and if he had a tail he would wag it. While inside the bathroom I close the door. He is outside and he says he will pay me for the favour. So in the middle of peeing I tell him no payments necessary as I don’t charge for favours. He says that is great as he is stony broke any way. I am out of the bathroom. I ask him what he wants. He says that he wants a great big favour. I get impatient and tell him ‘for the last time Frankie, what?’. ‘Can you give me a lift as I am going on my summer holidays?’ ‘When, now?’ ‘ Oh not now my summer holiday next year in June, on the 21st.’ ‘Next year! Next year? Are you bloody bonkers, Frankie’? This is bloody February, and you are talking about a year and a half’ ‘Why are you getting all heated up, mate? I only want a lift up to the Bus station.’ Then he tells me that he wants to be picked up at 3 .30 a.m to board the special coach which will take him to Gatwick. I tell him to remind me a week before his departure as I am a forgetful chap and am also not sure whether I will be in this world by then. He says in any case he has a few other friends in mind in the event of my not being able or dead. Just a joke, he says ha ha ha. I think I owe it to you readers that I introduce him properly. Frankie (real name Francis Albert Sinatra Smith- parents were fans of Sinatra, but Frankie is tone deaf and definitely cannot sing) is a delivery man. He picks up goods from A and goes to B,C,D etc., and then doubles back to A. This he does 5 days a week 51 weeks in a year, come rain , come shine. He only takes a weeks holiday a year and every 2 years he goes abroad. Last year he went abroad to the Isle of Wight, and a couple of years before that to the Isle of Man (to Frankie these places are abroad as they are overseas) and next year he wants to go abroad again. He always goes alone as he has no girl friends. May be he is gay, I do not know. A few days passed. I am parking my car as usual but tonight I am not bursting so not in any hurry. I am listening to this nice beautiful classical piece on the radio and am waiting for it to finish to find out who the composer is. Tap tap, ‘Hallo’. I jump because I am startled. It is Frankie doing it, The tapping and greeting. I wind the window down and ask him could he kindly wait? He says O.K but still hovers around close to my car and therefore too close for comfort. I curse under my breath and get out of the car and ask him what he wants. Forget the composer. Hey Chrissie boy, I need a great favour. ‘Another lift, Frankie?’ ‘ Hey, come on quit jokin, eh?’ So I ask him to spell it out instead of wasting my time as I am tired and want to open my front door and collapse in my chair and have my whisky and soda which my kind wife will be ready with. ‘Can you learn me Spanish?’ ‘You mean you want to learn Spanish?’ ‘But Chrissie boy, can you learn me?’ I tell him I don’t speak any bloody Spanish, could he go to some language school. He says he has no money but has definitely seen a book about Spain on my book shelf when he was in my house last time. For once he is right. There is such a book and it is called ‘Living Spanish’, a text book for learning basic Spanish to get by when one is in Spain. I tell him I can lend him the book but I bought it when I was going to Spain, some 15 years ago. He says he only wants to learn a few sentences to chat up girls while he is on his holidays, which has another 16 months to go. Well up until that time I was’t very sure of his sexual orientation. To me a person is either hetero or gay. But there is another type. The one with ‘no gender’ or of uncertain gender or neuter gender! Whenever I have been with Frankie, either drinking in a pub or walking or driving with him in the car I have never known him to look at a girl and make grunting noises like most men do. ‘corr, look at that mate, look at the size of her tits or legs….’ .No never a word or a glance. So I had my doubts and for fear of offending him I never pried, and in any case I am not particularly close to him, just tolerant. So I did not care. But now he wants to chat up girls in Spanish! The book,’Living Spanish’ has no such phrases or sentences and I am not so well versed to teach him any. However all he wants to know is he says, whether the girl he is chatting to is married or single and then he can react accordingly, like ask her out for a coffee or dinner if she is single and walk off if she is married . I go to my computer and get some translations but also tell him that since I am much older than he is, the techniques which I used some 30 years ago must have changed quite a bit. I also reminded him that Spain is a foreign country and I have had all my practice here in U.K. For the next few months whenever I see Frankie he is always muttering something unintelligible and gives me a big great smile and thumbs up. I assume he is practising his chat up lines in Spanish. On the 21st of June, I am taking him to the Coach station. It is 3.30 am. Waking up time for a milkman, not for me. I ask him,’Hey Frankie, where exactly are you going to, in Spain, Majorca, Alicante, Where? ‘Algarve’ ‘Algarve?’ I say. ‘Yup Chris, what do you want me to bring from there?’ ‘ Frankie, Algarve is in Portugal.’ ‘Oh what’s the difference’ ‘Different country, different language and definitely different girls,’ You should have learnt Portuguese my buddy. ‘Never heard of it Chris, I think I better say good bye now as the coach is about to go’ and with that he shook my hands and was gone. After a week, he is back. I am parking my car and look around but see no sign of him. I don’t see him for a few days but bump into him in the local pub where he is drinking his usual half of cider, sweet. He just nods but does not rush towards me as right now he does not want any favours. So I go to him and ask him how his holiday went. ‘Nah, not good Chris.’ I ask him why he did not enjoy his holidays. ‘Well Portuguese girls, Chris, they don’t speak no Spanish! ’
Archived comments for Learning Frankie, Spanish


chrissy on 2004-03-26 05:13:57
Re: Learning Frankie, Spanish
This was a really amusing and interesting read, well written and very natural. I enjoyed it.
Muchas gracias
Incidentally, I was taught Spanish by RP Littlewood, the guy who wrote Living Spanish. Strange or what?
Chrissy

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-03-26 05:39:10
Re: Learning Frankie, Spanish
Muchas Gracias to u too Chrissy. U know people call me Chrissy when they want a favour, otherwise I am just plain Chris!
Ya I have that book, and is Littlewood still going strong?
Regards
chris

Author's Reply:

Gerry on 2004-03-27 10:00:10
Re: Learning Frankie, Spanish
Nice one--it's amazing how many people think Portugese is the same as Spanish.

Gerry.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-01 15:40:17
Re: Learning Frankie, Spanish
Gerry Hi
Well knowing Frankie, after learning Portuguese he might go to Alicante. lol
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

sirat on 2004-04-02 01:17:31
Re: Learning Frankie, Spanish
Lovely story, Chrisk, I really enjoyed it. Reminded me of a long-distant and very brief relationship with a girl from Laos, when our only common language was greatly sub-"O" level French. We still seemed to be able to get along. Too much communication can be a serious barrier.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-02 03:06:08
Re: Learning Frankie, Spanish
Sirat Hi
Thank u for ur comments. Whatever happened to her? French could be easily misunderstood if spoken in spanish by Frankie! lol
regards
Chris

Author's Reply:


When The Circus Came To Town (posted on: 22-03-04)
Based on true events.

chrisk

WHEN THE CIRCUS CAME TO TOWN
BY C R Krishnan



Some months ago ( we are in 2004!) There was this story in the news that some where in New York a tiger along with few other animals and reptiles were found inside an apartment,where they were kept as pets.
The matter came to light only after the police were informed of bite marks found on the occupier of the apartment when he visited a hospital for treatment.
They used the letter box to shoot the animals, especially the tiger with anaesthetic darts as simply opening the door would have been extremely dangerous and foolish.
It reminded me of an incident that took place some years ago in India. A tiger came visiting a family of father, mother and their two year old son.
There was a visiting circus in town with the usual elephants, tigers, lions, horses and horse riding monkeys. Unfortunately, the animal trainer was very fond of his liquer, was drunk almost every night and at the end of one performance simply forgot to lock one of the cages occupied by an old tiger. So at night the tiger just got out and walked. No one was any wiser as it was very late at night and being a village not many people were out and about, except one man, the head of the family I just mentioned. Being a very hot night he had decided to just come out of the house to get some fresh air leaving the front door ajar while his wife and the baby son were sleeping. The baby son had his own room and was laid in a cot. After all it was only a quite village not a jungle and many people didn’t even bother to lock their front door. Closed, yes, but not barred.
The tiger simply walked in without the man seeing him and simply climbed up the stairs,went into the boy’s room and promptly fell asleep near the cot.
After his walkabout the man came into the house, closed the door went up to his room where his wife also was sleeping and promptly went to sleep.
7 a.m., next day.
The boy is jumping up and down in his cot which is made of wood and measuring 5 ft x 3 ft wide and 4 ft in height, built like a cage. The tiger is going round and round the cage sniffing the fresh meat as it is hungry. Its wake up time for the parents who are unaware of whats going on in the boy’s room. The boy is looking at the tiger and thinking , ‘Hey you big cat! want to play with me?’ He has never seen a tiger before. May be in pictures, but the pictures are small especially in childrens’ books, and is fascinated by the colour and pattern of the big cat’s skin. The tiger is fascinated and likes the smell of the boy. Situation here is very dangerous.
Hearing the sounds of the baby, the mother opens the door and is confronted by the sight of a tiger going around the cot, taking no notice of her. The mother screams and closes the door behind her. You see, the first instinct for any human being is his or her own survival like the drowning man or woman who is carrying a child will abandon the child to get ashore, if the child is going to be in the way of their survival.
The father is involved now. He doesn’t know what to do. He is panicking but wouldn’t go near the boy’s room as the wife has told him what is happening inside. He rings and rings who ever he thinks could help. The circus people have found out that the tiger is loose and along with police and few other important officials sends the trainer who is nursing a great big hang over. However since he is sober , he doesn’t want to open the door either and like the experts in jungle he doesn’t have any darts. He has a great idea though. He suggests how about squeezing a small rhesus monkey (which are freely available in the village) through the bars of the window of the room as in India most houses have windows with wooden or iron bars big enough for monkeys or birds but too small for a man. So the monkey is squeezed into the room and it lands and promptly climbs on to the baby’s cot as it has seen the tiger and tries to hide in the safest place. The tiger doesn’t take any notice of the monkey and its eyes are firmly fixed on the delicious boy who is now jumping up and down more ferociously as now he has a new companion. The situation is still very dangerous. Not for the tiger, but for every one else.
The trainer has another idea which was supported by every one else except the owner of the goat - which they want to send in through the door. By sending in the nice smelling goat (ya, nice smelling for the tiger!) when the attention of the tiger is focussed on the goat the boy can be simply taken away, forget the poor monkey. Its life is expendable.
Plan worked nicely. Even the monkey got taken out. The goat was left to its fate with the tiger. However observation through the window of the house revealed that the goat was still alive and the tiger had gone to sleep as it was rather an old timer.
So the goat was taken out, unharmed. The tiger was eventually taken back to the circus and put in its cage and was given its usual food of mashed minced meat with some water in a bowl, which it greedily lapped up with its tongue. What people did not realise was that the tiger had lost all its teeth a long time ago. Even the claws were very brittle and blunt and so damaged it couldn’t’ even hurt a fly! But then the trainer knew and for obvious reasons he would never ever reveal that. You see, he was this great big trainer who was parading these vicious animals and especially this ferocious tiger in whose mouth he put his head in every night to the great applause of the audience!.


Archived comments for When The Circus Came To Town


jay12 on 2004-03-22 19:32:46
Re: When The Circus Came To Town
Wow. Thats quite a story. I was wondering though when I read it why didn't they simply shoot the tiger with a tranquilliser gun as they did with the tiger in the New York apartment, or maybe they could have thrown in some already dead meat laced with sleeping pills.

Actually, Im just being silly, at least the kid was OK.

I was also wondering - are you that lucky baby who was in that cot?

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-03-23 02:44:45
Re: When The Circus Came To Town
Hi Jay12
Many thanx for ur comments. If u read thru again u will c that I have mentioned that, like in the jungle these eople had no darts, especially all those years ago!

I can only write about what happened. They could have thrown a slab of meat but it wouldn't have made any difference as the tiger had no teeth. lol
No, I wasn't that baby!
Kind regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

jay12 on 2004-03-23 15:52:04
Re: When The Circus Came To Town
I have re-read it. Doh!

I was half asleep when I first read it. I had been up about 2 hours reading stuff on UKA.

Maybe they could have used mince meat, perhaps a toothless lion could have ate that.

Anyway, take care buddy,

Jay.

Author's Reply:

Gee on 2004-03-25 14:39:23
Re: When The Circus Came To Town
What a fascinating story. I really enjoyed reading it. I'm glad everyone was okay in the end too.

Author's Reply:

glennie on 2004-03-25 18:49:51
Re: When The Circus Came To Town
Great read and proof that fact is stranger than fiction. Why not base a short story around it?

Author's Reply:


A Case Of Smallpox (posted on: 19-03-04)
Based on true events

chrisk

A Case Of Smallpox by C R Krishnan

In the 1950’s when the world was young, especially mine, my brother and I were sent to a boarding school run by Ramakrishna Mission, a Hindu organisation where my father, a doctor, was a consultant, which meant that he visited the school two to three times a week.
The idea was to instill some discipline into our unruly behavior - and a fat lot of good it did!
Here, you got up every day at 5 am, bathed in the pond and prayed for half an hour (usually stanzas from the great Baghavath Geetha, a Hindu holy book) before having a simple breakfast of rice with hot water and some salt and with a little bit of vegetables on the side. Then you attended the normal school and were allowed a light lunch of rice and curry and in the evening you had another bath, prayer and a simple supper of Chappathis and vegetable curry. That was your lot and then you went to sleep on the cement floor on a grass mat and no pillows! It was such a culture shock to us who came from a privileged background.
The house and school were situated in a remote farm about 7 miles away from the nearest town and was surrounded by marshes and big trees with overgrown branches and most of them sagged down to the ground level thus giving the appearance of big round green marquees. There was a small field adjacent to the trees which was used for playing football, hockey and other games.
There was this one tree among them where no one dared to go near. No one knew why. I wanted to know and the only man who would know was the old caretaker who was a morose, quiet fellow and no one went near him either. But I knew he had a weakness for beedies which are locally made cigarettes using tobacco and dried leaves, a poor man’s smoke. I bribed him with a couple which I had secreted from the dashboard of my father’s car for I knew that the family chauffeur kept them there.
So he began.
Some twenty years ago a carpenter died after contracting smallpox for which there was no cure either then or now. He was a widower who lived in a small hut with his 18 year old daughter. He was just unlucky, for some people survived but they always left the tell tale spots which often looked like pits on your face and all over your body.
No one would go near the hut for fear of infection as smallpox is a highly contagious disease. Those days the authorities did not care. In any case unless one was offered a lot money no one was going to take the risk. The young girl had no other alternative so in the middle of the night she dragged her father's body and buried it .
She contracted the disease as expected. She had no money, no food and no one went near the hut.

The boys playing in the field lost their football. Two boys went in search of it and located it inside a giant tree which was like a hollow ball with not much light inside due to the thick leaves on the branches which was overgrown and touching the ground. They also saw on the lower branches , a hanging body.
Police and the authorities were informed and as it was late in the evening nothing was going to be done until the following day. Some poor person found hanging was no big deal. However a policeman was ordered to keep watch on the body to protect it from birds or other elements. He was given a hurricane lamp and the school provided him with a stool as he could sit but not sleep.
However being human he dozed off some time during the night to be awakened by the sound of fluttering wings of a great big owl and the spectacle of the swaying body which was disturbed by the panicking bird. At the same time he felt that he was being pulled down by the legs of his stool and was slowly sinking into the soft newly dug earth below.The dim light from the hurricane lamp gave the whole scene a bizzare effect. The policeman ran out screaming his head off and spent the rest of his life in a mental institution.
The girl had hung herself as she felt that there was nothing to live for and she chose the place where she had buried the father a few days ago. The policeman was sitting right on top of the body with just the soft earth separating him and the body.
I asked him how he knew all these in such detail.
He simply said, ‘Well sir, the policeman was my brother’.








Archived comments for A Case Of Smallpox


dancing-queen on 2004-03-19 19:26:23
Re: A Case Of Smallpox
Ooooh, that's a sad and spooky tale, Chris! What a horrible job that policeman had, having to guard a dead body, which was hanging there like that - with another body right beneath him! No wonder it sent him mad!

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-03-20 03:30:13
Re: A Case Of Smallpox
Hi DQ
Thank u. I have had nightmares about it.

Author's Reply:

uppercase on 2004-03-20 13:38:14
Re: A Case Of Smallpox
Oh my how horrible. I liked this story a lot. It was well written and I couldn't stop reading it...Erma

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-03-20 15:51:12
Re: A Case Of Smallpox
Hullo Erma
U r very kind. Thanx a million . One of the best compliment any writer would love to recieve.
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:


End Of The Road (posted on: 16-02-04)
Pure fiction, You see!

chrisk

End of the Road
By C R Krishnan


“I do not like your attitude, your very casual attitude. You are flashy and have no depth.”

Menon looked past his new boss; he fixed his stare on the wall opposite. It already needed a coat of paint. The bastard had only occupied the office for one week, but he had placed his chair so close to the wall that his oily hair had marked it.

The boss had recently arrived from Bombay to look after the interests of the Indian International company situated near London Heathrow Airport. It was a lucrative posting. In a country where some people could not afford one meal a day, let alone a foreign trip, these glorified clerks from Bombay landed themselves in clover. They were neither well educated nor particularly intelligent or efficient, but having put in a number of years with the company, they expected and were duly given these jobs as a reward. The actual work, of course, was done by the local recruits both Indian and British.

The boss continued; “And you were licking that last boss’s arse, that’s why you got promoted so fast. Well, my dear boy, from now on I’ll be watching you like a hawk.”

Menon left him and walked out into the main office, where he saw the clerks and typists suddenly springing into action. The inner office had such thin walls!

“Ten years!” He thought. “I’ve been with this wretched company for ten years, and this idiot tells me I’m nothing.”

That was when Menon’s involvement with the Union started. The new boss found a new favourite, and Menon was given all the dirty jobs: he felt unwanted and ignored. So he became shop steward, and plunged into office politics and wage negotiations.

At first he glorified in this position. Staff came to him with their problems. Now, suddenly, he found himself on the opposite side of the battle. There had been times when he had hated the ‘agitators’. Now he was one himself.

They came to the start of another year. The usual wage round battle began in earnest. No increase this year, the company bosses decided. There was a strike and the union was warned “Return to work or else.”

There was a lot of bold talk, but it did not last long. Bit by bit the staff trickled back. The strike was broken. The shop stewards and a few others who stayed out were sacked.

Then thing went from bad to worse.

Menon ignored the first letter from the Building Society. A second came, and then a third, followed by a final warning. He nearly got a job, but his references were bad. No-one wanted a trouble-making Union man. He applied and applied, but there were no replies.

The house was repossessed. Since he did not want to be unceremoniously evicted, he left with his family before the bailiffs came.

Next stop, a dilapidated bed-sit arranged by a friend – some friend! Menon, his wife and son and their few possessions were crammed into a small room in a building with many others; a large number of the tenants were unemployed people like him.

The room boasted of an electric Belling cooker with two rings, a sink and a fireplace with a noisy gas heater. The bath and toilet were located on the landing outside and were shared by ten others; downtrodden couples and young hippy types who consistently burned incense sticks to ward off the smell of marijuana.

Then the summer arrived. It was hot and stinking in that small room. Their six-year-old son developed bite marks all over his body. People said there was a chicken farm nearby which also reared, apart from chickens, a black mite, the size of pinhead; many of the tenants had bite marks to prove it. The boy had more than most, perhaps because of his sweet young blood!

Menon groaned. What a life, he thought. How did he end up in this hole? He had owned a three-bedroomed house. He remembered how friends and relations had frequently visited them in those days, using the house as a hotel during their trips abroad, thus saving themselves the expense they would otherwise have incurred. They always said how hospitable he had been, but where were they now? Well, everybody runs away from a man when he is no longer of any use to them.

The boy looked a sight and scratched himself day and night. However, he never complained. It was as though he had accepted his fate. Menon looked around him and wept at the hopelessness of everything. He was ashamed and felt that he had let his family down.

“Can we go for a drive?” his son asked.

“Have we got enough petrol?” His wife looked at him and waited for an answer.

Menon was in a different world.

“Sorry? Ah yes, we’ve enough petrol in the car. Let’s go for a drive.”

“Great!” his son cried out with joy.

The motorway was almost deserted. It was nearly 8 p.m. on a clear Sunday.

“Faster, Daddy, faster!” his son shouted from the back.

The summer wind came in through the open windows, whoosh! Far away on the horizon a black cloud was forming, masking the rays of the setting sun. Menon looked at it and could not see any silver lining.

“Faster, faster, Daddy!”

Menon put his foot down on the accelerator until it touched the floor and kept it there … … …



Archived comments for End Of The Road


tara on 2004-02-17 10:15:02
Re: End Of The Road
A very well written story. You effectively show the downfall of Menon’s life and the abrupt ending when he feels that he can’t go on. Like the comment made about his son, it seems as if Menon accepts his fate without any attempt to change it. Personally, I would have liked to see a bit more action. I was often being told about Menon’s life without being given the chance to see it and to completely understand him.

I did enjoy it though 🙂


Author's Reply:

sirat on 2004-02-17 11:11:13
Re: End Of The Road
It's a good - indeed quite chilling - plot, and the central character is well drawn. The problem, as Tara has said, is in the actual narrative style you have used, there is too much "telling" and not enough "showing". For a lot of the story you stand outside your characters as the omniscient author, telling us what has happened and how they have reacted. It would be a lot better if you could get this information across in some other way, perhaps as reported thoughts of your central character, so that the reader is interpreting things for his/her self, taking part in the imaginative process. It seems to be the most difficult lesson for a short story writer to learn but it's something that you suddenly grasp and that then seems obvious.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-02-18 13:25:37
Re: End Of The Road
Hi Tara
Am grateful for your comments. This is something I did some years ago when I heard a story about a fellow very like Menon. Though I fictionalised it, It is sometimes very difficult to understand how people react to some situations like loss of job etc.,.I think he just gave up.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-02-18 13:29:27
Re: End Of The Road
Dear Sirat
I appreciate your comments. I dont know what else I can do to improve this. As I mentioned to Tara Its difficult to know how people would react to bad happenings! Wish I had known the fellow, ah! but then Sirat , its fiction!
regards
chrisk

Author's Reply:


A Tale from Ramayana (posted on: 09-02-04)
I am not sure if it is non-fiction. All I know is that this is is told to us Indian boys and girls by our grand parents and any uncles and older people then. If this is not religiously or historically correct, please forgive me. I thought it was an interesting tale.

chrisk

A Tale from Ramayana



I am standing at the southernmost tip of India, at a place called Kanyakumari, which sticks out into the ocean like a well used spear, irregular at the top. South of here, some fourteen miles away, and not visible to naked eyes today, lies Sri lanka, the old ceylon.

There are tourists all about. They have come to see one of the temples and also to watch the sunrise and sunset which are spectacular. It is never very hot here, the sea being virtually on all sides; here the breeze never stops.

There was once land connecting India and Sri Lanka .These days you have to have a boat or plane to travel there.

A very long time ago at the beginning of the world , when Gods walked on our earth, and demons too, a demon with ten heads called Ravana was the king of ceylon, and stole the wife of one of the Gods. The God’s name was Rama and he was also a prince.

Now this Ravana was a wicked chap.Some demons are, you know. While he was hovering around in his flower helicopter, he noticed in the forest below a very beautiful woman brushing her hair. It was long, black and lustrous.
He was actually in the Indian territory and was trying his new toy, having received the helicopter as a reward from one of the Senior Gods. It had taken him two years of penance and meditation to get it- for the Gods had a weakness. If you sat at the foot of the Himalayas and meditated concentrating on one of the Gods-he had chosen Shiva- the God will have to appear in front of the communicant and offer a wish, like the genies do when you let the out of the bottle.

So the good lord Shiva appeared in front of Ravana and asked what he wanted as being a demon he can only get one wish. (usually they come in three) The king thought for a while and said ’a helicopter’. Shiva said it had not been invented yet; he suggested a golden chariot with golden bullocks or horses to pull it., or how about elephants? Ravana said that he was not buying, so shiva invented a flower one.

That was yesterday, and today he was trying it out.

So he silently landed the ‘copter’, dragged the lady into it and took off. Just like that. For a minute she was totally bewildered. Ravana headed home and installed her in one of his harems which was under a banyan tree, it was summer, you understand? She was not harmed in any way as Ravana thought she might fall in love with him. After all, who could resist his ten heads, each with a crown on it?

At this time her husband Rama, with a couple of his brothers was living in exile. Their father had been prevailed on in a moment of weakness by a wife of his, to banish them. But that is another story.

Rama had gone out looking for fruit and other vegetables with his brothers, and when they returned they were very hungry. They searched around for something to eat but were unable to find anything. Then they looked for the lady of the house. She had dissappeared.

Though prince Rama was not a fully fledged God at the time, he did have certain powers, and it did not take him long to figure out what happened. He gathered all his clans around him, including some minor Gods and also his faithful but powerful pet Hanuman, the monkey God. Then they declared war on Ravana.

The plan was simple. From the southernmost tip of India they would travel at night and invade ceylon and rescue Sita, the wife of Rama , whose location has been established by Hanuman , the monkey God when he was sent on a search and find mission. Then they will kill Ravana. and his wicked brothers ( he had a few of them and also a wicked sister!) Of course Ravana observed all their activities from his helicopter and prepared a large army to meet the intruders.

There was a fierce battle. However since Ravana had 10 heads, he had to be killed 10 times, which was not an easy task. However, Rama had a repeat arrow which came in handy.

In the end the Gods won and the country was handed over to one of Ravana’s brother, who was a reasonably good demon as demons went. Sita was rescued and this time the flower helicopter came in very useful.

Then Rama’s exile came to an end, and they all returned to their kingdom. He soon became king and ruled it wisely for many years.

Alas, an unpleasant rumour began to circulate to the effect that Sita was no longer pure as she had spent a considerable time in Ravana’s palace. This was not true, of course, but Rama had no choice but to banish her.

Inconsolable in her grief, Sita prayed to her mother, the earth Goddess, who promptly opened her bowels. There was this terrible earthquake and Sita was swallowed up. Rama saw what was happening and tried, but too late, to pull her out by her lustrous hair but he was left with only a few tufts of it.

After the earthquake the land between India and Ceylon disappeared. So the Tamils and few other Indians went by boat to help the local people to work the land, and we all know what is happening there now!





Archived comments for A Tale from Ramayana


ritawrites on 2004-02-09 05:05:37
Re: A Tale from Ramayana
you forgot that ‘lakshman rekha’ bit – and the ‘golden deer bit’ (I think it would add to the glory of the story if you added them in) – fun read – maybe you should email it to prabhakaran and chandrika kumaratunga – who knows, it might be the cause of prevailing peace – actually I read somewhere there is evidence that there are remnants of an ancient man-made bridge between India and Sri Lanka submerged under water which was photographed recently by one of the man-made satellites roving about overhead – -- and oh... enjoyed the dip into the samundar of our mythology --

Author's Reply:

Penprince on 2004-02-09 08:59:13
Re: A Tale from Ramayana
EXCELLENT telling of the tale..though some small flaws are present here and there and needs some editing..

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-02-09 13:21:46
Re: A Tale from Ramayana
Thanx a lot for ur comments. There r many other connecting stories as u mentioned. However once I start it when I will end it? Thats my problem.

Kind regards
Krishnan

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-02-09 13:25:39
Re: A Tale from Ramayana
Thank u for ur kind comments.
Why dont u point out to me what and where the flaws are? I have no way of knowing it unless some one like u tell me. Thats one of the reasons I posted the story here!
Regards
Krishnan

Author's Reply:


Passing Through (posted on: 30-01-04)
I wonder what really happens!

chrisk

Passing Through

By C R Krishnan


The man was dying.

‘How is he, Doctor? Is it bad?’

The young man stood with his mother, who was holding on to his arms.

‘Not very good’ the Doctor replied. ‘His heart is failing, the kidneys are not functioning. I am sorry’.

‘How long?’ the mother asked in between sobs.

‘Hard to tell, but I don’t think he will last the day’.

‘There must be something you can do, Doctor’, the son pleaded.

‘I am sorry. Look, he has had a massive stroke, his whole body is paralysed, almost comatose. He won’t know or feel anything’. The Doctor simply shook his head and walked away slowly.

‘Wrong, Doctor, you are so wrong!’ I wanted to cry out. I might be completely paralysed, but I could see and hear. I knew what they were saying.

My wife and son were watching me; then suddenly, without warning, I was up near the ceiling looking down at my own body, eyes still open. I then knew I have died. Anyone who has read books about near death experiences will know. The feeling was unmistakable.

So there I was, floating about and looking down on my elderly wife and my middle aged son with his expanding waistline and balding head. They had tears in their eyes. It brought tears to my eyes too.

After hanging about for a bit, I simply floated out through the open window of the ward. There were many other people all around, mostly old like me and also a few young ones.

Up and up I went at great speed; I began to be afraid that I would never stop. I did not want to get too close to the Sun and be like that chap who burnt his wings. Then, just as I was getting paranoid, I started to fall without warning, as though some one had burst my balloon. Down and down I went and I landed with a bump on a big patch of ground. Miraculously I had not hurt myself. I was okay. Fit as a fiddle!

This new earth was flat as far as the eye could see. It was very bright and the colours of the grass and the red and yellow flowers were so vivid and clear. The fragrance all around was out of this world- yes, out of this world!

I frantically looked around for my father, mother and other relations who had died before me. However, I did not recognise any of the faces I saw. Heavens above, there were so many people , mostly old men and women, but with a sprinkling of young ones and a few infants. It seemed that we are all waiting for some one to appear on the horizon. I experienced a feeling of happiness and wellbeing such as I had never known before in my life. All my companions were calm, and we smiled at one another.

Quick as a flash, a tall, good looking man with a beard materialised in front of us.. He said ‘hello’ and smiled, showing white sparkling teeth. He said how pleased he was to see as all also he was the allocator of souls. We were all to be redistributed and send back to earth. One man, who had been very religious and gone to temple morning, noon and night asked about heaven. Another, who has been a sinner, shouted out ‘what about hell’? The tall man only laughed and told us in a very soothing voice there were no such things up here and these people have missed them on earth. ‘Its all down there’ he said.

Then he explained that this beautiful place is only a temporary stopping place. It was like a transit lounge at an airport, except that it was only for return journeys. That was that. Everyone had to return to earth.

I realised and was sad that I had no chance of finding my father and mother and their souls have already been allocated to other bodies long time ago.

Then I remembered my mother saying how like my son was my father in some things he did. In bed, for example, he would keep his hand under the pillow and always slept with his face down. He also went to the toilet twice after breakfast and never flushed it, just like grandpa!

No sooner was my name called, I started falling again. I was caught midway by this soft sack and found myself floating in some kind of liquid and I could hear the heavy thudding of a heartbeat and muffled noises coming from outside. It was suffocating and dark.

I cried out, ‘let me out, let me out’.

My wife nudged me awake. ‘hey, you having a bad dream or something?’

I looked around me and saw the digital clock showing 3 a.m. I turned to my wife and said, ‘we must have had many previous lives, you know. Some of them good ones-like the one we are having now, this is a pretty good one.

She was not listening, but snoring, softly…………….










Archived comments for Passing Through


ruadh on 2004-01-30 05:35:16
Re: Passing Through
Makes you wonder if we all expect too much of after-life, interesting idea.

ailsa

Author's Reply:

emmy on 2004-01-30 17:22:51
Re: Passing Through
Reminded me of lucid dreaming. In times of stress I have had these kind of powerful dreams. Apparently it's when you become conscious that you are dreaming, so the sensations that you feel whilst you are dreaming, do really feel real and if you are lucky enough to stay lucid you can control your dream. who knows where you can go or what you can do . Enjoyed the piece enormously.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-01-31 05:06:22
Re: Passing Through
Thank u emmy friday. U r right. sometimes u feel that u can control certain dreams or be awake from it for a while and continue the same dream , well in some cases, especially when its a bad one, it works!
Regards
chrisk

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-01-31 05:11:31
Re: Passing Through
Hi ailsa
Thank u. I think most people want to be reincarnated. I do, provided I am not born into poverty etc., but then I dont think its possible to control such things. I wish some one could come and tell us what will happen!
regards
chrisk

Author's Reply:

richa on 2004-02-01 08:32:10
Re: Passing Through
Was talking about reincarnation yesterday with my flatmates. It's interesting to know everyone's perspective.

Author's Reply:

SmirkingDervish on 2004-02-04 07:31:00
Re: Passing Through
Yes, this was going good places for me until the whole 'It was all but a dream' thing for me. A decent little piece, a little bit cliche ridden, but other than that, okay.

Author's Reply:

Gee on 2004-02-04 08:51:33
Re: Passing Through
I liked the way you turned this into a dream at the end. I was expecting him to be in a bed at the hospital. It was a good twist to the story.

Author's Reply:


The Ashanti (posted on: 19-01-04)
Well, some one told me this in the late sixties and I had written it then, still a beginner as far as story telling is concerned. At that time I was living not very far from the place mentioned.

chrisk

The Ashanti
By Chris Krishnan


Sean O'Reilly slept uneasily.

He had arrived in London only the day before, having taken the ferry from Ireland to Fishguard, and a train from there to Paddington.

The room was a small bedsit in Porchester Terrace, Bayswater, in West London, a few hundred yards from the Bayswater and Queensway which was a busy shopping centre and, in 1965, when these events occurred, it was known as ''Bedsitterland''. Most of the houses in this rather quiet street were divided into bedsits accommodation for lowly paid workers mainly and for students each room having a small sink and a gas cooker and a gas heater fixed on the wall. Central heating was not so common in those days. There was usually a bathroom or two positioned near the landing.

It was March and there was a chill in the air. O'Reilly woke up shivering, his feet and hands freezing. He reached out to pull up the blankets, but he could not find them, so he was forced to open his eyes and take a cursory look around him in the semi-darkness. When he still filed to locate these items, he got out and tiptoed to the other side of the room to switch the light on. The low 40 watt bulb blinded him for a second or two but then he found what he was looking for. The top sheet, the blankets and one of his pillows were laid neatly on the floor near the gas fire, which was off. The pillow had a dent in it, as if a person's head had recently rested there.

He could not work it out. He had specifically asked for a single occupancy and the landlady had assured him that what he was paying - 2.50 would more than cover that. It meant he could do what he liked in his own room. Who the hell wants to lie on the floor anyway? It was damned too cold for that. He picked the blankets up and went back to sleep.

The landlady shook her head. ''No,'' she said emphatically. ''Were you drinking last night?''

''Well, I had a pint or two,'' O'Reilly admitted sheepishly.

''You Irish people are always in the pub. You spent all your money drinking and buying drinks for other paddies.''

O'Reilly did not argue. It was true, he had drunk a little too much. But this was nothing unusual for him, and it didn't make him sleep on the floor.

''Maybe the English bitter is stronger than Guinness,'' he thought.

The next night the same thing happened again. He changed the position of the bed, pushing it from the middle of the room so that it was against the wall. Still the blankets and the pillows ended up on the floor. No amount of bitter or Guinness helped him to enjoy a good nights sleep.

One night he woke up to find the blankets still over him. ''Thank God,'' he muttered to himself.

Opening his eyes wider, he was surprised to see someone standing at the foot of the bed. In the poor light which came from the street, he could make out that it was a black man he saw the white of his eyes and his gleaming white teeth. He was pulling the blankets and sheets off the bed; O'Reilly pulled them back. The black man would not let go. O'Reilly promptly hit his head on the wall and passed out.

A Year ago..

Kojo was from the Ashanti tribe. He had been well educated at home in Ghana and had worked briefly with the local newspaper as their reporter. The editor was his brother-in-law and had sent him to the UK for further training and to improve his English.

The journey by ship had been exhausting. It had taken the best part of a week. And the food was atrocious: he missed his ''fu fu''. He tossed and turned in his bed.

He had never slept on a high bed before. Always, in Ghana, he had made his bed on the floor, and he had never been as cold as he felt now. It was freezing! He decided to do the natural thing. He pulled off all the sheets and the blankets, took one of the pillows and laid them neatly on to the floor near to heater. He lit the ancient heater and went to sleep almost immediately.

The weather was, even for England, unusually severe, and there had been many cases of burst pipes both water and gas due to the hard frost. That night a temporary failure of the main gas supply occurred in the Bayswater area. Kojo's gas heater along with many others went off. It took the gas people an hour or so to fix the broken pipe. By three o'clock the gas supply was back on again.

The poisonous gas from the open tap filled the room. Kojo never woke up from his sleep.

The body was discovered by the landlady a few days later on rent collection day.


Archived comments for The Ashanti


e-griff on 2004-01-19 02:57:47
Re: The Ashanti
Ah, I see. I read this before readingthe intro, and I was thinking - what has happened to chrisk? I don't think it's 'plain daft' but I think you should rewrite it, knowing what you now know about writing... G

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-01-19 04:43:43
Re: The Ashanti
Ya. you r right e-griff, thanx. Will try n redo it.
regards
chrisk

Author's Reply:

richa on 2004-01-19 11:03:09
Re: The Ashanti
I think you have a really good story here. It just needs to be re-written more like a story and less like a narrative. Is this true? Gosh, I hate to think who all used my room.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-01-19 11:37:30
Re: The Ashanti
Hi Richa
Thanx a lot for ur comments. I have to re- write this. Some people say that rooms or houses where a suicide or murder have taken place leave traces or residues etc.,.


Author's Reply:

ruadh on 2004-01-20 05:08:25
Re: The Ashanti
nice subtle ghost story....would like to see it when it's rewritten

ailsa

Author's Reply:

sirat on 2004-01-21 18:20:59
Re: The Ashanti
I think you know what needs doing, more or less. There is a germ of a good story here but it needs polishing. I think I would avoid the racial stereotyping, which doesn't really add anything to the story. I understand the point about the Ghanaian always sleeping on the floor and getting suffocated as a result, but in fact this would have happened eventually wherever he slept. Why not just have the bedding always migrating to the other side of the room where the bed used to be in the past? In fact a variation that might work quite well and be more plausible would be the idea that an old person died in the room some freezing winter night because he couldn't keep warm. He was desperate for more bedding, wrapping everything he could find around himself. The presentation of the story will work best if we get to know the main character and hear it from his point of view. Maybe the landlady is reluctant to offer any explanation but he slowly persuades her to tell all. The "cold spot" at one end of the room could be another good plot detail. But you need to remember that it's people who make stories interesting rather than events and you should put most of your energy into making us understand and care about the characters . Not an easy set of instructions but that's what writing is all about.

Author's Reply:

Michel on 2004-01-22 00:03:46
Re: The Ashanti
To me, there was some sort of 'throwback' here, though ... a feeling of another country and another time - and other, almost forgotten stories - looming over everything to add a rich exuberance that overwhelmed that one sad little predictable room: a sort of spirit of the spirit of a ghost searching for King Solomon's Mines, or someone who made it out of the Heart of Darkness ... a more intelligent, finer, more noble stamp of a man than would be conjured up by simple racial stereotyping, I thought ... A man with tales to tell. Say, someone who 'should not have been there' ...
(That's the sort of thing it suggested to me, anyway ... with apologies to whomsoever)

Author's Reply:

e-griff on 2004-01-22 03:40:47
Re: The Ashanti
I actually think the floor works well, and 'The Ashanti' is part of the core of the story. if indeed the Ashanti are known for such properties, then I don't think it would be racial stereotyping (the Ashanti are a tribe in any case) - no more than a jew with a skull cap, or a catholic crossing themselves.
I feel something would be lost if he was taken out. For my part, I get the resonance of a proud man in a strange country, who dies because of ignorance (just as a man from england might die in Africa) but persists because the strength of his spirit continues, and that's what good about the story. If it was a bloke from Glasgow who died in the next bed, it would be a different story.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-01-22 04:03:10
Re: The Ashanti
Hullo e-griff

I just read comments from Sirat and was about to reply, but then you kindly did it forme.Well I am gratefull to all the people who have commented on this and am rather surprised that it attracted such responses.(I was rather reluctant to submit this story as I thought it was crap! )

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-01-22 04:06:51
Re: The Ashanti
Sorry just a small correction. I did'nt quite mean the story was crap but the way it was written by me, was!

Author's Reply:

petersjm on 2004-01-22 06:50:16
Re: The Ashanti
There is definitely a lot of potential in this story, whether it's "true" or not. The idea works, but as others have said, you need to try re-writing it as a story, not a narrative. It comes across at the minute as "he did this, he did that" without too much feeling. A rewrite that incorporates even more info (like Sirat said) about how the new tenant finds this information out etc would be ideal. PJ.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-01-23 06:32:00
Re: The Ashanti
Hi Sirat

You defenitely deserve a reply from me as u have taken the trouble to go through it thoroughly. I have been trying to re write this taking the advice of all the people who have commented but as far as this story is concerned I am in a kind of vaccum! Thats why I have been asking if any one else would help.

Kind regards
chris

Author's Reply:


Escape From Paradise (posted on: 12-01-04)
My father told us kids this story without of course the juicy bits! I think my mum was away and he was trying to get us to sleep and to this day I think he made this up as he went along. Bless him wherever he is.

chrisk

Escape From Paradise
By Chris Krishnan


The intense heat surprised Narayan; also, why was the lift going down?

Then it stopped with a rattle. The doors were not automatic, so he was obliged to pull the doors back himself and get out somehow.

He nearly fainted in the heat. He looked to the right and then to the left, and then to the right again, before he crossed the corridor to the other side. It appeared to be going round and round. Then he saw this notice on a door:

Hell: Anything Goes here
Prop: Mr Kalan ( Satan to you!)

So he continued walking. His destination was heaven.

But let us go back a day or two.

Mr Narayan died of a heart attack. He did usual things that people do after death, like hovering around their own bodies to see his wife and children crying; and he noticed the doctor comforting his wife rather too effusively. There, there, said the fellow, stroking her hair and stroking her shoulder and then the hair again. This went on and on, so he left.

Then he went through the customary tunnel, long and dark and with a light at the end of it. After an immense time he came to the end and took a left turn. There were other possibilities, but he simply turned left. No reason. Then he flew around for a while and attended his own funeral. The doctor was still holding his wife very close. After a bit, he got fed up, came to this tall building and entered the lift.

Now we return to the present.

After walking many yards, he once more arrived in front of the door. So there he was, standing in front of the door to hell!

He was very upset. He was religious, a believer, teetotal, a vegetarian. He had never borrowed or done any lending. He had even refused to give his wife a rupee over and above the housekeeping, since he adhered to the text: 'Neither a borrower nor a lender be.' So she stole the money instead.

Never mind, he thought, and knocked at the door. He was going to ask for the right direction.

A very attractive young woman wearing hardly anything opened the door and smiled at him. He noticed immediately that she had bigger breasts than his wife's. She embraced him very tightly and the breasts nearly took his breath away.

She said ''Welcome to hell'' and that her name was Devi and she was the secretary to the Prop. He shook his head: he told her he simply wanted to the right direction to heaven.

She thought he must be joking. The computer printout for the day clearly showed his name and he had been allocated room number 5000! Why, she said, there was even a bottle of champagne waiting for him in his room as he was their 5000th customer that day.

Narayan replied that he did not drink. In which case, Devi wondered if the staff could have it.

Narayan looked stiffish.

''Could I see someone higher up, please?'' He said.

''You don't want to see anything lower down, honey!'' the girl laughed. But she agreed and told him to wait.

After a while, a man appeared. He was not wearing horns or tails. In fact he looked very pleasant and smiley. Then he roared:

''What have we got here, a comedian?''

Narayan explained that he was not a comedian but a school teacher from a Hindu Missionary school.

Mr Kalan smiled again. ''Devi!'' he roared. The girl came back. ''Register the bastard now!'' He turned to Narayan.

''Look here, you little piece of shit, I've no time for people who fart around. Sign that bloody register, do you hear?''

Narayan trembled and promptly signed. There was no escape now. He had to stay.

Why had the Gods done this to him, he wondered? Why had they deserted him? Devi the receptionist then took him to an inner office and handed him over to a Mr D who had small horns and a small tail. They shook hands.

''Sir, could you go into the shower, please?'' said Mr D.

Narayan had his shower. He asked if he could have a change of clothes.

''Sorry, sir, you must cross the fire first,'' said Mr D. And opened a door marked ''Exit to fire''. Again, that heat. A gigantic furnace stretched in front of Narayan.

''I can't cross that fire!''

''Yes, you can, sir; it's a question of mind over matter. All you have to do is to take a strand of your hair, split it into seven parts, tie it up and cross. I must warn you, however, that underneath the fire there are snakes, spiders and scorpions all of giant size. Good luck, sir. May the Devil be with you. Ah sir, I nearly forgot: any last wish? You are entitled to one.''

Last wish, last wish? Narayan thought for a minute. Then he said: ''Yes, I have one wish.''

''What is it, sir? I have got to hurry you, sir.''

''I want to go to the toilet.''

''Which one, sir number one or number two?''

''Number one'' said Narayan.

''Well, you can do it in the fire, sir! You won't put it out! Just a joke, sir.''

''No, you don't understand, Mr D. I need a tulasi plant.''

''Sorry?''

''I have always pissed near a tulasi plant.''

''Never heard of it.''

''Please, will you go to the office and find out for me? There's a good chap. I know I'm not going to make that fire so let me at least have my last wish and enjoy it.''

Presently Mr D returned looking worried.

''Sir, the boss wants to see you. You look like a decent sort of fellow, so I'd better warn you beforehand. You see, sir, there is a problem with the tulasi. It's only available in heaven. We don't have any plants or flowers here.''

So he went to see the boss.

The boss told him very politely that the only reason he was in hell was because he had pissed near tulasi plants at least six times a day and the Gods were displeased. Virgins pluck the leaves of the tulasi to give them to the priest in the temple, who put them on the statues of the Gods. One day a virgin picked the one which Narayan had desecrated and a God got it on his head. So his name was deleted from the computer printout and was added to the one in hell. The boss also explained that since a last wish has to be granted, he was sending him up to heaven with a letter to a contact of his there, a Mr A

So back he went into the same lift with Mr D but this time going up. When the lift stopped, the doors automatically opened and a smell of sandalwood, basmati rice and vegetable curry came wafting. Narayan knew then that he was at the entrance to heaven.

They went to reception, and Mr A with folded wings and wearing a white silk robe with the sign of a harp, came to meet them.

He looked at Mr D ''The letter, the letter,'' he snapped ''Quick about it and don't touch me, you dirty stinking animal.''

Mr D ignored this comment and handed over the letter which had the devil's emblem on it.

''You stay here, you can't come in!'' the angel shouted at the demon ''I will bring this sinner back in a minute or two.''

Narayan, following the angel entered heaven. The angel was very angry. This fellow was in hell in the first place due to his desecration of God's plant and now he wanted to commit the same sin again! Mr A could not understand the attitude of the request of Mr Kalan but he owed him a favour.

Mr D waited for ever as Narayan never came back.

There is an unwritten law in the universe of heaven, hell and earth: whosoever enters heaven shall not return!

Archived comments for Escape From Paradise


bluepootle on 2004-01-12 04:57:17
Re: Escape From Paradise
Ha! This was fun and written in a lovely clear and open style. I enjoyed it.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-01-12 08:50:43
Re: Escape From Paradise
Thank u very much. My dad must be feeling good in Hell as he prefered it to Heaven! He wasn't a veggie! and he liked his booze! and not forgetting all the scantily clad girls!

Author's Reply:

Michel on 2004-01-12 09:42:02
Re: Escape From Paradise
*Great Read*
- totally unpredictable - !witty! - imaginative and full of 'life'. Endearing and very very funny.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-01-12 13:22:32
Re: Escape From Paradise
Michel
Thank u for appreciating it. Please, I just got a new hat and right now I cant afford a new bigger one!
Regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

Anshu on 2004-01-13 02:57:28
Re: Escape From Paradise
I read it not once but thrice …. enjoyed it very much. You have a very good sense of humour…. look forward to read more humourous pieces.

Anshu



Author's Reply:

MiddleEarthNet on 2004-01-13 08:12:26
Re: Escape From Paradise
This is good. I like the idea of using using a simple idea to create a funny story. I like the last bit best.

Author's Reply:

marym on 2004-01-14 14:28:20
Re: Escape From Paradise
Wow... you had me stunned with that ending. Interesting though this number "5000"... why this number alone I wonder? .... So many things caught my attention... i was practically angered with the character's wish ... and that too tulasi. Touched the chords as much as the humour, strange (?). I will thumb through your pages again... I am glad Andrea told me about you. Regards, Mary

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-01-15 12:15:39
Re: Escape From Paradise
Hullo Marym
Thank u for those nice comments. I got to ask my dad bt that number 5000! and I shall do so when I meet up with him in hell! Andrea told u bt me? I bet she left out all the bad bits!
Kind regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

richa on 2004-01-15 17:46:31
Re: Escape From Paradise
I enjoyed reading this. Your dad did a great job of creating a story and you wrote it well. It's amazing the great number and types of stories we hear from our parents when we are little. I have a small treasure trove of similar anecdotes tucked away in some deep corner of my mind.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-01-16 02:27:37
Re: Escape From Paradise
Thanx a lot richa , could we have some of urs pls?

Regards
chrisk

Author's Reply:

gouri on 2004-01-16 03:31:08
Re: Escape From Paradise
Hi chrisk, with your juicy bits, this story has more potency. Devi in hell! … computer in hell, modernised the picture? … liked it, interesting. The tulasi part is attention-grabbing; the ending, ‘whosoever enters heaven shall not return!’ so correct. Your dad must be feeling great, sitting high up and seeing his story read … skillfully written by his son. Great stories our parents told us in our childhood, worth remembering.

Gouri 🙂


Author's Reply:

marym on 2004-01-16 11:15:46
Re: Escape From Paradise
...:)... yes, I joined here only recently... and felt lost and that's when I met Andrea who suggested a few writers names ~ yours was one of them...

Regards, Mary
(pssttt... abt that number "5000", probably for a child that totals to "almost infinity"... so your dad was right about the figure)...:)

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-02-25 13:53:27
Re: Escape From Paradise
Hullo Gouri
How r u? Thanks a lot for ur comments.I should have written it down then, all the stories he told me.
He was a great story teller but then he made up some of them as he went along. Aren't all stories made up?
Love
Krishna

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-02-26 04:46:51
Re: Escape From Paradise
Thank u very much Michel. I am grateful for your kind comments and rating my story'hot'.
Regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

Michel on 2004-02-26 06:57:40
Re: Escape From Paradise
(It has been nominated for the next Anthology! Cheers!)

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-02-26 15:53:06
Re: Escape From Paradise
Thanx again, very honoured.
regards
chrisk

Author's Reply:

linenweaver on 01-11-2006
Escape From Paradise
I enjoyed this read very much, it is like a practical joke on us all *giggles* thanks~

linenweaver

Author's Reply:


A Very Long Story (posted on: 28-12-03)
This is an Indian Fable. I am sure there are so many similar ones from other countries.

chrisk

A Very Long Story
By Chris Krishnan


“I want a long story! I am fed up with these little snippets! Isn’t anyone in my kingdom who can tell me a really long story?” declared the King, sitting on his golden throne.

His courtiers stood silent, like portraits on a wall. You could drop the proverbial pin in that great durbar hall, and you could hear it.

The King looked at his Prime Minister, then at the priest, then all around him and shook his heavily crowned head.

He loved stories. Ruling the country: his ministers could do that! All he wanted was to listen to stories which went on all day and all night. Many people tried to gratify him and some of them lost their legs and arms, and in some cases, their heads when they failed.

So he advertised – in the royal paper. Messengers were sent far and wide to seek out people who could provide the King with what he was looking for. To make matters more interesting he decided to throw in his eldest daughter, who was a beautiful dark-eyed princess, and also half the country, to who ever told the longest story.

There was a rush of applications, with the hopefuls coming from all over, but every one fell short; and the King got more and more desperate and frustrated.

Now, in a far away country lived a storyteller who was very broke. He was young, handsome, not of noble birth, but he told wonderful stories. However, the King of that country ruled wisely and took his job very seriously. He had no time for such frivolities.

One day this young man, Gopal, was sitting in his small apartment dreaming up another story to tell, when a friend knocked at the door and handed him a copy of the royal paper which carried the advertisement. In fact, all issues carried the ad.

He decided to reply, and he did.

By return of post came a summons from the King with the usual conditions, rules and regulations. The rewards for success made it a very tempting offer; though the consequences for failure were dire.

“What the hell?” he thought. “Might as well take a chance; and if I lose, I lose.”

He boarded the next available horse and started on his long journey to the neighbouring country. When he arrived safely, he was put up in the servant’s quarters; nobody gave him much of a chance. They had seen many like him come and go. They came with high hopes and good humour but left sometimes without their heads, hands or legs, depending on how the King felt at that time.

Gopal spent a restless night. He thought of his small apartment and the friends he left behind and his aged parents, to whom he had not said goodbye. However, towards dawn he had a very, very long story worked out – a masterpiece.

The King was impatient.

“Are you ready, Gopal?” he asked.

“Yes sire, your majesty, I am.”

“Let’s have it.”

Gopal began his story.

“Once upon a time there was a kingdom which suffered a great famine. Many people died and the King of that country decided that to avoid such misery in future he would allocate a very large area for storing grain. The grain, mostly rice, would be kept in large wooden crates - thousands upon thousands of them, each containing thousands of tons of rice.”

“The wooden crates were constructed and filled, and were stored in a very big warehouse with a solid roof so that no bad weather or rats or birds could get at them. You see, the King was very clever. The doors were locked and guarded day and night. They were only opened to receive more full crates. None went out, so the stock accumulated day after day, month after month, year after year.”

“One day a bird – a crow – flying up high, reached the top of the warehouse and decided to take a rest. Now, this crow had a wife and three children at home to provide for and was always on the look out for a beak full for them. It was while he was sitting there that he noticed a small opening through which he could get inside the warehouse.”

So far, so good. The King was enjoying the story and waited for Gopal to speak again.

“When he got inside the warehouse, the crow could not believe his eyes. There, stretched in front of him was a vast expanse of crates and he could smell the unmistakable aroma of the grain, especially the rice. He didn’t care very much for wheat. It gave the family indigestion.”

“He started exploring the crates and, lo and behold! He found a small crack in one of them where he could see the rice, husks and all, lying there for the taking. He thanked all the bird Gods, especially Garuda who was the one who carried Lord Krishna around.”

“He knew he was made for life. Luckily for him his nest wasn’t very far away. It was like winning the pools – a bird’s pools, that is, where everything is calculated in grains, not money.”

“He picked up a couple of grains – his beak wasn’t large enough for more – and returned home. After feeding his family, he came back and took some more. These were well received, so he took some more. Then he went back home, had a rest and returned for some more. And the next time he brought his wife so that they could carry four grains between them. The nest being so close to the warehouse, his wife thought it safe to leave the children alone for a short while. Then they stopped for the night. The next day the crow returned … …”

“All right, all right, Gopal! What happened next?”

“Sir, your majesty, as he was flying back and forth the crow noticed another cracked crate, so he was very happy.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” The King was impatient. “What we want to hear is what happned after the crows finished picking up the grain.”

“But the crows have not finished picking it up, your most noble majesty.”

“Gopal,” the King demanded, “how long is this pilfering going to continue for?”

“As long as it takes, your majesty. At least a couple of years, sire, until the two crates have been completely emptied. And there is the possibility that the crow might find another crate with a cracked top.”

“Are you trying to tell me, Gopal, that you want me to sit here and listen to the crows picking up each and every grain until they have cleared the lot?”

“Well, I have to be faithful to the story, sire!”

Though the King was lazy and crazy, he was not a bad sort. He was basically honest, and he had to admit that technically Gopal was right. The story could not move on until the grain store was exhausted. He also knew that he had been tricked.

“So this crow returned and picked up a couple more grains but this time from the new … …”

“Stop, stop! Stop this story right now!” the King cried out. “Take my daughter and half the kingdom and get out.”

This was fine as far as the princess was concerned, as she had seen Gopal from afar and already fallen in love.

“Wait a minute, Gopal,” the King said, “just before you go, are there any good stories you can tell me, now that you have got what you wanted?”

“Yes, many, your majesty.” He nearly called him “father” but decided against it. “Really interesting ones!”

“In that case, why don’t you stay here and let’s hear them all.”

And they all lived happily for a long time.

Archived comments for A Very Long Story


marym on 2004-01-14 14:42:52
Re: A Very Long Story
i like this one... reminds me of Akbar ~ Birbal tales. 🙂

Author's Reply:


Bang Bang, Dank Dank (posted on: 26-12-03)
Well there are people like that!

chrisk

Bang, Bang – Dank, Dank
By Chris Krishnan


The telephone rings in the hallway. He opens the door, closes it: bang! The call is for the girl in the next room. He knocks at the door, she opens it, closes it: dank! He returns to his room: bang! She shouts into the phone and goes back to her room: dank!

If the landlady knew about it, she would have a heart attack. Very soon she will have to fit a new door – no, two doors; for his and for hers.

The building has three floors and my wife and I occupy the third floor, which is a flat. On the second floor there are three bed sits and on the ground floor the landlady has her chiropractic practice, you know relieving people of back and other pains. She goes home every day at four p.m.

The girl who “dank” her door gets an average of twenty calls ending at three a.m. She has many boyfriends, ex-boyfriends and would be boyfriends.

The man who goes “bang”, has no girlfriends, only his mum. But he always answers the phone. He steps out into the hall: bang! But it’s for her: dank! So he returns to his room: bang! It’s her ex-boyfriend; the current one is in her room listening at the door.

The man who goes “bang” and who answers the phone, sleeps all day. He has no girlfriends, but he always answers the phone; it could be his mum, he says. He is unemployed and on state benefit.

Then he rings his mother. “Mother,” he says, “ring me back. I have just used my last 10p.” Mother says she will but she never does. So he goes “bang”.Then he comes up
to my flat. knock-knock-knock. I look out: “yes?”
“Sorry,” he says, “I hate to do this but, could you lend me 10p? I want to ring my mum.”

Then he rings his mum and tells her he is not well. He says he has an ulcer. Mother tells him not to drink and smoke so much. He says not to worry because he is taking ulcer pills. Could she send some money, as he owes the “Paki” upstairs. Mother puts the phone down.

The next day he comes up to see me. “Sorry,” he says “I hate to do this, but could you lend me 10p to call my mum?” I tell him that he already owes me 3. I also tell him that I am not from ‘Pakistan’ but from India! He says he will get his benefit cheque tomorrow and he will pay me the 2 he owes me. I say it’s 3, not 2. He says what’s a quid between friends? I say quite a lot.

Two months pass. That is four benefit cheques, his time! Now he owes me 6. He closes the door: bang! She closes the door: dank!

It’s two in the morning.

Bang, bang! Dank, dank!

The next day the boy says he was unable to sleep all day as the girl who lives on the left (the one who goes “dank” lives on his right) has been playing music continuously and woke him at two p.m. “Two p.m.?” I say.

“Ya” he says, “I am sleeping aren’t I?”

Two p.m. is midnight his time!

My wife says: “Why do you lend him 10p all the time? He owes you 5 already.”
I say “no, 6”.

Finally I give notice to the landlady. She asks me why.

So I tell her.

“I am sorry,” she says.

I say I am sorry too. So does my wife.

So we leave the flat.

The fellow still owes me 6.

He still “bangs” and she still “danks”.

But I don’t hear them!


Archived comments for Bang Bang, Dank Dank


e-griff on 2003-12-27 04:27:49
Re: Bang Bang, Dank Dank
reality with a wry smile... thankyou.

Author's Reply:

Michel on 2003-12-27 06:01:31
Re: Bang Bang, Dank Dank
Fast, exciting and I thought the girl with the boyfriends had a lyrical quality, something that has sound but is hard to put into words. The young man's role was poignant, but with dash; he made a particularly appealing 10p. In the lead, his mother was somewhat overblown to the detriment of the rest of the cast. but I liked her panache in dealing with the landlady (a mysterious flirt. The big disappointment of the evening was that her phone number was not listed.)
I REALLY LIKE THIS, MR CHRISK!!
THANKS FOR A GREAT READ!


Author's Reply:

Rene on 2003-12-27 08:52:54
Re: Bang Bang, Dank Dank
I want to say that I enjoyed this very much, too. The characters certainly spoke volumes, but I don't think I had better try to say more.
I agree with the above comments (and the way you have written about the NIGHTMARE with telephone)!

Author's Reply:

gouri on 2003-12-27 12:09:26
Re: Bang Bang, Dank Dank
Hi Chrisk, nice to see you back with the Bang Bang, Dank Dank ... enjoyed and laughed a lot as I read it.

A good read.

Gouri.

Author's Reply:

dancing-queen on 2003-12-30 11:33:31
Re: Bang Bang, Dank Dank
Hi Chris - great to have you back after your hols. Yet another fun read! You always manage to put a smile on my face with your stories.

Oh yes, in the first para you've left a couple of words out:
'The call is for the girl next room.'

(...in the next room)

I'm not going to nit-pick, but as that line is in your opening I thought I'd mention it 🙂

Best wishes - DQ

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-12-30 13:22:05
Re: Bang Bang, Dank Dank
Hi DQ

Thank u for your kind comments. Yes u r right in pointing out the omission and its ok. I aint upset!

love
chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-02-28 15:28:56
Re: Bang Bang, Dank Dank
Hi Michel,
Believe this. I saw that fellow the other day, after some 10 years, and he said, 'Hi Chris, fancy seeing u here'. I said there is nothing bloody fancy about it as I live here.
He said that he is married now and has a son. Congratualtions, I said.
Hey Chris, I hate to ask you this, have u a pound u can lend me?
Well well ,Mike, You have gone up in the world!
Inflation is it?

Regards
Chrisk

Author's Reply:

Michel on 2004-02-29 01:04:03
Re: ten p to a pound - Bang Bang, Dank Dank
Hah! That's really funny! I imagine this guy walks the street every day looking for chances to say that - raising himself ten p a year - he probably asks his child as soon as he gets back home (not that I think he has a child at home; they will have moved out)

(I am trying to cut down on capital letters since a journal pasting, sorry posting, said it was a PET H - sorry, hate, so can't enthuse as over the top as I'd L- like - geepers, this is hard, I am going down in the world)

yours in gratitude for big laugh
Michel





Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-05-12 15:51:21
Re: Bang Bang, Dank Dank
Hi John G
I was going through some of the stories and realised that I haven't replied to ur comments for this one.
Recently I saw this fellow and he greeted me with such enthusiasm I thought he was going to return the money he owes me! No such luck but to my relief he didn't ask for any, only my address but I said I am emmigrating soon!
Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-06-30 03:37:33
Re: Bang Bang, Dank Dank

JohnG
Correction, He did ask me for a quid, honest!
Chris

Author's Reply:


GUILT-Conclusion (posted on: 10-11-03)
May be some day some one will dig me out.

chrisk

GUILT- Conclusion
C Krishnan



''Don't eat it, Mohan!'' I cried out to my younger brother.

''Why not?''

''Because it's dirty and poisonous! Listen,'' I went on, seeing his look of total disbelief, ''don't you believe me? Let me explain. All these birds eat shit, don't they people's, animals? Then they fly up to this tree and peck at the mangoes with their dirty unwashed beaks. They don't even dip them in water before they go up there.''

Mohan threw away the mango and started to cry.

The sweetest mangoes always came from the topmost branch of the tallest tree in the compound. You could get them by using a catapult, as it would have been dangerous to climb such a gigantic tree. If you were lucky and aimed at the stem, you might bring down a good bunch, and find perhaps one clean mango without some goddamn peck mark. The birds would sit close to the fruits, but they never finished their job of eating them all, as they were easily satisfied. A peck here, a peck there. What a criminal waste of mangoes.

I had fought with my brother to gain control of this solitary, un-beaked fruit. Mohan, as a consolation prize, picked the mango with the smallest peck.

''Okay, here you are, you can have mine. Come on, let's go home now, it's getting dark.''

In our house, apart from our parents and two sisters we had a servant called Kuttan who was in charge of the kitchen and the storeroom adjacent to it. He was fourteen years old; to us that was ancient.

Kuttan was short and stocky with bushy jet black hair. He had a round face with big eyes correctly placed, and a small mouth with perfect teeth, while we were running around with gaps between our milk teeth, especially my brother!

The kitchen part of his domain did not interest us, but the storeroom did. Well, more precisely, the big wooden chest inside it did.

This chest, measuring about six feet long, by five feet wide by three feet deep, contained the following items, besides a boring sack of rice:

a) Two sacks of mouth-watering brown jaggery cubes, just big enough to fit our mouths. One of the sacks lay partially open.

b) One big bunch of the sweetest bananas God ever produced, slowly getting ripe, but still good enough to eat.

c) Some coconut cakes placed in silver salvers and tightly bound with muslin cloth.

d) A jar full of assorted delicious chocolates.

e) A few ants and cockroaches milling around.

However, alas, the chest remained padlocked most of the time. Mother carried the key with her other keys in a bunch tucked in the folds of her saree around her waist. They made a tinkling noise when she walked or moved, which was lucky for us as we got fair warning of her presence, especially when we were up to some mischief. It reminded us of a story which we had read about this mouse who wanted to bell the cat to be out if its way, but none of his friends would do it, and so they lived in fear all their lives. Our cat here had solved the problem for us by trying the bell on herself!

The chest was usually opened twice a day, at midday and early evening. Mother unlocked it, and left Kuttan to take out the rice or whatever, before dutifully closing the lid. Our mother would then return to padlock it. Sometimes this was a couple of minutes later.

This interval of two minutes was long enough for us to mount a raid, especially to devour the chocolates. The whole operation, if conducted swiftly, could be carried out in thirty seconds.

The robbery took place on the same day it was planned. We both ended up getting spanked for it by our cat, as father was away at the time. Had he been there, we would have been let off, for he was a staunch opponent of corporal punishment.

The informant was, of course, our hero Kuttan, who smiled and gave approving nods and shakes with his big head while we were being beaten. The rascal!

Now, this fellow had never been treated like an ordinary servant. His mother was my grandparent's servant and had known my father as a child. Kuttan, therefore, was treated like a member of the family well almost. He still had to sleep in the servants' quarters and could not sit with the family to eat. However, he was definitely given certain responsibilities in the household. Moreover, he was allowed to wear a dhoti like grown-ups, while we had to be content with shorts. All the boys, until they reached seventeen or so, wore shorts, the dhoti being reserved for the rare occasions when one visited a temple.

So there he was, an honorary adult, better placed in the household than we tearaways, a fact which had not escaped our notice. When, on top of this, he betrayed us, we began to hate him.

Before we really started hating Kuttan, we had tried persuasion, bribes and even blackmail to get round him, but he was not buying. He was incorruptible and that was that. He was not going to allow us to raid the chest and look the other way. Therefore he became our enemy, a person to be feared and to be done away with somehow shot, removed, banished!

It was not going to be easy, as he was the apple of our mother's eye. He was like that chap Caesar's wife. He could do no wrong.

It was a custom in those days to hand down used clothes to the servants. During festivals, however, they were given new ones.

One day, our enemy appeared wearing a brand new white vest, which was the standard apparel worn inside the house by most men and boys. If you were going out, you put on a shirt over it. We all had vests, all white, always white. Our vests and Kuttans's were indistinguishable, being all size 's'. However, ours were marked with our initials.

Our brains started working. While Kuttan was away we crept into his room and removed his brand new unmarked vest which we replaced with one of mine. We then buried his new vest deep under the mango tree. As he had still not returned, we decided to make the case stronger by stealing a rupee coin from our mother's purse and depositing it in the pocket of one of his shirts. A rupee was a lot of money in those days as Kuttan's salary was five rupees a month. My father earned some two hundred rupees.

Needless to say, this caused a big commotion in the household. All places were searched thoroughly, especially our room, as we had been caught a couple of times before for stealing small amounts.

But Kuttan's room was not searched. The very idea of his stealing anything never occurred to mother.

Another catastrophe! My new vest was missing! Kuttan found it and the rupee, and handed them both over to my mother. To make matters worse, my brother and I had a small argument, and he ratted on me.

After this incident, Kuttan was never the same. His confident air and the smile vanished forever. Sometimes, he would shake his head; was that a tear I saw in his eyes? Maybe the kitchen was a bit smokey. He stopped joking with my mother, and she was aware of it, as Kuttan always made her laugh. Well, the whole atmosphere of the house was different; it became gloomy and there were whispers that Kuttan wanted to leave.

Days passed. The beatings and the recent incidents kept us well away from the wooden chest. We used to walk by it, casting longing glances. Such was life.

Then there was a sudden dramatic change: Kuttan was admitted to the hospital where our father worked, with what seemed to be flu. However, it turned out to be typhoid, an advanced case.

The next few days were glorious. The maid who had temporarily replaced Kuttan was fifteen and fat, with a voracious appetite for sweets. We joined forces and raided the chest almost everyday. She grew fatter and we began to get a surfeit of the taste of chocolates and jaggery. There's a saying: too much of the same thing makes all greedy boys dull and sick. In a few days the very existence of the chest was forgotten. We never gave it a second glance, not even a first!

This maid, Malathi, was a lousy cook. Even our father, who never bothered much about food, started complaining. Either it was too salty, or too watery or too hot. She was quite unable to make a sardine curry like Kuttan did.

Even we started missing Kuttan. All is forgiven Kuttan, come back! He never did.

His small body was cremated immediately after he died. He was just fifteen.

The white vest which I buried under the big mango tree stayed there for ever.

But my guilt, ah! My guilt never got buried. I am buried in it.

Archived comments for GUILT-Conclusion


Sooz on 2005-07-19 18:24:15
Re: GUILT-Conclusion
Chris, this is wonderful, I have always loved Gouri's tales of India, my mother-in-law was brought up there and I have a great fondness for the place, this is along the same lines as one of Gouri's but with a moral sting in the tale. Loved it, thank you. See you next Thursday 🙂

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-07-19 20:13:16
Re: GUILT-Conclusion
Sooz
Thank u. This was the third instalment of 'Guilt' and I managed ( with a lot of help from my editor e-Griff) to publish all the three in my book as one story. What u read is the uncut version.
Happened a long time ago.
Love, see on Thursday.
Chris

Author's Reply:


Guilt -Part 2 (posted on: 07-11-03)
Please , please, I said what I have to say in Part 1

chrisk

GUILT-Part 2
By
C.Krishnan


A few months after this, I killed again. This is how it happened.

I went to stay with our uncle, who was a farmer and who lived in an old house surrounded by coconut groves and paddy fields. It was a really big house, with an attic. All night the bats and pigeons made noises up there.

One day when my uncle was out, I ventured up to the attic and as soon as I showed my face, the pigeons started flapping about and raising dust. Only the bats remained, upside down hanging from the beams.

I examined one of the bats, picking up a stick and prodding it. It flew straight at me, hitting the side of my face and darted around for a while; then it went back to its original place and promptly hung upside down as though nothing had happened. However, it had provoked me. I wasn't going to be treated like this in my own uncle's attic. I already knew, from watching Dracula films starring Bela Lugosi, that bats are vampires in disguise.

So I laid into it with a stick. It fell to the ground with its umbrella wings stretched out and I hit it again and again and again. Its face was bloodied and it turned to look at me, pleading and shaking. It tried frantically to move away from me, but its wings were already broken and useless. I picked it up and, trembling violently, it died. As I write this, I can still see it staring at me with its imploring eyes and mouth trickling with blood, looking almost human.

Someone reported this to my uncle. He went up into the attic, brought the creature down and explained to me that it was not a wise thing to kill bats. They did a lot of good, he told me; they ate fruits and deposited the seeds in their droppings all over the fields. This caused new fruit trees to grow. The more trees there were, the more fruits for all of us.

He handed me the corpse.

''You did this,'' he said. ''Now go and bury it.''

I never wilfully killed after that day. But something else I did after that was really bad.


Archived comments for Guilt -Part 2


dancing-queen on 2003-11-07 04:53:39
Re: Guilt -Part 2
Eeew! I see what you mean, Chris - sent shivers down my spine. I'll say no more...

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-11-07 07:48:35
Re: Guilt -Part 2
Hi Leah
I am sorry.

Author's Reply:

ritawrites on 2003-11-07 10:24:19
Re: Guilt -Part 2
Poor bat. Btw – any good deeds coming up?

Author's Reply:


Guilt-Part One (posted on: 03-11-03)
This is all true. All this happened. Wish I had a Time machine. I could then go back and put it right! I am still buried in this guilt.



chrisk

Guilt Part One
By Chris Krishnan


Monkeys used to come to the yard from the hills around our house, in South India. They made a nuisance of themselves because they raided the trees and picked the bananas and papaya fruit before they were ripe enough for us to eat. They would pluck them straight from the treetop, and would run as fast as they could before our servants could catch them. Sometimes stones would be thrown at them, but they were too fast for anybody. Apart from that they did no harm.

My brother and I used to watch, fascinated by their almost human appearance and movements. One of them looked just like a school teacher of ours whom we hated. His name was Shambu Master so we named the monkey, an ugly one, Shambu. He was a repulsive creature, with only one eye, but he was faster than the rest.

This was when I was about eight years old. Mohan my brother would have been six.

The monkey at the fairground danced, carried a coconut lifted high up, did somersaults. The trainer had a cloth spread out in front of him and people threw coins on to it.

''Come on, Hanu, do another jump!'' the trainer ordered and the monkey sprang through the air. What a performer! More money on to the cloth. Then it was given a small banana and it peeled it like we all do, looking frantically left and then right as though someone was waiting to snatch it away.

At first we thought of trapping Shambu to train, but we could never catch him. Anyway, one of the servants told us that he was too old to be taken in hand.

''You can't teach an old monkey new tricks,'' he said.

We put pressure on our parents: we had to have a monkey! Mother said no, but Father, who was always indulgent, said yes.

One morning he woke us up and brought us down to the yard. Tied to the tree was a small screeching Rhesus monkey.

The training started at once. We wanted it to carry a coconut, to do somersaults, all in one minute. We tried to tempt it with bananas, sweets and nuts, which my brother stole from the kitchen store while the servant was looking the other way all it did was jump up and down and screech and howl. We went a bit closer and then it scratched and bit us both. Not very painful, but how could we tolerate that from a pet, our slave?

We decided to take immediate disciplinary action (as Shambu Master would have done) by throwing burning cinders at it. The orange glow fascinated the monkey and it grabbed at every cinder we threw. It screamed with pain and soon both its arms and legs were burnt. We were having a whale of a time.

It screamed all night, and it scratched and picked at its wounds as monkeys do. By the next morning its limbs were raw and bleeding. By the end of the day it was dead.

We got caned, had to have twelve injections in our stomachs to ward off rabies, and were confined to our bed for the next two weeks. Shambu Master came to our house to give us tuition and never smiled once.

From the window we watched our mother and a servant digging a hole in the yard and burying the monkey.

A few months after this, I killed again.





Archived comments for Guilt-Part One


bluepootle on 2003-11-03 04:15:08
Re: Guilt-Part One
Um.. bit of a scary ending there. Am hanging on for guilt part two now.

Well written, and I'd be surprised if there was anybody out there who doesn't relate to this in some way. It has to be an important moment in childhood when you realise you have power over something else (usually a pet) and push the boundaries of that power.

Author's Reply:

dancing-queen on 2003-11-03 09:17:30
Re: Guilt-Part One
Enjoyable read, Chris - very interesting - but ooooh what a naughty boy you were. I wonder if girls do that sort of thing? Can't remember doing anything like that to be honest - I was always trying to rescue every stray/abandoned animal or sick bird.

Yes...waiting for Part II...

Author's Reply:

gouri on 2003-11-04 03:08:56
Re: Guilt-Part One
Monkeys are a common sight in rural and even urban India. chrisk, you violated the animal protection act, resorted to cruelty to animals and a confession after having done it (laughs). As an administrator in the British Raj, my father took pleasure in hunting sport. After independence, strict law was imposed and hunting was forbidden. Though a child of post independent era, I have seen the deerskin and antlers adorning our drawing room. When the monkeys looted the fruits in our garden, dad frightened them by pointing the gun at them or with a blank fire.

You can see large number of monkeys in many historical tourist spots in India. In my city, in one such spot the peanut vendors are doing brisk business by taking the help of these creatures.

The Hanuman god will forgive you for your confession … ha ha ha. Interesting read.

Gouri 🙂


Author's Reply:

ruadh on 2003-11-04 04:28:27
Re: Guilt-Part One
poor wee thing....you deserved every one of those twelve injections Will be interesting to see what was next on your hitlist 🙂

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-11-04 14:18:55
Re: Guilt-Part One
Hi Gouri
Thank u for ur comments. Yup, I was bad, very bad.If I come across me , when I go back in the time machine, I mean 'me' as an 8 year old, I will do something to him I will regret! lol

Regards
krishna


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-11-04 14:26:24
Re: Guilt-Part One
Hi Ruadh
The pain of the injections on ur belly (nowadays its on ur arm before u travel to places of risk) was excrutiating! Thats gone now. The other pain remains.

regards
chrisk

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-11-04 14:28:11
Re: Guilt-Part One
Hi bluepottle,
It gets worse!

regards
chrisk

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-11-04 14:30:55
Re: Guilt-Part One
Hi DQ

You r never ever going to forgive me after u have read the second and the third!(part of guilt)

love
chrisk

Author's Reply:

ruadh on 2003-11-04 14:48:15
Re: Guilt-Part One
Hi Chrisk

In 1994-95 & 1998 I had to endure injections in my stomach twice a day & once a day respectively, over a period of eight months.Both times I was pregnant & I had to do the injections myself to boot so I know full well how painful it is 🙂 One thing however puzzles me. If the emotional pain is so bad then how come you killed twice more? I look forward to finding out.

ailsa

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-11-04 15:43:59
Re: Guilt-Part One
Hi Alisa
Emotional is now at my ripe age. When u r 8 an spoilt, u dont know, what emotion is. but now I know.

regards
chrisk

Author's Reply:

dancing-queen on 2003-11-04 18:47:24
Re: Guilt-Part One
Oh no! Is it THAT bad?

I bet you're not the only lad that's done stuff like that (in fact, I know for sure you're not - there are boys in my area that stone squirrels to death, throw bricks at cats and pigeons and, what's worse, they seem to enjoy doing it!), so don't beat yourself up over it. I'm sure you've suffered enough guilt all these years - now it's time to heal...



Author's Reply:

ritawrites on 2003-11-07 10:21:34
Re: Guilt-Part One
obviously you have a penchant for giving the shock and awe treatment. Well, I’m suitably shocked and awed.

Author's Reply:


Just Checking (posted on: 31-10-03)
All true, except the last part! The money part.

chrisk

Just Checking
By Chris Krishnan


''It's off, it's off, the switch is off!''

My wife has to make sure. She touches the electric switch and repeats to herself: ''It's off. It's off.''

She is always checking switches, doors, the oven, microwave. You hear her mumbling, ''It's closed. It's off''

I ask my son, ''Where's mum?''

''She's checking.''

''Checking what?''

''Oh, just checking.''

I wonder, is she mental? It is a question I have put to my son. He said he thought it was possible.

She started checking when he was born.

''What are you doing?'' I asked.

''I just want to make sure he's a boy.''

''Oh yes, it's a boy!''

''How do you know?''

''The nurse told me.''

''No, I have to check.'' She said.

Then she started repeating, ''It's a boy, it's a boy.'' Over and over.

''I know,'' I said. ''The nurse told me.''

I lock the car door.

She peers inside, checking all the doors. She repeats: ''It's locked, the car doors are locked.''

''Yes, they all are locked,'' I tell her. ''I just did it.''

Now I am lying in bed. She is out checking the doors, the oven, the TV, the taps, the lights.

''Don't forget to check the windows,'' I call out.

''Oh yes!'' she says. So she does that too. Then she reports back that they are all closed.

''I know,'' I tell her. ''I closed them myself.''

On Sunday, I cast my eye over the pools coupon. She asked me, how many draws?

I said six and screwed the coupon and threw it in the bin.

''Please,'' she said, ''let me check that.''

''I've already done it,'' I cried. ''We have only six draws!''

She checks it, counting one, two three There are eight.

''There can't be,'' I said. ''You're crazy!''

She told me no, I am!

And there were eight draws, so we win a lot of money.

I no longer complain. Nor does my son. He has got his new mountain bike and latest Nintendo Game.

I am a wealthy man now.

My wife is still checking!

Archived comments for Just Checking


bluepootle on 2003-10-31 04:26:45
Re: Just Checking
I was really drawn into this at the start but found my interest petered out by the end. I think its the repetition, which is, of course, the point of the story - it doesn't work as a short story, but it would work spoken aloud.

Am I becoming a stuck record too?

Author's Reply:

shadow on 2003-10-31 04:41:45
Re: Just Checking
Very funny - and I didn't lose interest, though I might have if if had gone on longer. Sorry the money part wasn't true!

Author's Reply:

flash on 2003-10-31 04:47:18
Re: Just Checking
Very amusing, and different.




Alan

Author's Reply:

expat on 2003-11-03 12:06:42
Re: Just Checking
I sensed immediately that the repetition was going to lead us somewhere and was hooked. Very readable and the length was perfect. This is going into my 'Favourites' folder. :^) Steve.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-11-04 14:43:12
Re: Just Checking
Hi Expat,
Thank u for those comments. My wife, reading this burst out laughing and of course, never forgiven me, after that! lol
kind regards
chrisk

Author's Reply:


A Happy Tramp (posted on: 27-10-03)
Click to see more top choices

I aint saying nothin!

chrisk

A Happy Tramp
By Chris Krishnan


Now, listen to this. I swear it's all true. Ok, may be not all!

This man borrows two pounds from me, to take us all out for a drink. No, seriously. Once he was rich but due to various adverse circumstances he is now on social security, and therefore very poor. But he's very proud. So he returns the money to me the next week. Every week he borrows, every next week he returns it. Once I said to him, ''Hey, don't worry about paying it back; you might need it next week.'' He shakes his head ''whatever is borrowed must be returned.''

When he returns the money he always slips it into my pocket jacket, trousers, shirt depending on his mood. Mostly he puts it in the shirt pocket where I can see. He is no fool.

Then one day he was carrying his shopping bags up a staircase, lost balance, and fell backward, broke his spine and died, instantaneous.

That night he comes into my room and tells me not to worry; he knows he is dead but he wants to return my two pounds.

I wake up and go through all my pockets because I am broke. Well, would you believe it! I find two pounds in the pocket of the pyjamas I was wearing that night! This makes me happy; but I am also scared to death in case he might pop in to borrow some more. So that night I keep away from my room and ask a friend to put me up; and I tell him why. My friend tells me I am a coward and there are no such things as ghosts. He says he is damn sure as he hasn't seen any. He also says that I can sleep on the floor as the bed is his; also, he has had some lentils to eat and is going to fart a lot. So I bed down on the floor, and he not only farts but snores all night; and I do not sleep a wink.

The next day I make up with my girlfriend and ask her if I can sleep in her bed. She agrees, but the bed is very tiny. She does not fart or snore, I still can't sleep. She says she cannot either.

She tells me she loves me very much and I inform her that I love her more than she loves me. Be this as it may, she asks me since we are not married if I could go back to my own place as soon as possible, like tomorrow? She also says ''Don't come to me; I'll come to you.''

So I go home and keep the lights on all night. I can't sleep with the lights on. So I beg my girlfriend to come. She agrees.

After one week my girlfriend says: ''Look, Chris, since I am with you more than you are with me, can I bring my digital alarm?'' She also asks if there is any chance of a marriage since all her friends are asking her. I tell her that I am in a hurry, and must go to the toilet straightaway!

Then the plane crashes into the ocean. Some bomb, the TV news says. All the passengers and crew are lost, my girlfriend included, who was an airhostess.

The next day my girlfriend come to me and says she is sorry, but she must have the alarm with the digital display as she cannot see in the dark. I ask her where she is; in the deep deep dark ocean where no light can penetrate, she tells me. She says she swims around all day with the fish, big and small. The next day when I wake up, the alarm has disappeared.

So I move into a small room, far away from my old bed sit. I am very sad and feel depressed. I go out to visit a pub as I want to get drunk. I am also a nervous wreck.

It is nine p.m. I see with my drunken eyes a friend of mine whom I have not seen for a long time. He buys me a drink. I buy him one. Then he buys me another, and by this time we are very drunk, as both of us have been drinking separately before we started buying for each other.

So I say I am going home, and he asks where am I staying and I tell him. It seems he knows the place; he wants to know if I am staying in Room eight. I tell him yes, but how the hell ? Never mind, he says. So I suggest to my friend that I buy him another drink, a double this time, and he agrees. Apparently Room eight has been vacant for almost a year. I ask him why, and he wonders if I really want to know.

Definitely, says I. So he tells me.

There was this German student and he committed suicide. His body lay there for a month, since he had paid his rent a month in advance. When the landlord opened the room next month with his pass key, he discovered the corpse decomposing. He realised then that his tenants had been telling the truth when they complained about the gas and a very bad smell. He let the authorities in to take the body but kept the bed. The smell also remained for a long time.

I ask my friend if I can sleep in his place. He says okay.

Next day, during the hours of daylight, I go back to my room to collect my things: I am very bold. As I am leaving, I say loudly: ''Goodbye, room!'', and the room replies ''Auf Wiedersehen.''

So I piss in my pants.

Now I am a tramp. I sleep under Waterloo Bridge with all my friends. We drink meths and smoke dope all day.

It's peaceful, you know?

Archived comments for A Happy Tramp


bluepootle on 2003-10-27 05:05:56
Re: A Happy Tramp
I enjoyed this a lot.

I think you might get suggestions to rewrite in a different style, to make it a more familiar story, but I get the feeling it just wouldn't work any other way.

Its more of a stage monologue than a story - I can see it being brilliant on stage, good timing, could use sound effects, projections. In my mind its a monologue.

You can prove me wrong and rewrite it as a trad short story now if you want, but I like it just like this.

Author's Reply:

dancing-queen on 2003-10-27 10:21:35
Re: A Happy Tramp
...and a very witty, talented tramp at that! LOL

What I want to know is...which bit of it is true, Chris? And also - where do you go drinking that your friend could buy drinks all round for only £2?? Sounds like a great place!

Yes, I agree with the previous comment that this isn't a short story - but I'm getting used to your style of writing and I've said it so many times before that you'll get bored of hearing it from me...it reads as stand-up comedy. And that's how I read it. In fact, I can visualise you up there on stage, now that you've posted your photograph!

Just listen to that audience roaring with laughter...

DQ

Author's Reply:

e-griff on 2003-10-27 11:00:55
Re: A Happy Tramp
I don't care what it is, you lot!

I read it with great pleasure...
that's all I need to know about it. 🙂

Author's Reply:

flash on 2003-10-27 11:44:37
Re: A Happy Tramp
Unusual, a bit different, gently amusing. A nice read.


alan

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-27 12:25:08
Re: A Happy Tramp
Aliya
Thank u. I cant do anything with it. Too late especially some of it happened, like the death and the dreams
regards
chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-27 12:34:44
Re: A Happy Tramp
Hi Leah

Well I have faced audiences as an actor here in amateur drama procuctions and also directed a few productions but never did stand up comedy!

However my friends say that I do tell funny stories after a drink or two(mostly exaggerted versions of true events). So then, If I have to stand up n do it It will eventually give me scerosis of the liver. lol

£2 in 1970 was a lot of money, even in Bayswater!

Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-27 12:37:06
Re: A Happy Tramp
Hi e_griff

Thanx, I think I may have to get a new hat as the hat is shrinking slowly!

regards
chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-27 12:38:45
Re: A Happy Tramp
Alan
Thank u for ur kind comments.

chris

Author's Reply:

thehaven on 2003-10-27 13:10:02
Re: A Happy Tramp
Another great read from Brightons very own "cheeky chappy".

Thorughly deserves "the nibs".



Author's Reply:

idmonster on 2003-10-28 12:35:26
Re: A Happy Tramp
I agree with the other comments - Good style, spot-on timing, enjoyable read.

Author's Reply:

gouri on 2003-10-28 12:58:32
Re: A Happy Tramp
What more can I add. Amusing piece. Enjoyable read.

Gouri.


Author's Reply:

TheGeeza on 2003-10-28 16:02:41
Re: A Happy Tramp
That is a very strange story. Very different, but a fun read. Its style is like a cross between a story and a joke. Thanks for the read.



Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-29 04:13:10
Re: A Happy Tramp
Hey Mike

Thnks a lot and also how dare u pick me as your fav author? What r u after? lol Hey Its actually very kind of u ok?

Kind regards
Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-29 04:14:53
Re: A Happy Tramp
Hullo Idmonster,

Thnak u for ur kind comments.

regards
chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-29 04:16:58
Re: A Happy Tramp
Gouri
Thank u for ur kind comments. This was written a long tome ago and if people still like it then I am very honoured.

regards
krishna

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-29 04:18:13
Re: A Happy Tramp
TheGeeza

Grateful for ur kind comments.

regards
chris

Author's Reply:

petersjm on 2003-10-29 06:53:42
Re: A Happy Tramp
This was a strange and interesting tale. Geeza was right - it reads as a joke: especially the last two lines.

However (and there's always a "however...") I do feel that, as a story, it needs little tweak here and there. It does read like you've just spoken every word of it to us (and we've sat here, raptured by your words) but written down, for me, it just seems to be lacking something, but I'm not sure what that is... Now, if you recorded the story live and posted your voice on UKA, then it probably be perfect! 🙂

PJ

Author's Reply:

Omma_Velada on 2003-10-29 16:22:38
Re: A Happy Tramp
Like a lot of great comedy, this was deeply tragic. I thought it was wonderfully told, however, and I got into the very oral style straight away.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-30 02:54:45
Re: A Happy Tramp
Hey Omma,
U got it in 1! Thats what it is for me.

Thank u

regards

chris

Author's Reply:

richa on 2003-10-30 03:42:47
Re: A Happy Tramp
i really liked this one. easy to read and fast paced. is this a true incident?

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-30 04:02:21
Re: A Happy Tramp
Hey Richa

Well I went thru a bad period when I was here
in the late 68 n early 70s, lasted about a month and things like deaths n dreams didn't help.

Thank u for reading and appreciating it.
yours
krishna

Author's Reply:

zenbuddhist on 2003-10-30 05:15:49
Re: A Happy Tramp
It reminded me of someone spouting off a load o shite at the end of a good night in a boozer no-one listening too intently but forced to laugh at the wee bits that filter through...cheersZ

Author's Reply:


A Chorus Without A Conductor (posted on: 24-10-03)
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Well she asked me to write creatively! Written sitting on the front lawn of Friends Meeting House, Ship Street, Brighton, E. Sussex(1994 Summer)

A Chorus Without A Conductor
By Chris Krishnan


“This is what I want you to do,” the young woman teacher announced. It was the first day, and she was trying to teach us how to write creatively. “You may take a ten minute break, and then … …”

The coffee in the canteen was not bad, and the price was very reasonable. Old friends huddled together in animated conversation, while new people looked at each other and smiled. Some attemted to strike up a conversation.

The American girl, very young and with a fresh face, said she was from Florida.

“Anywhere near the swamps?” I joked. I said something about my having read all of Capote’s works, and she mentioned liking Raymond Carver. Who the hell was Raymond Carver? Next stop, the public library.

Outside the building, beyond the lawn, the leaves of the trees were dancing in the wind. Everything looked so bright, oh, and the colours. Up above, the sky was blue without a trace of a cloud, not even the remnants of a jet stream. Ah, except that the moon was hanging around before it set, looking as though it had just missed the last boat carrying the stars and the Milky Way to the other side of the world.

“… … I want you to sit outside, listen to the sounds, observe things around you and then write. Write anything, anything at all.”

The wooden bench by the wall did not look particularly inviting, but it was in the shade, and one could write there without screwing up one’s eyes. The chirping of the birds and their fluttering from tree to tree, down to the ground and up again, were bearable now.

That morning, they had not been.

The cacophony had started very early. Their dawn chorus woke me up from the best part of my sleep while I was dreaming about the girl with the long dark hair and small breasts. She was running towards me with her slim arms outstretched and I was about to kiss her. Bloody birds! Would she come back to me again, with her dark shining eyes and cherry lips? No, not today, Chris! The woman beside me was still breathing heavily and sonorously, in deep sleep. It was just as well, as she did not know anything about the black-haired girl with a single red rose nicely placed in her long hair, just above her delicious left ear!

The early bird catches the worm, they say. They are all early. Have you seen a late bird? Yes, I have. Look at the ones around you. How many worms have they been catching, with their small bellies? They are still at it, you see. I only hope they will leave something for the nocturnal birds, the ones on night shift like the owls – and the bats.

Bats, I confess, have always puzzled me. What are they: birds or animals? C’mon, tell me.

You do not know the answer? Well, I do. They are both, and they are neither.

They are birds because they can fly. They are animals because they have got teeth, and suckle their young. But there is something else very strange about them: they eat hanging upside down. That’s fine if you are eating fruits, but worms?

Right in front of me, on the green grass sits the blonde from the class, in a yoga position. Does that mean she is meditating? Anyway, it is a very healthy way to sit, provided you are not suffering from varicose veins or other circulatory problems. I do not think she is. She is young and looks fit.

The Indians, you know, Gandhi’s people, eat, drink, meditate, get married and shout at each other, all in that position, with their legs folded under their arses, or to be polite, buttocks. According to the old ‘Kama Sutra’ you can make love like that, though you may have to visit a chiropractor afterwards if you want to stand up straight!

The sun will set, and the day must end. Before the setting sun can ask, “Who will do my job when I am gone?” the lamps will take over. Oil lamps, hurricane lamps and ones made of mud and dried leaves in India; electric ones, here in the U.K.

The owls and the bats – those mysterious creatures – will appear while the other birds go off in flocks to roost. The moon with the stars and the Milky Way will brighten the darkening sky.

But ah! Will I see her in my dreams again tonight?



Archived comments for A Chorus Without A Conductor


bluepootle on 2003-10-24 03:20:39
Re: A Chorus Without A Conductor
I felt there was some good descriptive writing here, but the story element was missing, for me. I would have been tempted to strip some of the personal tone and concentrate on the writing class - that beginning interested me, but did not get followed up.

I suppose I've missed the intention, really, because I think you were going just for a piece of writing rather than a story.

A few spelling mistakes to be wary of, particularly as they put people off early on in a piece (american, para. 3, and cacophony, later on).

Hope you don't mind the feedback, please ignore if you were aiming for something that I haven't seen.

Author's Reply:

dancing-queen on 2003-10-24 04:22:49
Re: A Chorus Without A Conductor
Chris - you really must stop dreaming about me, y'know! LOL (except I wear my rose above my right ear usually...)

Anyway, what did I make of this offering? I agree with the last comment that there are good descriptive passages here but none of it appears to link together much - I couldn't find what the theme was to be honest. I think you were tending to ramble a little, straying away from the initial topic of your writing lesson. I'm not sure how it all ties together. I realise it wasn't written as a story - you've put it under 'Articles', but I'm not sure it's an article either. More biographical than anything, isn't it?

I would cut out all the 'ah's' and 'oh's' and 'green, green grass' - a bit Tom Jones'ish - LOL

In the opening para you're outside with the tutor, the second para you're in the canteen, then the tutor is finishing off her sentence that you started in the first para. Why not have all her dialogue together, then take us through all your observations of the things around you, things that you felt inspired to write about? And the dream? I'm not sure it's relevant to the piece really, it's sidetracking from the topic of your writing lesson.

Looking at the title, I'm thinking that perhaps this is how you intended this piece of writing to be...a chorus without a conductor would, after all, cause chaos.

Not sure I've been much help to you on this Chris, I might just be missing the point, interpreting it incorrectly.

You know I'm a great admirer of your work, so don't take my comments to mean anything detrimental, I'm trying to be constructive - but I know for sure you can do better than this (and that's not meant to sound harsh). Hey - did you know I nominated you as a great comedy writer in one of the forum threads? See...I must like your work, eh?

DQ




Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-24 04:28:21
Re: A Chorus Without A Conductor
Hi Bluepottle. Thank u for pointing out the spelling mistakes which I have now rectified. I should use the spell check in future. Well, this was just an article I wrote in about 15 mimutes or so. She never gave us much time!

Kind regards

Chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-24 04:39:17
Re: A Chorus Without A Conductor
Hi DQ

Thank u very much for taking time to look at my work. I am very elated and of course flattered and I like people to tell me what they feel not tell me what i want to hear!

You are quite right in saying that the whole situation there in the class was so chaotic and even I was feeling so rusty after so many years of not writing anything So I just wrote away and got carried away!
So DQ u have not missed the point and u r helping me a lot!
Thank u for nominating me, I didnt know u did that.
(What r u after DQ? lol)

Kind regards

Chris

Author's Reply:

e-griff on 2003-10-24 06:24:01
Re: A Chorus Without A Conductor
I saw this as a piece without a story. It is what it says it is. I saw the random thoughts of someone sent out to ponder on the outside world, the stream of thought that followed, just that, just that snapshot. The goodness, for me lies in the fresh nature of the writing, the use of words, the images conjured. any 'flaws' didn't bother me a bit,merely added to the colour. If it was too strait-laced and perfect, it might loose a little of its magic 🙂

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-24 13:57:01
Re: A Chorus Without A Conductor
Hi e-griff,
Thanks for that. I simply wrote what went thru my mind at that time!

Regards
chris

Author's Reply:

ritawrites on 2003-10-31 03:22:36
Re: A Chorus Without A Conductor
“The Indians, you know, Gandhi’s people, eat, drink, meditate, get married and shout at each other, all in that position, with their legs folded under their arses, or to be polite, buttocks. According to the old ‘Kama Sutra’ you can make love like that, though you may have to visit a chiropractor afterwards if you want to stand up straight!” – Aaah – what would you guys be without somebody to bash? Well, just for your info, I am an Indian, you know, one of Gandhi’s people, and I don’t eat, drink, meditate or fuck or shout, OR Write, all in that position. I do it like you. With my head in my arse, or to be more polite, With my idiot head up in my stinking butt hole. Hee hee hee, isn’t that oh-so-funny!

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-31 07:03:24
Re: A Chorus Without A Conductor
Hi Ritawites

I do apologise if I have offended u. However I am from India and it was meant to be funny. If we dont laugh at ourselves life would be so dull. Please please lets not be too bloody sensitive ok?

Kind regards

Chris

Author's Reply:

Andrea on 2003-10-31 08:38:19
Re: A Chorus Without A Conductor
Rita, constructive crits are really what we're after here. Thanks.

Author's Reply:

petersjm on 2003-10-31 08:44:22
Re: A Chorus Without A Conductor
I could be horribly mistaken, but it sounds/reads to me like Rita was also trying to be funny... quot: "isn't that oh-so-funny?"... I don't know.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-31 12:18:07
Re: A Chorus Without A Conductor
Petresjm Hullo

I don't think he/she was being funny. The person mentioned something about my 'bashing' people like him/her. lol. However I was being funny
when I wrote it!
regards
chris

Author's Reply:


Omar Khayyam And After (posted on: 20-10-03)
Click to see more top choices

OK! Some names have been changed to protect their privacy(including mine! shh.....)

Omar Khayyam and After
By Chris Krishnan


The flight from Bombay arrived on time. The pilot steered the great 747 Jumbo Jet to the bay allocated.

The doors opened slowly and out poured the passengers, hundreds of them, like at the end of a football game. Some carried oversize hand luggage and others screaming kids. When the last of them had gone, Nair, the cargo supervisor, climbed aboard. The crew were preparing to tidy up the paperwork and so on; soon they too would go off to their homes, or in some cases hotels.

The cabin stank of sweat, cigarette smoke and air sickness bags. It was always the same. After a couple of minutes, one hardly noticed it.

There was a buzz of activity inside. The vehicles with their scissor lifts had brought in food and drinks to replenish the depleted stock; the cleaners were picking up the detritus of discarded magazines, sweet wrappers, plastic cups and the rest. The whole plane was vibrating with the powerful hoovers and with the motors clearing out the overfilled toilets.

''Hullo, Nair!'' One of the air hostesses called out to him from across the first class section.

''Smitha! How are you? Did you have a good flight?''

''It was terrible. The whole plane was choc-a-block. Just my luck. I was sent to first class where everyone thinks they own the company or know the Managing Director. You know, the usual snotty bastards with their stupid wives and spoilt kids. It was bloody awful!''

''Sorry to hear that. Anyway, you survived, and you still look adorable. Give us a cuddle ''

She closed the curtain secluding the first class section to give them a little privacy.

''Hey, want some Omar Khayyam, Nair?''

''Omar Khayyam? What's that, some kind of Turkish Delight?''

''No, sweetheart, it's the new Indian champagne. Vile, but you'll like it. It's potent and you know it will make you ''

''Yes, Smitha. Thanks all the same, but I am driving.''

''No, you're not. You're taking me home first. Stay with me for while. I'm too tired to sleep. Please, Nair.''

''Okay. Let's have it. Any caviar left?''

''Plenty, Nair. Plenty of champers, too. No one really liked the champagne. I have a couple of nearly full bottles.''

Nair poured himself some, and dipped into a tub of caviar, the staple diet of first class. This is the life, he thought. Champagne, caviar and girls! Wasn't it Omar Khayyam who said: A jug of wine, a book of verse and thou beside me ?

There was just one small problem. Nair was married. Also, his wife and son would be waiting for him some twenty miles away.

It was late already time to go home. He took the girl with him and went off to the customs and immigration, which all the passengers and crew had to pass through.

They soon reached her flat and as the girl went to the bathroom, Nair telephoned his wife.

''Hullo?''

''Hullo, Daddy,'' his son answered.

''Call Mummy, will you?''

''Daddy?''

''Yes, son?''

''When are you going to cut my hair?''

''Soon, soon. Call Mummy.''

''When are you going to cut your hair, Daddy?''

''For God's sake! Call Mummy.''

''Daddy, you hair is very long. It's all shaggy, and you look ugly. You promised you would go to the barbers. How can you take me to school looking like Dr Who?''

One day, thought Nair. One day I am going to strangle him!

His wife came on the line. He recognised her heavy, impatient breathing.

''Sara, why is that idiot so obsessed with everybody's hair? He's always babbling away.''

There was no answer.

''Are you there, darling Sara?''

''Yes, I'm here. The boy's right, Nair, your hair is very long. It's worse because there isn't much of it left and you know something, Nair? You do look like that new Dr Who. Only he has more hair.''

The bitch, Nair thought. They were always ganging up on him. In her eyes that little bastard could do no wrong. Eight years old and he needed a good hiding.

''I have a problem today.'' Nair was serious.

''Yes, Nair, you have a problem today. I have problems every day and you are one of them. In fact, the main one.''

An unsympathetic woman, Nair's wife. Ten years ago she had been like an angel, the lovely quiet Sara with whom he had fallen in love on their first date. So quiet, that she did not even tell him when she got pregnant until it started to show. So he had married her, and she had borne him a son. Such changes since then!

He often wondered what would happen if there was a real emergency at work. For instance, he might suffer a fall or a heart attack. Someone would ring his wife and say: ''Hey, your husband has had an accident.'' He could imagine her replying: ''Oh! But why did he fall? Why did he have a heart attack?'' In fact, her first instinct would be to lay the blame on him.

Nair continued: ''The plane's been delayed due to some engine problem. I'll be late.''

''How late?'' His wife wanted to know.

''Can't tell.''

''Well, Nair, whatever you do when you creep back home, do it quietly; I mean, don't wake us all up. The boy has got a Scout thing tomorrow and he must be up early. Are you listening, Nair?''

''Yes, yes.'' He put the phone down. It was always the same. No ''Goodnight, darling.'' No, ''See you later, honey.'' The ''it'' had gone out of their marriage.

Was he responsible for this state of affairs? Maybe he was. This was not the first time that he had telephoned home with excuses. Last week it had been a bomb scare and the week before that, the pilot who was to take the lane had overslept! But the one that pleased him most concerned a monkey which had escaped from the cargo hold onto the tarmac and tried to get through the customs and immigration. And how the police had arrested it and put it in a holding bay with a lot of illegal Tamil immigrants. And how he, Nair, had to arrange a visa for temporary stay since the plane had continued its flight without the monkey. Some beast that!

All his wife had said then was: ''Don't make a noise when you come in.''

Smitha emerged from the shower looking wet and desirable.

They had drinks and quite an assortment of first class snacks which she had smuggled out of the plane.

Early the next morning, Nair came out of the flat and made his way to the parking lot. He was nearing his car when suddenly and without warning a small insignificant-looking dog attacked him. It went straight for his backside, but missed it and instead ended up hooking its teeth inbetween his legs, narrowly missing his most vital parts. The dog just hung there, shaking and growling. Nair looked down and could not make up his mind if it was a Pekinese or a Jack Russell. He was not into dogs. He stood there helplessly, with his legs wide apart. Now what, he thought.

A jogger appeared and started circling him and the dog, still jogging.

''Please!'' Nair pleaded. ''Can you help?''

''Sorry, mate, no can do. It's not my dog, you see.'' The man ran off shaking his head and laughing.

Nair tried to pacify the dog by stroking it. ''There, there! Take it easy, Tiger, Flop, or whatever your name is'' he said. But the growling only increased and the dog added insult to injury by peeing on both his legs.

After what seemed like hours to Nair, a milk float appeared. He waddled towards it and cried out:

''Please, milkman, can you help me?''

''Yes, sir, what seems to be the problem?''

Nair pointed to the dog dangling between his legs.

The milkman was kindly and most sympathetic.

''Now, let's be logical about this,'' he said. ''I can't see any blood. Where exactly are his teeth? What is he hanging onto? Surely not your you know what I mean, sir?''

''No, I'm all right, he missed it.''

''You're a lucky man, sir.''

''Okay, okay! But can you help?''

The milkman looked at the dog and then at Nair, deep in thought.

''All right, this is what you must do. Slowly lower you trousers and smother the dog with them. When the dog is dead, you can pull your legs out, one by one.''

It was not going to be easy, as Nair well knew. The dog was still growling and swinging. He unbuckled his belt and undid the buttons, slowly pushing his trousers down, taking the dog down with them. He pulled out one leg and then the other, but in the process he slipped and fell. The dog saw its opportunity to escape; unfortunately, it pulled the trousers and his underwear along with it.

Nair was relieved; but as he stood up, he realised that he was also relieved of his pants and trousers.

He thanked the milkman, for he was truly grateful; the milkman merely shrugged his shoulders.

Nair went straight to his car and drove home.

He reached the house around 8 a.m. and hoped to creep in before any of the neighbours were up. He opened the back door leading to the kitchen, only to be confronted by his son.

''Daddy, why no pants? Some cat got them?''

''No, son, it was a dog.''

''Daddy has no pants, Mother!'' He shouted out.

When his wife finally made her appearance, Nair tried to explain that as he had left the tarmac after the departure of the plane, a dog had set upon him.

''A dog on the tarmac, at the airport? A monkey, Nair, I can believe that,'' she said. ''But a dog, darling? In any case, when a dog goes for one's balls it usually gets them.''

''Yes, that's right,'' his son joined in. ''My friend Jason's dog always catches the ball. Never misses.''

Nair shuddered at the thought.


Archived comments for Omar Khayyam And After


JeffDray on 2003-10-20 04:03:04
Re: Omar Khayyam And After
An entertaining read that held me to the end.

is such a scenario likely ot happen? of course not , that is why it is entertaining. We can have all the reality we want in our normal lives.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-21 14:43:38
Re: Omar Khayyam And After
Hi JeffDray

Thank u for those kind remarks! Would u believe me if i tell u that some of these really happened? No, of course u wont!

Kind regards

Chris

Author's Reply:

sputnikstar on 2003-11-20 05:07:44
Re: Omar Khayyam And After
woah!! that was an amazing story... i really like. whether it happened or not is irrelevant.. but if it did, i am damned to have missed the show.

Author's Reply:

marym on 2004-01-14 15:15:35
Re: Omar Khayyam And After
... to me it was a normal story, but everything changed for me with that double-edged remark of the wife... "about the dog... ". Fine piece of literature... it wasn't hard to believe it was real either.

Author's Reply:


When I win The Pools (posted on: 17-10-03)
This story has been re submitted from last Friday the10th, as when I was trying to edit it I made a complete mess of it.(My grateful thanks to Andrea & Richard for trying to help)

When I Win The Pools
By Chris Krishnan


I looked at a few paintings in the gallery and came out. As I was heading for the bus stop, I spotted someone I recognised waiting there.

“Bloody hell,” he said, “it’s you, isn’t it?”

I told him that it was me and wondered why most Indians ended a sentence with “Isn’t it?” I also wondered (aloud) how long it had been.

He said four years, I said no, three years. Four years, three years, big deal either way, I thought.

“What you doing here, man?” I had forgotten his name.

He said he had been transferred from his job in some bank. Since it was not my bank, I forget which one.

“Why no car?” he asked. “Strange seeing you at a bus stop, isn’t it?”

“Well, that’s a long story.”

“I like long stories, the longer, the better.”

“It’s also a sad story,” I warned him, “and you’re not going to believe it, Mohan.” I had just remembered his name. Mohan said that he loved long, sad, unbelievable stories. So I began.

“I was driving out of Bristol and Avon,” I said, “and I pressed my foot down on the accelerator of my Volvo: next stop Severn Bridge. At the toll I turned to my wife to ask for some change. I then realised that she was not with me. Then I realised some more. I had left her at the Membury service station. So I told this bridge fellow that I was very sorry but that I had forgotten my wife, so I must return to pick her up and that I would be back shortly to pay him. You must understand something here, Mohan,” I added.

“Yes, yes, I’m listening.”

“You see, I have this genetic defect. I inherited it from my father, I think. He was very absent-minded. His mother used to tell him when he was a child – she was still telling him when he was an adult: “Ramu, one of these days you will forget yourself!” It made no difference. When he died, nobody could find any money. You see, he had forgotten to make a will.”

“One day when he had only been married for a few weeks, he took his wife, my future mother, to the mother-in-law’s. They spent a lovely day and a night and my father drove back to his house-cum-surgery. He was also a Doctor, you see. As soon as he reached home, the phone started ringing – you know, the old phones which only rang every five minutes or so. After five minutes my father picked it up; it was his mother-in-law.

“Son-in-law,” she said. She was very old and did not remember all her ten son-in-laws names.

“Hullo, mother.”

“No, not your mother, your mother-in-law.”

“O.K. What is it, fever, bleeding or just an earache?”

She ignored that. “You left your wife here” she said.

“What?”

“You forgot to take her back.”

“Well, that’s funny, mother-in-law” he said. “You know something, when I got back home, I couldn’t find her anywhere. I looked all over the kitchen and even the store room.” He told her he would come back straightaway and not to worry. She said not to do it today as it was too late and a hundred-mile drive: could he come over in the morning? My father replied that a hundred miles was nothing in a big country like India; and moreover, he had not eaten all day since he did not know how to cook.

“So he climbed into his 1933 Austin Seven and drove as fast as he could. At five miles an hour he overtook one, two, three – well, he counted thirty-five bullock carts. He also had to change the tyres four times. When after many years he was describing this long journey to some of his patients, a bright young fellow asked him how he could change his tyres four times when he had only one spare tyre. My father told him not to ask such silly questions and when his turn came for an injection, he used an extra thick needle. You see, my father never liked to be interrupted as it made him forgetful.”

“So he arrived at his mother-in-laws only to find out that mother had taken a train home. She had been very upset and had left in a hurry, neglecting to kiss her mother goodbye.”

“Father asked the mother-in-law as a special favour if he could use the phone. She told him that he could, but to make it snappy.” She was always pinching her pennies until they screamed!

“My father rang home and said “Hello”. My mother said “Hello”. Then he bade goodbye to his mother-in-law. He did not kiss her as he was a doctor. - So where was I?” I said.

“You were trying to turn your car around at the Severn Bridge, isn’t it?” Mohan said. He wanted to show that he was listening to every word.

“So I turned back.”

“How did you manage to forget her – I mean at the service place?”

“Well, I’d gone to the toilet. She went too. While I was there, I got thinking about the pools coupon I had filled in and what I would do when I won that million pounds. I decided I would buy a Porsche and have that sex kitten, my boss’s secretary, to sit beside me because she liked sports cars, she said. My boss had one, and she was always sitting with him, in and out of the office. Ah ha, but I would get a red one, in the latest Carrera where the seats are placed close together and everytime I took a turning I would brush my elbow against her coconut breasts and would smell her Avon perfume – since she was also a caller for the perfume company. Ding, dong, Avon calling!”

“So I came out of the loo and headed straight to my car and drove off. Just like that.”

“It appears that my wife looked all around for me. She even poked her nose into the Gents and shouted my name. Then she came out and noticed that the car had disappeared. That was when the Indian doctor came along. He was tall and handsome and, being an Indian, very dark. He asked my wife what was the problem and she told him. So he said not to worry, he would give her a lift since he happened to be going in the same direction.”

“She agreed, and when she saw the stethescope in the car, she knew she would be safe with him.”

“They started their journey in a traffic jam. The doctor smelt nice. She knew that he was using Paco Robanne; she had been an airhostess before she married me, so she was familiar with people who used such expensive aftershave, especially in the first class section. She always criticised my Old Spice. After ten miles she was in love. Another five miles and he was in love. When they had covered twenty miles, the doctor pulled the car on to the hard shoulder and kissed her. She kissed him back. He took the next exit and headed back to his bachelor quarters at the Cardiff General.

“That’s how I lost her.”

“Then I lost my job, and my house. She got half of it.”

“So, I sold my bloody car.”

Archived comments for When I win The Pools
Michel on 2003-12-29 11:18:06
Re: Lost my Bloody Car!
This is a great read
Just a thought - maybe cut out the introduction?
better not to qualify, tell that the story is not ENTIRELY true at the beginning - ruins the suspension of disbelief and this is a very convincing story, very funny, well written, deftly told, I think, speakink as a
Reader wot knows nowt but knows wot he sinks

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-02 08:29:10
Re: When I win the Pools
Hi Michel
I just saw ur comments about this. As it was posted a second time I didn't bother to look but I am glad I did.
I do agree with ur suggestion and therefore deleting the intro.
Many thanks & Regards
Chris

Author's Reply:


A Wealthy Maid (posted on: 17-10-03)
Thats why I am not wealthy!

A Wealthy Maid
By Chris Krishnan


“How long are you going to be?” my grandfather shouted from outside the bathroom.

“I won’t be long; it’s only wee-wee.”

“You know what I miss most, son?”

Grandpa always called me ‘son’ now that his son who was my father had become big and old. ‘Grandson’ was such a mouthful, he said, and he had so many grandchildren that he could not be expected to remember all their names. I said it was quite all right. I did not want to offend him in any way as he was very very rich and had told me many times: ‘Son, you are my favourite.’

“What is it that you miss most, Grandpa?”

“Standing up and pissing.”

So I came out, wheeled him in and helped him to sit on the toilet seat.

“There’s something else I miss.”

I asked politely what this was.

“A woman.”

“Who, Grandma?”

“No, not that old cow, bless her soul, may she rest in peace. She didn’t give me any.”

He told me how a couple of years earlier when my grandma was alive, they were watching a sexy French movie on TV. My grandfather was very virile for his age and he asked Grandma how about it. How about what, she said. You know, he said; but she said she didn’t. So he nudge-nudged, wink-winked; but still she protested that she did not understand what he was on about. So he spelt it out. Grandma said no. All right, fair enough, he replied, but could he have a look at least? My grandma was very upset and said definitely not, most certainly not. She said she enjoyed being a shooting gallery but didn’t want to be a picture gallery.

Then they went to bed and when Grandma was fast asleep, my grandpa said he tiptoed downstairs to the maid’s room. The maid said she was unable as she was engaged to be married. Grandpa suggested two rupees, and she agreed.

Next day she was sacked. That was Grandma’s doing.

“Grandpa,” I said, “Why don’t you get married again?”

“No, I’m too old and besides, all my money will go to my wife. You won’t get a single penny, son.”

I said in that case it might not be wise. “How about a maid?” I suggested.

“That sounds reasonable. Get me a young one.”

So I did.

The next year he married her.

The month after, he died, and left everything to her.

Archived comments for A Wealthy Maid
bluepootle on 2003-10-17 03:52:51
Re: A Wealthy Maid
This starts well and then just fizzles out by racing to a one liner conclusion - have you thought about expanding it, introducing the maid/wife character to us and having a battle between the maid and the grandson? It looks like you have a great black sense of humour that could make something longer in this vein really enjoyable to read.

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-17 04:16:45
Re: A Wealthy Maid
Hi Bluepottle

Thanks a lot for ur kind comments. This was written a few years ago as a synopsis for a longer story (for a film) but somehow got side lined!

I will try and do something with it.

Kind regards

Chrisk

Author's Reply:

dancing-queen on 2003-10-17 08:10:22
Re: A Wealthy Maid
Chris - from the beginning to the middle I was almost wetting myself laughing (must have the same sense of humour as you). Towards the end, as Bluepootle mentioned, it did tend to 'lose' its spark a little.

But, having said that, I think you've definitely got the talent for writing humour - I think I said in a previous comment that you might do better as a scriptwriter as I can actually picture most of your work on screen! Either that or become a stand-up comedian. (Actually, that's a bloody good idea I think - looking back at this piece of writing, that's exactly what it sounds like to me - the pace, the style, the humour - it's all there).

But if you don't much fancy the idea of standing up there on stage - why not consider the scriptwriting?

If you look on the BBC website you'll find a template for writing scripts.

One tiny point - keep an eye on dialogue and speechmarks. You have some dialogue without them and it tends to look a bit untidy - e.g.:

Quote:
How about what, she said. You know, he said; but she said she didn’t.
Unquote

Each person's dialogue should be on a separate line with speechmarks. And rather than telling us: but she said she didn't - why not continue with the conversation as it was? So it would look like this:

'How about what?' she said.
'You know,' he said.
'No, I don't know,' she said.

If this was a short story, I'd say drop all the 'she said/he said' bits, as it's unnecessary all the time. But, for some reason, this isn't reading like a short story at all and this is why I think it would work well as stand-up comedy. It obviously comes natural to you, maybe without you realising it.

Well done!
DQ


Author's Reply:

TheGeeza on 2003-10-17 16:26:50
Re: A Wealthy Maid
I liked it. I agree with DQ - it does almost sound like a stand-up routine. When I finished it, I thought, "that's not a story, it's a long joke (of kind)". For entertainment value, it entertained me though.

For the speech thing DQ mentioned. I disagree - you can do it your way by adding the word "had" as you are recounting a snippet of an old conversation: eg "How about what, she said" to "How about what, she had said" etc. The other literal conversation is new lines and quoted, as I'm sure you know. Even then, read Trainspotting (and many others) and other styles are permissable, but unusual, as long as they are consistent.

I thought it was funny, but you could expand it into a regular short story with some work.


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-21 14:33:36
Re: A Wealthy Maid
Hi DQ

How r u? Thanx for ur kind comments. I agree that some structural changes can be made, but u know DQ, its written such a long time ago when I was a young man and in those days I was in a hurry and I just didnt want to bore people by writing long stories and in any case I didnt want to go on about it ,as he betrayed me! Lol.

Regards
chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-21 14:37:34
Re: A Wealthy Maid
Hi TheGeeza

Many thanxs for your comments. I agree with some of your and DQ's suggestions. But as I just explained to DQ, Its all written such a long time ago when i was much younger!

Regrds

Chris

Author's Reply:

marym on 2004-01-14 15:24:56
Re: A Wealthy Maid
Gulp! and the grandson did get someone for his grandpa... !

My feelings were similar to all those who have commented. I like your pacing, the timing of each punchline --- so I felt I ought to leave my comment on your page... even if I have nothing to offer you more than what is already been given by these reader. Regards, Mary

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-01-15 12:23:14
Re: A Wealthy Maid
Marym Hullo
I need your comments, the more the merrier. Critical or othwerwise, its important to me and thanx a lot for taking the trouble to read my works.
kind regards
chrisk

Author's Reply:

silentmemories on 2004-04-04 16:59:22
Re: A Wealthy Maid
An enjoyable story! witty, light, lively and humorous in a tragicomic way!

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-04-04 17:03:06
Re: A Wealthy Maid
Hi Silentmemories,
Thanx a lot for ur kind comments. It was written a long time ago, and am pleased people enjoy reading it.
Kind regards
Chris

Author's Reply:


Chef's Special (posted on: 13-10-03)
This again is part of my autobiography, but then it can stand by itself as a story and that way i dont bore people with chapters!

Chef's Special
By Chris Krishnan


''Hey, waiter!''

''Sir?''

''Can you pass on a message to the chef?''

''Yes, sir.''

''Can you tell him that he can't turn cow dung into spinach Bhaji.''

''Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, can I change your dish?''

''No, don't bother, just pass on the message.''

The complainant was Professor Ram, Principal of the Airline Staff College, Bombay. He was dining with his friends at 'Woodlands', a famous eating place near the airport.

I had just arrived from London and booked into the usual hotel, where all the participants of the Junior Management course were accommodated. The light was fast fading, and in my judgement an Indian twilight is one of the most depressing times anyone can experience. It reminded me of my father's death and lost opportunities. You just want that hour to pass quickly. My solution was to head straight for the bottle; the journey had taken some twelve hours and I did not know when I fell asleep.

The ringing telephone jarred me.

''Hullo, yes?

''Is that you, Chris?''

''Yes? Oh hullo Professor, how are you?''

''Get your arse up here straightaway.''

''Okay. Where are you, the ususal place?''

The Professor said he was. It was then I looked at my watch; it was already nine. I had been asleep for about two hours, enough to refresh me. I shaved, showered and got into slacks and a short-sleeved shirt.

I found him sitting with three other people at a round table. They had not waited for me.

As I sat down, the waiter removed the offending plate.

''What woud you like to eat? You have a choice of cow dung, decomposed fish or how about chef's special for today?''

''What's that?''

''Tandoori chicken in chicken shit sauce.''

''Professor, please!''

The exclamation came from Mr Patel, the Cargo Manager, who had his very young wife with him. Patel had been with the company for about thirty years and looked it. The other man at the table was ''fat George'' though nobody called him that to his face. He was the Professor's assistant at the college.

''Hey, you black British, how have you been?''

The Professor was Harvard educated, around fifty-six. He looked like Gandhi with his clothes on, and was possessed of a vitality which would have been the envy of many a younger man.

''You're looking great as usual, Professor.''

''You want to know why? Now look at Patel here. He's fifty-two, but looks sixty-two. His wife here could be his daughter!''

The Professor was embarrassingly blunt.

''He doesn't look sixty-two, Professor.'' Mrs Patel said almost apologetically.

''He does, and I'll tell you why. When older guys discover their sexual drive, they are gone.'' He turned to fat George and smiled. ''George, you don't want to end up like that do you?''

George smiled politely and shook his head from left to right. With his fat neck it was a laborious task, but at least it was giving him exercise. He was not married and at thirty-five life was slowly pushing his heavy bulk towards middle age.

''So why don't you get married while you're still young, George? How about that girl in the canteen, what's her name? Ah yes, Daisy!''

''But she's a Catholic, Professor.''

''Catholic, Protestant, Hindu, Muslim come on, George, we're all God's children. Religion is for selfish people, you know? I mean, with the Gods on their side they can afford to be a little irresponsible. Like that priest in the TV advert. He's pinching somebody else's cream for his fruits, and then he looks up to heaven to ask for forgiveness. I saw that last time I was in your house, Chris. How's the UK? How's Moni?''

Moni was my boss whom he despised.

''He's all right, Professor. Sends you his regards.''

''That bloody vegetarian! Doesn't drink, doesn't smoke and I bet he stopped copulating as soon as he had his daughter. What kind of a life is that? The stupid brahmin.''

The Professor was from the same community, but that did not stop him. I kept my mouth shut. If I were to agree with him, it would be disloyalty to my boss. If I disagreed, I would have to foot the bill.

The following year, the Professor visited me in the UK. Now it was my turn to entertain.

The Indian restaurant had square tables with pink table cloths and pink napkins, and small brass vases filled with pink carnations. Bangladeshi decorations, pleasing to the eye!

''How's George?''

''He died.'' Said the Professor without looking up from his starter a plate of Samoosas with lettuce salad. Then he stopped eating and said could I kindly ask the chef if anyone had pissed in his lettuce as it tasted strange.

''Was it a heart attack? He was grossly overweight, wasn't he, Professor?''

''No, not a heart attack. Actually, I feel slightly responsible.''

''Why's that?''

''You remember I was kidding him about getting married? Well, he took it seriously. He started writing little love notes to Daisy in the canteen. He told her that he was a Protestant and would that matter. She said no as long as the wedding was conducted in a Catholic church and the children were all brought up as Catholics. She also asked him when he was going to buy her an engagement ring so that she could show it off to all her colleagues. George was so happy. He rushed straight out to buy the ring from the jeweller's across the street. While crossing the road he got hit by a bus and George was not fat any more, he was flat.''

''Well, that's life, Professor. You can't blame yourself. It's not your fault.''

''All because he didn't want to end up like Patel.'' And I never attended his funeral.

''But Why Prof?''

''Because funerals enfeebles me!''

''Ah, Patel! How is he?''

''He was posted to Rio; after two months his wife ran off with a Brazilian. He is now negotiating with a widow who has four children.''

The dinner came to an end. The next day the Professor took his departure.

The year after that, I went back to stay at the same hotel in Bombay. As before it was twilight, my favourite time. God help us!

I went to the bottle straightaway. There would be no distractions this evening. You see King Arthur had left Camelot. The round table was no more. Our Arthur, the professor had died early that year.

Archived comments for Chef's Special
Kipper on 2004-08-24 11:46:37
Re: Chef's Special
Hi Chris.
I enjoyed reading this little part of your life. And while it did in a way stand on it's own, it didn't feel (to me) like a short story. I wanted to read more about your life and the people in it.
You have an entertaining way of telling your story, and one gets the feeling that there are many more.
Like to see them!


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2004-08-24 13:47:06
Re: Chef's Special
Kipper
Thank u very much for ur kind comments. I am glad u liked the story. Well, its from my life as u have well guessed.
There r many other stories on the site and the easiest way is to buy my book when it is published. have alook at UKA press
Chris

Author's Reply:


Frogs Under The Wheels (posted on: 10-10-03)
Click to see more top choices

This is actually a chapter of a book which by itself can stand as a story but is part of my autibiography which, given in small doses, won't bore people!

Frogs Under The Wheels
By Chris Krishnan


Car: Austin 7, 1933

Driver: My father

Passengers: My brother and I, aged 8 and 10 respectively

Time & place: 8 p.m. country road, Kerala, India

Weather: Atrocious

During the monsoon in India, it rains and rains. The wind that neither you nor I can see shakes the branches of the trees lining the muddy road, and the rain lashes at them mercilessly. You have been praying for the rain to fall; ''Oh God, we have enough! Now stop it, please!'' In spite of which the downpour continues until the season is over.

My father screwed up his eyes to get a good view of the road ahead. The beam produced by the headlights of the car powered by a six-volt battery was being hungrily swallowed by the darkness, endless darkness.

My brother and I, sitting behind him, were looking at the frogs jumping all over the road. Now this way, now that; they kept getting crushed under the wheels of the car. ''Ssssssshst ''. I closed my eyes every time I heard that sound. It meant sudden death.

''Why are they jumping and crossing the road like that?'' I asked my father.

''They are looking for mates.''

''Mates for what, father?''

''Mates to mate with, son.''

''What's mate?''

''Now, will you shut up and let me concentrate?''

He was doing perhaps ten miles an hour; not a great speed, maybe, but a sensible one. The car was fitted with mechanical brakes hydraulics were not so popular in those days which meant that if you needed to stop, you had to press the brake pedal two miles back.

''Thud thud '' Suddenly a different sound.

''I think I have hit someone.'' My father turned and stared at us.

''I thought I saw someone trying to cross the road, father,'' said my brother, trying to be smart. He was always coming out with bright comments like that in those days.

My father pushed his foot down hard on the brake pedal and the car stopped. But that was not owing to the brakes: the man underneath had stopped us. We had been moving so slowly, that he ended up underneath instead of being thrown over the bonnet.

My father got out of the car.

''Give me a torch from the dashboard, one of you.''

My brother made a dive for it, and handed it out.

I heard my father ask the man what he was doing underneath the car. The man, who was obviously in great pain, pleaded to be pulled out. Our father got his arms around him and dragged him clear.

''I think you have a broken leg, let me examine it.'' he pronounced. ''Yes, I believe you have.''

The victim asked how the hell he knew that.

''I am a doctor, that's how. Now hold on to me; I am going to lay you down in the back of the car and take you to my hospital.''

A quick transfer was made; my brother and I squeezed into the front seats while my father deposited the man in the back. The car immediately reeked with the smell of sweat, toddy (a local booze) and beedis (local cigarette). Not that I was complaining; my main worry was that my father might get arrested for knocking down the man. What was a little smell in comparison to that?

After a couple of weeks in hospital, the man emerged fit as a fiddle. Well, almost; I noticed he had a slight limp when walking, but that was all. The next day, he appeared near our kitchen door carrying a basket filled with all kinds of vegetables okra, aubergines, red onions and small ripe bananas (my favourite). From then on he turned up every months, come rain, come shine.

I couldn't understand it. Surely, by rights, he should be suing my father for damages for his broken leg? All right, so he was a decent fellow; besides, he obviously didn't have enough money to pay the lawyers and so on. But to come bearing gifts for someone who had nearly killed him, seemed to be taking forgiveness too far.

One day I plucked up enough courage to tackle my father on the subject.

''Father,'' I said, ''can I ask you something?''

''Fire away, son.''

''Sure you don't mind?''

''Look, don't waste my time! Shoot.''

''Okay. Why is that man bringing us presents all the time?''

''Because I saved his life, son.''

''But, father, it was you who knocked him over and nearly killed him to start with.''

''Well, he shouldn't have crossed the road without looking.''

''Still ''

''Still what, son?''

''Still ...'' I repeated.

My father told me to be quiet. Then my mother, who had been listening, intervened on my behalf; after all, she said, I did have a point.

He asked her politely if she was enjoying all the free vegetables the man was bringing. She replied that yes, they were very good vegetables.

The he said that it would be wise for her to shut up.

He next tunred to my brother and told him to shut up too. My brother protested, saying that he never opened his mouth. My father said that it was a very wise thing to do and invited him for a drive in his car as he was about to do his rounds.

* * * * *

Many years passed. I left the country and came to the UK. My brother became a doctor, my mother died and father remarried.

The cable lay on my table with its stark message: my father was dead. I flew to India for the funeral rites.

A couple of days before I was due to return to London, I saw a familiar figure walking towards the kitchen, limping, carrying a basket full of vegetables. I couldn't believe it!

I asked the man why he was still bringing these presents after all these years.

''Well,'' he said, ''your father God bless his soul,'' the man was a Christian ''he saved my life.''

''But he nearly killed you in the first place.''

''That's right. But had I returned home that night my wife would have killed me outright as I had used up all my wages in the local bar. And to make things worse for me , this particular night the mother-in law was there too, waiting. Instead I spent two weeks in your father's hospital with free food and nice looking nurses for company; and I forgot about my nagging wife and her mother and the screaming kids. In my entire life I have never enjoyed myself so much. That's only after breaking one leg. Imagine the months and years I could have spent there if I had had a more serious injury.''

I told him that he was a crazy nut case!

''No, sir, I haven't finished yet. When I did finally go home, I received a hero's welcome. I was like a mini God. I told them how I got hit and run over by this big military truck and how in the nick of time your father appeared on the scene. My life hung by a thread, I said and but for his prompt assistance I could have died that night.''

''And your people believe that?''

''Of course they did. Your father confirmed the story!''

Archived comments for Frogs Under The Wheels


richa on 2003-10-10 14:35:46
Re: Frogs Under The Wheels
that's an interesting story. unbelievable what makes a man a hero.

Author's Reply:

e-griff on 2003-10-10 14:57:44
Re: Frogs Under The Wheels
I looked at your two submissions. The other 'won the pools' is probably more immediately popular and funny. I think this has more depth, more sublety and atmosphere. I enjoyed it very much! 🙂

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-10 17:12:53
Re: Frogs Under The Wheels
Hullo Richa

Thank u very much for ur kind comments. Its nice that my first two submissions got a couple of good reviews and they certainly make u feel good n positive.

Kind regards

chris

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-10 17:15:55
Re: Frogs Under The Wheels
Hullo e-griff.

Thank u very much for your kind comments. I hav had a couple of good reviews for both the stories and they being my first submissions certainly make me feel elated and positive.

Kind regards

chris

Author's Reply:

TheGeeza on 2003-10-12 05:27:02
Re: Frogs Under The Wheels
Enjoyed that. Quite a bit in only 1400 words. Thanks.


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-12 08:48:45
Re: Frogs Under The Wheels
Hullo Geeza

Many thanks for ur kind comments. It true that we Indians (not Injuns, they wear feathers!) speak too fast and no one can understand us. But when we write fast, its ok!

Kind regards

chris

Author's Reply:

expat on 2003-10-14 23:47:18
Re: Frogs Under The Wheels
I like whimsical reminiscences; this was nicely told. One small thing, I found the following passage unwieldy:
"Well," he said, "your father – God bless his soul," the man was a Christian, "he saved my life."
Maybe use brackets - "Well," he said, "your father – God bless his soul," (the man was a Christian) "he saved my life."


Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2003-10-15 04:12:51
Re: Frogs Under The Wheels
Hi Expat,

Thanx a lot for ur kind comments and advice.
I will have a second look at that sentance!

kind regards

Chrisk

Author's Reply:

soman on 2005-08-22 20:00:45
Re: Frogs Under The Wheels
Hi Chrisk,
Read this the second time today, and it had me laughing even more than it did the first time!.

I can still recollect those tiny baby cars like Triumph, Ford et al which used to roll majestically around our towns in Kerala in the 'thirties, which bring back nostalgic memories.

Soman

Author's Reply:

chrisk on 2005-08-23 20:49:40
Re: Frogs Under The Wheels
soman
Ya the mootta Fiats n all that. This was the first story I posted on the UKA and that was well received for a first timer.
I think old times were in many cases good times. We had no rersponsibility, being kids.
In the book this has been edited and when u buy the book you can read that! That road was in perintalmanna.
Thanks
Chrisk

Author's Reply: