Novel Start - Page 1
badagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagb
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RESPECT
Victor Gonsalves,
the author is from Mumbai, India. He is a Network engineer (IT) by profession.
He has led teams of scores of network engineers in renowned firms like
Reliance, Wipro and Hewlett Packard, etc. over his 10 year career.
This is his first
novel, completed at the age of 39, which was a long time coming due to his 24x7
rotational shift duties. In today’s age where entire offices run on network connectivity,
his decision making skills combined with him being a good judge of character,
his interpersonal skills and engineering background gave him a unique view of
life. He has the roots of the language embedded in him because of his parents,
both being English language lecturers. The peer pressure being there the author
does not shy away from using English words with Indian origin. The global
audience for whom these stories are meant for wouldn’t be able to pinpoint that
the stories originate in India, except for the diction used by the author.
Victor fantasizes that the title of this book would be added into the Oxford
dictionary.
badagboodoog (n)(o) – sound made by a train, indiscernible to human senses (esp. hearing).
e.g.:
When two people talk to you at the same time it'sbadagboodoog.
- Unexplainable
phenomena, unprovable.
e.g.:
(Read this book to find out ;-))
Victor blogs at
tambakuman.blogspot.in. And his Facebook handle is facebook.com/victor.b.gonsalves and his email is victorgonsalves@hotmail.com
Page 4
INDEX
- Fanfare
- The Birthday Wish
- The U-turn
- badagboodoog
- A Day in the life of a Tattoo artist
- Born on a Tuesday
- The Hill Station
- To Cycle or not to Cycle
- Twist of Taste
- The Passenger Special
- Part 1: Jalianwala Baug Massacre
- Part 2: Statues at Sea
- Part 3: No Shagging Here
- Part 4: The Red Light
- Part 5: The Crying Mother
- “Mark, Where….?”
- The Last Train
- The Hearse Driver
For preview purposes only:Short Story #3
Page 21
badagboodoog
The strangest thing about this strange journey is
that it began with a word. That is when I decided to write about it. So here is
the explanation for a non-explanatory word.
A friend once
called me to visit his village during the local mela, and I had gladly obliged. I took the short train journey and
landed on the railway station which was in the centre of my friend’s small
village. The shrine was a stone throws away from the railway station. I noticed
that this joint of veneration for peace seekers was not in the quietest part of
the village, of course the railway engines hoot would be heard during the
prayers. The holy ground was flanked by a lake on one side and houses on the
other. That’s how I had been directed to the shrine.
“Ask anyone the way to the lake”, my friend had
said.
I entered the compound from the crowded street
and felt a sudden calmness. It was a decent sized compound. Cool breeze blew up
my sleeves from the lake on the right. The lake was hidden from the main road
by a thicket and the compound wall which ran all around it. I passed the lake
and on the left was a clearing, and in the middle was the sole structure in
which the idol would be kept for Worship. Behind the holy building I spied a
few one-storey houses overlooking the shrine. The stone compound wall which was
around 10 feet tall separated the residential complex from the solid dome-shaped
structure.
My train was late by an hour that day hence the monument
was empty when I entered. I continued towards the back of the building where I
could see shadows of men in activity. I kept right and walked towards the back of
the structure in search of myfriend - the lake on my right had disappeared
behind the compound wall. I noticed, a stout trunked tree leaned outwards over
the compound wall. It was almost embedded into the wall. I felt the soft mud
turn into gravel.
I circled the shrine, the compound wall curved
all round to front entrance. Between the back of the shrine and the compound
wall, there was ample amount of space and the caterers had laid their tables
here. One can assume that, free snacks would be served to the worshippers from
this area in the evenings when most people attended the daily venerations.
A few men were setting aside the tables in a
store room nearby. I waved to my friend who gave back a wave of recognition. I
was exactly behind where the deity would be inside its canopy. The back wall
had some exquisite granite work on it. I heard the sound of a television set
from the residential buildings on the other side of the wall. I continued to
walk towards the sound, trying to catch a glimpse of what show might on one of
the sets, but the wall was tall. I continued along the compound wall which curved
towards the front.
Completing a
circle around the shrine, I reached the front of the structure where I paid my
homage. The entire altar wall glistened in a jade spotlight. I looked toward
the entrance; yes people on the road were rushing home for their suppers – the
noise behind me. My friend hollered from behind the shrine. I retraced my steps, via the houses behind
the wall, again I tried to catch a glimpse of the T.V. I could hear the rustle
of feet from the entrance behind me. I hugged my friend who introduced him to
his daily gossipmongers. As they cleaned the place, the village chit-chat
brewed.
The characters
being new to me, the stories did not make much sense to me. They laughed at a
joke, but I was distracted by the sound on the road. I was now behind the
shrine and the exit was not in view and yet I could hear the traffic from the main
road. Bang! It sounded like an accident. I turned his head towards the entrance
but it was not in my line of sight. I could hear someone scream from the adjacent
residential apartment. I smiled to himself, it was a television serial.
I now only
concentrated on the sounds this concave compound traversed. I judged that the
traffic sound mingled with the television noise. I took a few paces toward the
tree near the lake, and then I heard it.
“badagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoog.”
I glared at the
mangled tree trunk; it looked like a Kathak
dancer curved into the wall. I tried to pinpoint the source of the sound.
It came from the other side of the wall, just behind the tree. I could sense a
lot of activity around the area as the branches overhanging the wall reflected
moving shadows. I pulled up his sleeves crept up to the tree so as to climb it
and kill my curiosity.
My friend shouted, “Hey, what’s the idea?”
I explained to
him about my sound deduction. The audience too were now interested in what I
was trying to accomplish. Someone laughed - I was flushed - rather intrigued
than puzzled. I ignored the sound and helped myself to the leftover snacks and
started a conversation with another from the same locale, and as soon as I had
gained his smile, I questioned him about the sound. He gave a laugh and
explained, “It’s a kitchen, a banquet kitchen on the other side of the wall”
I concentrated, my
ears strained on end as they tried to reach the other side of the wall. I
imagined people shouting out orders, utensils being washed, cleaned, maybe
spoons clanking.
No, the
badagboodoog sound was too bass. It was a language, he deduced. And people shouted
orders at each other as they worked as a team. It was as if they were in a
fight. Then I heard it again. The constancy
of the sound never changed. It was always, “badagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoogbadagboodoog.”
I walked back and
forth; the villagers laughed but did not interfere. I didn’t care. I was more
interested in this mystery. I deduced that, as the sound travelled along the
curved compound wall, all of the sounds mingled at the foot of the tree including the sound from the kitchen. My ears picked it up as badagboodoog. I
was amazed at the steadiness of it. In the distance a train whistled.
I quite
triumphantly, gave the explanation to the circle of my friend’s friends, who
did not pay much heed to my querying theory. They just looked at me as if they heard nothing. The light breeze from the lake ensued the
whole effect, I persuaded, and got back blank stares. I looked sideways towards
the age-old memorial lit in greenish hue. Was I imagining the sound?
By the time we all left for home, I was the butt
of their jokes. On the train back home, the continuous rhythm of the train got
me thinking about the unrelenting sound – it was not unlike the sound of this
train I was travelling in. I closed my eyes. I would have to come back with
state-of-the-art recording equipment to prove to them my logic. One microphone
would have to be placed at the entrance, a couple near the residential quarters
and of course, one at the refectory. Also, one at the base of the tree to catch
the intermingled sound. An oscilloscope would then show the sine-waved output
of these various sound frequencies captured. I had them oscilloscopes in my lab
at the engineering college.
Nah, it was too much work. It could be that they
all heard it but were yanking my chain. But even if anyone would do it for the
sake of it being an architectural fluke, would I still be able to replicate
what I had experienced today?
Maybe somethings aren’t meant to be explained,
yet understood. And like that sound I heard that day in my friend’s village, I
realised I couldn’t describe the entire episode. Maybe a word would need to be
coined for this kind of situation.
Badagboodoogbadagboodoobadagboodoogbadagboodoog
--- THE END ---
A collection of stories that
originate from misadventure in day-to-day life. The stories are written as an
ode to the inscrutable work ethic of a common shift worker. In this book, the
author picks the Indian Railways’staff in a variety of ‘train sequences’. Hence,
the loopy onomatopoeic title - a sound made when a train passes by - is also brought
into play whenever undeterminable circumstances occur amongst the different
characters, including the railway personnel and their perennial struggles of
their rotational shift duties. Written with humour, the stories have are meant
for the intelligent reader and taunt the modern yet still to-become
broad-minded 21st century wireless-generation.
A Request:
If you are a publishing agent or know someone in publishing. Please do recommend my collection of short stories. I have a completed set of 24 such stories and they are ever increasing. Some of my self-published works are available at tambakuman.blogspot.in
Hyperlinks of my works below:
Tambaku Man
Tambaku Man meets his match
Tambaku Man goes to a convention
A Day in the Life of a Tattoo Artist
The flying shoe
What I want for Christmas is
ORANGE!
No development without self-effectiveness.
Wolf Wolf
The Detonator
Typical Beginnings of a Happy Train Journey.
First Day Misadventure
The Hill station
The Bus Driver
Basic Network Troubleshooting
Happy New Year 2019
The BJP Era (2014- )
Everything’s Fine!
The Good, the Bad, and that is it.
