Deja Vu

He awoke with a start. The train compartment was empty. The indicator read 'Warren Street'. He got out just as the doors began to close.

He had a bitter taste in his mouth and his shirt was drenched in his own sweat. He noticed it now, only after getting out of the train. His stomach ached. He looked around and saw no one. Warren Street station was deserted. 

He didn't move. He was panting. He looked at his watch; it read 10:37 PM. 'Warren Street is never without people at any time', he remembered.

Ed was scared. He heard voices. They seemed to be coming from a distance and he couldn't make any sense out of them. He started walking towards the far end of the platform, towards the exit. He saw that the gate was closed. He reached the gate and saw that it was chained and locked. He turned back and started running the other way, towards the other end, the other exit. He didn't know why he was running. He reached the gate. It was chained and locked.

Just then, he heard a train approaching. He ran to the middle of the platform as the train slowed down. The train stopped and the doors opened. He walked in through the nearest doors and sat on the nearest chair. It was darker than usual outside and he couldn't see much. He realized he was still panting and the pain in his abdomen traveled slightly upward now. The voices faded into the distance. He drowned his face in his palms between his legs. He was confused, couldn't think straight; he didn't know how and why he was on the train in the first place.

The train began to slow down. He got up and stood near the doors, looking down at his shoes. There was a noticeable tear and some blood on his left boot, which he had never noticed before. He jumped out as soon as the doors opened and froze. He read the big signboard on the platform, it read: 'Warren Street'. He spun around to see the doors just closing. He saw the indicator inside the train through the glass of the doors. It showed 'Warren Street'.

The station was deserted. His heart began to pound faster. His head began to throb. He was hearing the voices again. He was terrified. He raced to one end of the station, to the exit. It was chained and locked. He could hear the air going out of him and his throat was parched. He was shaking with terror. His instincts took over and he jumped onto the tracks, not caring to check the other exit. He ran in the direction of the train that had gone. He ran as fast as his feet could carry him. The small lights illuminated the tunnel just enough to allow him to see where he was going. His torn boot made it uneasy to run. The voices faded away behind him. His left boot got caught in a protruding part of the rail at the tear and it not only made the tear slightly larger but also hurt his foot. He thought he was bleeding but he didn't care. He continued running.

He saw the tunnel getting brighter. He realized he was nearing a station. He started running slightly faster now. He reached the station and climbed up onto the platform. The signboard there read 'Warren Street' and it was empty. He felt sick. He starting choking on his own vomit and began to cough violently. He clutched his chest and coughed. He tried to breath in but he wouldn't stop coughing. He somehow managed to breath in a little air and slowly, his coughing stopped. He had tears in his eyes and his chest ached. His mouth filled with rancid taste but somehow he managed to swallow the vomit back.

He was hearing the voices again. Suddenly, he heard a train approaching the station. He went to the edge of the platform, and leaned over. He saw the lights of the train approaching and he stepped back. The train glided into the station. He ran inside the first doors as they opened and ran toward the motorman's cabin. It was empty. The cabin's door was locked. The doors closed the train began to move and started picking up speed. Ed didn't know what to do. His chest was hurting. He tried to think. He looked around for the emergency break. He found it and he pulled it with all his strength.

The train decelerated rapidly and he was thrown against the cabin door. The train eventually stopped. The tunnel was totally dark outside except for the small lights. Ed tried breaking the glass of the cabin door by kicking it. The glass didn't even crack. He went near the doors and threw open the emergency lock. The doors slid open and he climbed down onto the tracks. He started running back toward the station now. His head was heavy and his chest hurt a lot. He was thirsty. He ran in a daze for what seemed like a really long time. He finally reached the station and climbed up onto the platform.

He went to the centre of the platform. He saw a bench that touched the far wall. He hadn't noticed it before. He sat down. He wanted to lie down but thought it might bring the vomit back upto his throat again. He stared into space. He had no clue about what he was dealing with. He was just tired of being afraid and sick. He was just tired. He decided to lie down. He was glad there was no vomit. He fell asleep.

Ed awoke with a start. He saw people that were seated in front of him get up to get off the train at the next station. He looked up at the indicator. It read 'Warren Street'. He stood up. He was sweating but he wasn't thirsty nor was he panting. He looked around and the people were moving, talking, had expressions on their faces, smiling at him as they made their way past him to exit the train.

He ran through the closing doors, out on the station platform. He was laughing now. He wasn't feeling sick at all. He felt happiness. 'A dream! It was all just a dream!', he thought. He didn't stop laughing. He began walking toward the exit amidst everyone else. His shoes felt funny. He stopped and looked down. There was a noticeable tear and some blood on his left boot.

Ed awoke screaming with agony. He was sitting on the bench at the deserted station. The signboard read 'Warren Street'. He was sweating, his throat was parched, his head was throbbing and his heart was racing. He felt the ache in his chest and his mind was gripped with fear. He looked at his shoes for no reason, out of hope perhaps. The tear was there, so was the blood. 'Hope can drive a man insane', he thought. He sank his face into his hands and began sobbing. He cried like a newborn.

He heard a train approaching the station. He looked at his watch for no reason. It read 10:37 PM. He smiled now. He began laughing loudly. He felt easy at once. He wasn't panting anymore, he was thirsty, yes, but he wasn't panting. His heart raced but his head was suddenly clear. He had heard the train approaching the station. He went to the edge of the platform, and leaned over. He saw the lights of the train approaching. His instincts took over. He didn't step back. As the train glided into the station, Ed jumped in front of the train.

He awoke with a start. The train compartment was empty. The indicator read 'Warren Street'.

The Wait

The message was clear. I was where I had to be, when I had to be. I even had it with me in my arms that I had to have, that would serve our purpose that evening. I wasn't alone but there was no sign of them. I waited.

It began to drizzle. With each passing minute, the sky grew darker, depicting a limitless canvas with brutal strokes of grey. I hoped the drizzle would stop. But it was a Fool's Hope. I knew better. The Indian monsoon doesn't take gladly to such requests - it merely drowns everything out. And then it happened.

It began pouring. The rains lashed out against the already wet earth. The wind made it impossible to keep the head up, scores of raindrops hurting the face like tiny, blunt arrows. I had to find shelter. I did, underneath a small shed. I looked around to see few unfamiliar and dead faces. No hint of emotion. The Indian monsoon drowns everything out.

Still no sign of them. I waited. Did they change their mind? Did they send another message that I missed? It can't be. They never cancel at the last minute. I was there, on time. 'The trouble with being punctual is that there is no one to appreciate it', I thought. What do I do now? It had been a while and they hadn't showed up. Do I go home? There's only so much a man could take. The cold wind made the wait unbearable. But I had to wait, after all there were only six days to go. I had to free my arms to wipe away the water off of my face. I kept it down at my feet. And then I waited. The rain made an incessant sound on the shed. I tried to make out a rhythm out of it, just to divert my mind from the time I had spent waiting. I couldn't. It didn't make any sense. Nor did the wait. But I waited.

I was in a trance, staring at a stone a few feet away, wondering about the things I'd have done had I stayed home. I noticed the rain made a different sound on the shed now. The sound was dying out. I looked up and saw it was a drizzle again. I picked it up and moved out of the shed with the rest of the unfamiliar people. 'Six days left and they fail to show up', I cursed. The wait was futile. I was annoyed. 'Tomorrow', I thought and I decided to go home. And then it happened.

They came, wearing rain jackets. "Where the hell have you been?", I growled. "Waiting for the rain to stop!", said one of them. 'Stupid twats!', I thought. The wait was worth it. I wasn't annoyed now. The Indian monsoon drowns everything out. I let go of the football I was holding and volleyed it into the sky in their direction. "Six days left for our first game lads! Let's play!", I said.

'Good night.'

Garret was taking it all in. It was the first time he had come to Vegas. And now here he was, much like everyone else in the city, at the bar in the casino of a 7-star hotel. Not long ago, he was driving down the road with bright Neon lights on both sides, wondering about which hotel he should stay the night. He had picked 'The Ritz' simply because that's where the most wealthy frequented - an obvious choice for a man such as him.

The casino was drenched with a myriad of heavy emotions - from frustration, pain, anger, jealousy and hatred to happiness and ecstasy - and a blend of cigarette smoke and the smell of liquor. The reddish hue of the lights, alongwith the music, induced a slight sense of dizziness but Garret paid no heed to it. Afterall, he was where he wanted to be. Garret was taking it all in.

Garret called out to the bartender and asked for a Vodka Martini with extra olives. His drink arrived swiftly and he took a sip. As he put down his glass, a tall, dark and suave man in a jet black tux came and sat down on the stool besides him. His hair was long, heavily gelled and combed behind. He had sharp features and a strong jawline. His face was expressionless. He faced the bartender and said in a baritone voice, "A Vodka Martini with extra olives, please. Three, to be precise." "Three what, Sir? Olives, right?", said the bartender. "Obviously", said the dark man.

Garret took a look at his pot-belly and at his unpleasant memories involving women that had been with him only for his wealth and that left him eventually because he wasn't attractive enough. He let out a soft chuckle. The dark man faced Garret and said in a dead voice, "Excuse me? Do we have a problem?" "No, certainly not! It's just that I am having the exact same drink as you are yet we are so contrasting personalities. I am sorry if it bothered you in any way", laughed Garret. "You don't even know me, do you?", barked the man. "Gee...take it easy, so much for starting a conversation...", stammered Garret. The man downed the entire drink and paused for a brief moment before turning to Garret and said, "I am sorry, I was a bit preoccupied with some thoughts. Hello, I am Ramirez", holding out his hand. Garret extended his own and shook Ramirez's and said, "Garret." "So, what brings you here, Garret?", asked Ramirez. "Ahh...just some ground work for a work related assignment. And you?", asked Garret in return. "I am a...facilitator", answered Ramirez.

Garret let out a soft chuckle again and said, "You sound as if you are a hitman or something of the sorts." "Please, I do not like that word. I merely eliminate unwanted elements", said Ramirez matter-of-factly. Garret almost rolled over from his stool. He couldn't believe it. He thought Ramirez was joking because he himself certainly was. But Ramirez was dead serious. Atleast he looked the part of a professional assassin. "You are not here to kill me, are you?", stammered Garret with a half-smile. "Are you not wanted by anyone?", asked Ramirez. "I hope that's not the case!", quipped Garret. "Don't be too sure, Mr. Garret", said Ramirez. "No, really, I can't think of anyone wanting me dead!", said Garret. "Is that so? Then you are safe. Unless, ofcourse, you keep your mouth shut about my identity", said Ramirez.

"My lips are sealed."

"Very well."

"So, what's your weapon of choice?" Garret couldn't really believe it. He decided to play along.

"A silenced Beretta."

"May I see it?"

"No."

"Ofcourse. Ofcourse. So tell me Mr. Hitman, how do you sleep at night? Doesn't the fact that you are a murderer haunt you?"

"Never does. Never did. Never shall. The thing is, Garret, the world is full of people of two kinds - those with power and those who seek it. It's Nature's Law - Survival of the Fittest. In this order of Nature, some elements are, let us say, obnoxious. I am but a spoke in this wheel, a screw in this complex machinery. I am, as I said, a facilitator."

Garret stared in amazement. He couldn't really digest the words coming from the cold and calm man sitting in front of him. He couldn't decide whether what he had just heard was wisdom or blasphemy. He had never looked at the World in such a way. He never had such an objective view of the World he lived in.

Garret, after downing his drink and after a deep breath, said, "Phew! That was some heavy stuff there Mr. Hitman. So, have you got any signature style or something? You know, like those Boondock Saints, shooting through the eyes or something like that?"

"Not really. I merely wish my target 'Good night' before I finish the job."

"Oh, I see. So what would happen to me if I go to the police right now and tell them about you? You can't possible kill me here!"

"I never said the Beretta was my only weapon of choice, did I? Why do you think I am having the same drink as yours, Mr. Garret? It is because I intend to mock you. Why do you think I asked for precisely three olives, Mr. Garret? It is because three is the number of minutes you have before I wish you 'Good night'. You see, Mr. Garret, I slipped something into your drink when you weren't looking. Yes, Mr. Garret, you were my job here in Vegas."

Garret now stared at his drink and then at Ramirez's dead face with a half-open mouth. Within a couple of seconds, Ramirez broke out in a howl of laughter, his face contorting in a way Garret had never imagined. Ramirez was laughing so hard that it brought a wry smile on Garret's face. He was perplexed. Ramirez, amidst his laughter, said, "I got you, didn't I? You should've seen the look on your face. I can't believe how easily you bought that!"

"You are one terrific actor Ramirez."

"That I am. That's what I do! Listen, I really have to scram now. How about we meet for dinner in 20 minutes? My treat. I am staying in 805, come by my room and we'll head out. Grand?"

Before Garret could answer, Ramirez was already heading out of the casino.

"Very. See you later", said Garret to himself.

In his room, just as Ramirez got out of the shower, he heard a soft knock on the door. 'Garret', he thought. He wrapped himself in a towel and opened the door.

It was Garret. And he was aiming a Beretta straight at Ramirez's forehead. "Good night", said Garret.

The Initiation of Agent H.

The initiate couldn't quite think of what to expect; for very few, the chosen few, had ever managed to reach the inner circles of Rectus Maximus's organization. Even its very existence was known to very few men and women, an exclusive club whose entry was ultimately controlled by Him, Rectus Maximus, Himself.

And as he waited for Him in His dimly lit cabin, he couldn't help but gaze in amazement upon the countless evidences of His venerable stature - evidences in the form of photographs, trophies and medals. He observed the upholstery and admired the smooth and scarlet texture of it. Even the chair he was sitting in felt powerful. He knew he was in a privileged seat. He knew he was in a position of acquiring power. He knew.

And as he began to grasp the significance of the moment, he heard footsteps coming up from behind him. Before he could react to look behind, a hand clasped his left shoulder and a soft but intense voice spoke, "Be seated. And you can call me Alec. I prefer to use my more social name. Would you care for some wine?" As the initiate opened his mouth to answer, Alec indignantly said, "You should. You will." Alec strode over behind the table in a rather arrogantly nonchalant way, the way one would walk after sizing up and then dismantling countless powerful competitors. He took out a beautiful bottle of a rare breed of red wine - for Alec owned only unique wines, just as His unique virtues - one of a kind. He took out two wine glasses too and set the glassware on the table and half-filled both the glasses with the scarlet liquid. Then He sat down at the table on His Audi designed cockpit chair. And in the full glow of the table lamp, the initiate could see Alec's face quite clearly: Silky, white hair, deep, all-seeing set of eyes and a reddened nose. He was having a warm smile on His face now and anyone who would look at Him now would never in one's wildest dreams would take this man as fiery as He really was.

"Do ye know why ye have been called here? I assume you do. Do ye know what do ye have to do? I assume you don't. This is where I tell you what and how you do it." The initiate merely nodded and sipped his wine. Portuguese, he thought. A fine quality, no doubt. Definitely a token of submission by one-time competitor, he knew.

As they sat there, face to face, sipping wine, talking, most of which was done by Alec obviously, there was a shy but sharp knock on the door. "Come on ye in", said Alec. A blonde-haired, lanky young lad barged in. In a thick Glasgoweign accent similar to Alec's, he said, "You were right Boss, Rangers were torn apart." Alec smiled and motioned him to keep the bundle of money on the table and then told him to go away, smiling all the time. As the blonde reached for the door, Alec said in a slightly hushed tone, "Lock the door, Darren." Darren looked back at Alec and nodded. Alec winked and his smile grew wider. Then He turned to the initiate and chuckled, "A little bit of betting never hurt anyone, did it?" before palming the money away.

Alec continued to instruct the initiate and all that while, the initiate nodded and took down notes. He did have doubts but they were cleared as soon as they were born, just as Alec had promised. Impeccable. As always. At the end of their discussion, Alec said, "If ye cannae 'andle the pressure, ye got me hotline. Or ye could call Agent Hughes or Agent Queiroz, both have been efficient and carried out the plan till the last detail at the local rivals and in Madrid. And after you're done with it, tell the BBC that them Scousers are dozy bastards and that them BBC are dozy bastards and jump the ship. You get the plan?" The initiate said, "Aye, I'll get to it."

The initiate then got up to leave and as he reached for the door, Alec said in a slightly hushed tone, "And Roy, don't forget Lucas." Agent Roy Hodgson looked back at Alec and nodded. Alec winked and his smile grew wider. Impeccable. As always.

Walking in a Fergie Wonderland!

“The season that was: 2009-10”

It was a season that nobody seemed to want to win. The winners of the season would be the poorest team such was the performance of the teams battling out for the title – Chelsea and Manchester United.

Arsenal, for all their attractive football, failed to win any silverware, again. That’s been the case for 6 years now.

Liverpool, with their genius manager, plummeted from title contenders to also-rans and the last time I checked, were fighting for the last European spot which they finally secured. Ofcourse, I mean the Europa league. Sweet. To be fair, their manager is a blemish on the history of Liverpool Football Club. He lost the plot completely. Only the strongest of Scouse delusion should keep him at the helm of the club and knowing them, he will remain.

K. R. A. P.

Chelsea were the better team throughout the season – they led the table most of the time. They took their chances and that alone warrants you a winner’s medal. They amassed a huge tally of points and scored a record number of goals in one season. Although on the last day of the season, the sight of Drogba fighting to take the penalty kick was a disgrace and went a long way in telling what Chelsea FC is all about, let’s give it to them – 100+ goals in one season is no small thing.

But all that and Chelsea won the league by a single point – the smallest possible margin in terms of points. What does that say about them and about the season? To be honest, Chelsea should have won it long back. They should have sealed it – done and dusted. United, for all of their injury-ravaged season, should be credited with pushing Chelsea all the way. They coped well with the departures of Ronaldo and Tevez but there were certain games in which a bit of magic from That Boy Ronaldo™ would have made the difference between one point and three, full points. Nonetheless, what with the English media and ABUs predicting the title as Liverpool’s and United finishing third, United were brilliant, and Liverpool, shite. United's youngsters won the Carling Cup yet again and the future doesn't look bleak at all with those kind of players coming in through the Academy.

‘Arry Redknapp is a genius. End of. Roy Hodgson is more than a decent manager and I guess every neutral football supporter in the world wanted Fulham to win the Cup.

Coming onto United – having 9 out of the 10 recognized defenders in the squad, including the goalkeeper, injured is the worst injury crisis a team could face. At one point of time, United had Giggs at the left-back position, Evra and Carrick as centre-backs and Darren Fletcher at right-back. While United didn’t concede heavily in such a crisis, except the 3-1 away loss to Everton, they couldn’t score either. And that’s obvious with half of the mid-field playing in the defense. Wayne Rooney was a monster on the football field and one mad week with United facing Bayern away then Chelsea at home and then Bayern again, this time at Old Trafford, changed the season for him and United. Still, “It’s never over till it’s over” for United and they pushed Chelsea right to the wire and the hope was never extinguished. Looking back, after losing two prolific goal scorers and facing one of the worst injury problems, United did well, but ofcourse, hindsight is a wonderful thing. But the season that was should give us a lot of positives for the season that will be and I can hardly wait. Four titles in a row is a record still there to be broken and United can do it – the only difference would be that it’ll take another 4 years. For those “fans” who were thoroughly disappointed – we don’t have a God-given right to win everything in sight. Football is a game and there can be only one winner. Shit happens, move on. “Form is temporary. Class is permanent.”

Can’t wait for the next season! Come on you REDS!

Ancelotti…are ya listening?!

Can you keep our trophy glistening?!

‘Cause we’ll be back in May

To take it away

Walking in a Fergie Wonderland!

Manchester is RED. Manchester is GINGER.

“This is how it feels to be Citeh…this is how it feels when you’ve won nothing at all!”

So here we were, prepared for yet another ordeal of doing it the United way – or so we assumed. The Richest Club in the World faced The Biggest Club in the World at Eastlands. Citeh fighting for the last Champions League spot and United fighting for the title – it was always going to be a costly affair for the losing team. With Citeh coming into the game on the back of two thumping wins and United with an unfit Rooney and dismissal form, United had no chance to get away with all 3 points - or so they assumed.

United were up for it right from the off. One could see that United wanted it more than their Noisy Neighbours. Citeh were contended with defending in numbers and trying the odd counter-attack. Half-time dawned and passed, United still couldn’t break the deadlock. Berbatov came close with a header but couldn’t direct it home. Scholes had an absolute belter of a game: Hard, legit tackles and that pin-point passing was there for all to see.

As the clock ticked down, it looked as if Citeh had snatched a point afterall. Even United looked to settle for a draw. With seconds to go, United attacked one last time. I never really expected what followed. I don’t think anyone did. Evra clipped in a neat little cross in the Citeh box that evaded all the Citeh defenders. And who comes out of the box to head home? Sir Paul Scholes of Salford. Just as he had done countless times before over the years, Scholesy had his trademark little late run inside the box and delivered an inch-perfect header that no goalkeeper could’ve saved. The Ginger Ninja had done it, against Manchester City, in the last minute. He wheeled away, jumped up and down like a teenager and went to the fans to celebrate. It was so fitting that he scored the winner – that lad from Salford. For that Old Guard and for the United fans, it’s never over till it’s over.

And once again, Manchester was RED. But also on that day, Manchester was Ginger.

Linesman: A specie understood. Apparently.

Class name: Referee.

Generic name: What-the-fuckus Linesmanus.

Common name: Linesman, assistant referee, twat, dick, cunt.

Country of Origin: Ingurland.

Physical characteristics:

• Strong shoulders due to constant raising and retaining arms in mid-air.
• Poor vision, even in daylight. Really.
• Partially deaf (under debate) owing to the barrage of abuse thrown at it from fans, players, managers, stewards, warming-up substitutes et cetera.
• Agile neck due to occasional nodding.
• Dull facial features and almost always expressionless.

Behaviour:
A linesman spends most of its time running up and down half the length of a green area called a "Football field". While its exact authority will always remain a mystery, it never ceases to impact a Football game. Although a linesman can be active at any time of the game, its activity generally peaks after the ball is played in its territory.

A linesman does not roam in a group/herd/pack/. It is always alone. A peculiarity of the linesman is that it never reaches maturity. It always screws-up on one occasion or the other viz. it may cost one team a title or a place in the Premier League, and blows the concept of "luck evens itself out at the end" to smithereens.

A linesman is usually considered numb. Absolutely numb. It remains indifferent to the noise and chaos around it and its life and carries on. It probably does not experience a single sleepless night, something which it very easily but unknowingly inflicts on that touchy lot called the “Fans”. Currently, it is being studied whether they are even dumb or just pretend.

Social relationships:
A linesman is one of the least favourite creatures. It endures abuse from all possible directions. Yes, even its family. No one really gives a rat’s arse about them anyway. Its direct enemy is the “Unhappy Manager”.

Baiting and taming:
A linesman can be baited and tamed by the “Manager under pressure” or by the “Arrogant manager who can fucking play mind games”. The former, however, fails to do so most of the times, for example, Rafael Benitez. The latter not only succeeds in it but also reserves special right to berate the linesman, especially at the “Half-time intervals” or the “Post-match reactions”. Only Alex Ferguson has the distinction of being both and still succeeding.

Cultural depiction:
A linesman forms an indispensable part of football forums (and blogs such as this) around the world as the reason of initiation of topics that promote abuse and hatred and other ill-feelings towards it.

Sir Alex Ferguson, the Godfather of English Football, sums it best when he says – “…you really need quality officials and we didn't get them today. It was a poor, poor performance.” And who can deny that?