Anirban had a dream. Someday, sometime, he wanted to write a story. He had no idea what he wanted to write, he had no clue why he wanted to write and, also, he was totally unsure whether he would be able to write at all. Finally, and this was the most difficult of them all, even when he had snatches of some story to tell, he would rack his brain through the day to come up with an opening line.
And always, absolutely always, he failed. The first line always eluded him. His story continued to remain a dream. Anirban was now quite sure that he would never make it.
He had a passion. He loved Hindi films. He loved the music more. And this was where Kaka came in. And the EM>antakshari.
Kaka was a character you didn't find even in story books. He wore chrome yellow trousers which glimmered in the moonlight, he wore bright, fluorescent red shirts which made him look like a dancing, elf-like flickering ember, and he always had a thick, blue polka-dotted tie which swayed like a wizard's wand as he sang. He never wore shoes; he said bare feet helped him dance better. He had a scar marring his face; that did not stop him from borrowing heavily from superstar-hero Rajesh Khanna whose nickname he adopted or behaving like actor-villain Shatrughan Sinha whom he thought he resembled, if only for the scar.
In reality, he was neither. He was simply a thin, impoverished man who sold tickets in black wearing a striped cloth wrapper which ended at the knees and a white shirt and hung around cinema halls through the day; but once the night shows got over, returned to the lane to get dressed for the night. And the game.
When Anirban returned late at night and poured his drink in the only stainless steel glass that he had, the neighbourhood had fallen asleep at least a couple of hours back. The crows were frozen on the treetops, Bihari had closed his shop long back and even the boys had pulled up the available piece of cloth over their heads and gone to sleep. The lane was lined with rickshaws on either side with the men who pull vehicles during the waking hours now sound in slumber. Nobody walked the lane to even reach any other destination. The streetlights, if ever there were any, were out. The windows of every family were closed. Except the open, jagged corridor-like sky above, and Anirban and Kaka below, nobody was awake. Raja Harishchandra Bylane was deserted and empty.
Tonight was the day of the full moon. The game, as with any other game, would begin with a toss.
