Exploding Rockets II

Tipu Sultan's Rocket Demolish the British Army

(This is Part II of last week Blog Post Exploding Rockets I, so if you haven't read it, do go ahead and read that one first.)


His hands worked swiftly grabbing the powder and musket ball from his ammunition bag. David Baird crouched as he reloaded his weapon, pouring gunpowder into the barrel, shoving the musket ball inside and finally lining up the flintlock with a little gun powder. Then his rifle rose in the air and with a bit of aiming, he pulled up his iron sights just above the target’s head, he squeezed the trigger. A puff of smoke blew out, a Mysorean soldier fell of the fort’s parapets and Baird repeated the process of reloading his weapon. A quick glance behind revealed Colonel William Baillie holding the rear and firing off commands. Scuttling forward, moving closer to the fort with his fellow comrades, Baird took aim once again.

He was about to pull the trigger when a light streaking across the dark orange sky distracting him. At first it was only one, but then several more appeared and then even more. The sky was suddenly lit up with lights. “Rockets”, cried out one of the soldier’s on the battlefield.

What were so many rockets streaking across for? Baird asked himself. Usually, Indian rockets made of bamboo were harmless and just used for signalling. From streaking up in the sky, the rockets changed direction and plummeted to the ground. As gravity pulled them down, the rockets spun out of control. Their guidance stick whipped through the air. Guidance sticks were mainly made of wood. Those guidance stick aren’t wooden, he realised, watching a sword attached to the rocket cut through soldiers before exploding.

An explosion rang out, enough to create a crater on the ground. Baird watched in horror as over fifty rockets crashed on to their ranks, sending out fireballs. His body froze. The sky looked empty for a second before more lights filled it and rockets once again, plummeted down.

Fear gripped him and Baird wanted to run, to escape, to flee, to find cover, to hide under shelter, but in an open battlefield, there was none. The smell of burning gunpowder never smelled stronger and came along with the smell of with burning flesh. It sickened Baird to the pit of his stomach.

An explosion rang out louder than the rest of the rockets and Baird glanced behind. The army’s whole rear was gone in a blaze of burning fire. The Colonel was nowhere to be seen. The ammunition cart was blown to smithereens. The soldiers stopped advancing, threw their guns and began to flee. Baird wanted to join them, to escape, to live; but he saw no escape. Rockets slashed soldier and blew them to bit. Arrows and musket ball rained down. The fort’s door creaked open and a cavalry force charged out. The Battle of Pollilur was over and the use of rockets as military force was introduced. 

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Exploding Rockets I

“Here they come”, that’s the message that ran through the troops. Dinesh felt nervous as his sword slid out from its sheath. It was a curved blade that would have glinted in sunlight, if it had been there. Instead, the sky was painted with a bright orange shade as the sun set down.  He felt a little sadden looking at the beautiful craftsmanship. Today, his sword would not see blood.  Pollilur Fort was what stood between the Firang enemy and their homeland. Dinesh looked on proudly at his fellow soldiers dressed in their orange striped colours of their army. They stood on the parapets of the fort armed and ready. Bows were drawn out and the musket rifles were loaded. However, for some reason (which you will soon discover), the parapet in front of Dinesh was quite empty. Only a few soldiers stood on the edges, ready for the enemy. 

With a few steps forward, Dinesh peeked and stared at the marching enemy forces. Soldiers walked forward in a line with a few cavalry officer behind them and a large cart being tugged. Their dark red uniforms were easily noticeable and their fair faces told of their race. English, East India Company, Firangs, that’s what they were called. Half of the continent was taken over by them and this is place where we stop them! 

His arm rose up and his sword shook in the air, trying to send a menacing message across to the oncoming army. That’s when the first shot rang out and that’s all it took for the battle to start. Dinesh ducked on to the ground. I can’t die yet! 

From his position, Dinesh watched the battle unfolded below and bided his time. His blood boiled, he wanted to jump into the battle brandishing his newly forged blade, yet he restrained himself with a reminder, I’m a Corporal. Tipu has given me a role to play. 

Musket balls and arrows poured out from the fort. The enemy marched forward unhindered. Some stopped and crouched to take a shot or reload, while others marched on covering ground. For every inch they moved forward, plenty of red dressed soldiers just collapsed to the ground with a musket ball or arrow pierced through their tunic.  

However, neither were Tipu’s soldiers untouched.  Soldiers were shot, some slumped to the ground, while other fell from the parapets, and another soldier came from behind to occupied the empty position of the dead soldier. 

Soon enough, the stench of gun powder and the sounds of dying men dominated the air. The enemy marched forward closing in on the fort and leaving behind a trail of dead and moaning men. Their discipline was exemplary. 

Then Dinesh decided it’s time. Ignoring his enemies, he stood up, sword raised in hand, “Now we attack”, he screamed. Standing well behind the parapet his troops let out a roar. The burning flints in their hand were put forward, lighting the threads. 

Finally, the Sultan’s weapon would be used and these, on coming, Firangs would be slaughtered. The 9 inch metal tubes of rockets lit it up and launched into the air. Dinesh watched, with pride, as over fifty rockets cut into the air, rising above and beating the record of any previously set bamboo rocket. The British won't know what hit them! 

Find the second part to this blog post on Exploding Rockets II.  

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When Death Calls

Death called to him. The wound hurt him, it pained him, but it would not be long since that death would come to him. The blood had almost stopped flowing from his wound. His body lay in the mud that had soaked in all the blood, otherwise he would have been floating in a pool of his own blood. And then the final cold wave swept over him and he was no more. 

His body lay still on the mud, the shivering had stopped. The sun glinted through the clouds and trees onto his body, the last of the yellow sunlight had a tint of orange just before it set. 

And then once the sunlight went under, a sudden gush of warm air was pulled through his nose Like a miracle, he breathed life again. His back lifted up from the ground and he took a few more lung full of breaths, assuring himself that he was alive. It was always like this... death called to him, but never took him. 

His eyes glanced at his wound, not even a scratched remained. It was completely healed. His clothes was in tatters, only a part of his pant remained. He stood up and his shoulder fell upon a tree. His body could barely stand up. A few seconds ago all the blood drained out of him, but now it was probably all back. He did not know how it worked. He wondered if he should go search for his murderers or like the countless other times, not bother. They could try to kill him infinite times, but it seemed like death did not want him.... he was resurrection man. 

PS: If you're a comic lover, put Resurrection Man on your list. 

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Don't Know

The only reason I touch the toolbox is to work on my PC, and I only use the screwdrivers. 

“I’m sorry dad”, he apologised.

“It’s okay, it’s okay”, the father repeated as his fingers were busy turning the tap handle. His back was bent as he was engrossed in his work.

“It’s been leaking for almost a week now”, the son commented, “I tried to fix it, but I just can’t make out head or tail”.

The father loosened the handle and pulled it out. A bit of grime got on to his fingers and he cursed silently.

“It’s about time you started learning you know”, the father commented.

“I know, I know”, the son spoke helplessly, acknowledging the futility of his situation.

“Pass me the spanner”, the father requested.

There was a tool box at the son’s feet and it’s from there, he dipped in his hand and after sometime of digging, he produced a stainless steel metal with two tiny claws.

“Here you go”, the son spoke as he handed it over. Without glancing up, the father took hold of the spanner and began rotating it back and forth, loosening a nut. Afterwards, more of the tap was dismantled.

“I think the nut's a bit loose”, stated the father, “Hand me the tube from the tool box.

Once again, the son’s hand vanished inside the tool box and a second later, a small tube was gripped between his fingers. The father took it and with a slight squeeze, a little gel slid onto his finger. He applied it inside the nut and put the tap back together.

“There, it won’t leak any more”, the father pronounced with a tinge of pride in his voice as he stood up.

“Thanks dad”, the son spoke as he walked his father out the apartment door.

“I know you were too busy with college and now, you’re busy in the office, but you need to learn all this. There is no certification for it, but these simple tricks will help keep your house together.

The son stood there silently brooding to himself, that he should have learned these tricks when he was at home, but he didn’t.

The father sighed silently to himself waiting for the elevator to arrive. His son, what would he do if he had to run a house of own with his own family. I won’t be here forever. There was a time once that his son would just absorb everything, from how the bulb turned on to how the plugs in the house worked. Somewhere along, that curiosity died out and he never bother to pick up on those thoughts again. He was just never there at home, maybe I could have thought him something!

‘Ting!’

The father’s thoughts were cut with the elevator parting doors. He stepped inside and sighed again silently to himself.

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The Savage Man

Over twenty people stood patiently and impatiently at the bus stop. All of them waiting for a bus to reach their destination. In front of the bus stop was a road packed with vehicles zipping away. In the distance a red bus appeared and suddenly, everyone was edging forward on the road. A slight tensed feeling seemed to float in the air among the waiting crowd. The bus rolled onto the stop. At least a dozen hands, taking the shape of claws, must have shot out, grabbing the railing inside the bus to haul themselves in. 

A dozen hands acting at the same time, all for their own gain. 

It must have been 30 seconds, that’s how long the bus stood there before the wheels began moving. A small number of people were still trying to shove their way into a bus that was already full of people.

“Janwar !”, screamed out one man, “You scratched me! Should I throw you out of the bus”. The screamer was a thickset man who stood inside the bus, just in front of the entrance. He was shouting at a thin, lanky man who had a confused expression on his face. “You scratched me when you jumped into the bus. You savage!”, the thickset man accused again.

His hands were raised, elbowing several passengers, as he showed a few slim scratches on his hand. The thickset man had an accusing glare.

“I... didn’t do it”, the lanky man managed to answer against his accuser’s aggressiveness.

“You savage! You liar”, cried out the scratched man, not giving a care of the passengers around him, both his hands shot up and grabbed hold of the lanky man. “Janwar! I’ll throw you off this bus”.

In a mad rage, he started pushing the lanky man out of the bus. The poor souls behind the lanky man battled for their life against the anger of thickset man as they hung out from the bus.

“Oye! Oye!” the bus conductor shouted from the front, but his voice was far from them, had no effect, and there were just too many passengers in the passageway to reach and stop the man in time.

“Stop this!” a shrill voice of a woman called out as she was shoved down the bus’ staircase. Her feet were struggling to stay on the bus and her hands fought to keep hold on the railing. All it would take was a slip and she would tumble down the staircase, out the bus and so would everyone else in front of her.

A dozen hands move in unison, all with the same purpose. They grabbed the thickset man’s collar and jerked him back. Now, you can guess the rest of what happened to the savage man who gave in too easily to his anger.

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An Old Visit to Murud Fort

Water waves crashed against stone. White foam frothed to the top of the wave signifying the salt of the sea. The stone blocks at the base were the thickest and though you wouldn't notice it, the thickness reduced as the black stone wall rose above the sea into air. The wall had four sides which made up the fort. Right on top, lining the walls were twenty pound cannons.  From outside, you would only notice the tip of the cannon protruding, but once inside you would see the cannon stretched across for 10 meters. A cannon that would surely blow an enemy ship that dared come near it.

The fort was well hidden and by three sides it was surrounded by hills. Though the fort was smack in the middle of the sea, the surrounding hills blocked any person’s view. Three sides surrounded by hills and only one side was open to a sea which stretched out and out. Thick trees, branches, leaves,
vegetation and wild animals were the only inhabitants of these surrounding hills.

Buildings that had stood years ago proudly stood in ruins. A wall, two walls, three walls and one or two whole buildings are what you would see, beautifully built, brick on brick and some carved into stone.

Three thousand, that was the number of inhabitants that lived in the fort. A large pond of at least twenty meters in circumference gave them fresh water. In the future, that is now, it has a thick coat of algae covering it. A secret tunnel was built from under the sea bed to the land, a precaution that was perhaps never used.  Traders all the way from Africa came to trade at this fort.

The fort was not owned by Shivaji or Shambji, though the later tried to take it by. Neither did any other King, Prince or Emperor rule it. Instead, it was owned by a Raja who had only four thick walls of a fort to call his Kingdom.

One would think that such a structure, a fort which is only accessible by water would have a grand entrance. Indeed, from afar you could see the twenty feet entrance and wonder what sort of docking bay would be inside. But, no there was none. The entrance was impossible, yet possible. It was direct steps that walked into the sea. There was no ring or hook to tie a boat to the wall that would grant it some stability. The boat was pulled and pushed by the sea, never staying still. It was a wonder how sailors and merchants leaped onto the mossy, slippery steps.

On stormy nights and on monsoon days, it would take a mad Captain to command his ship to approach this fort for surely the rough water would shatter his boat to bits of wood and the sea would swallow up the sailors. The whole of monsoons, three months, three thousands souls of this fort would live with food stores and nothing to do... for none would dare attack them during monsoons.

Perhaps children would look down from the ramparts and stare into the dark, rough waters and watch the violent waves thrash against the wall. Perhaps, they would tremble in fear as they felt the splashes of water splatter against their check and wonder if the sea would swallow the Fort. How little they knew, for generations later into the 21st century , the Fort stood the wrath of the sea and envy of enemies.

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The Lament of Herc

Herc looked at his reflection in the mirror and asked himself the same question that he asked when he was coming here. He wanted to just lash out, a punch on the mirror causes it to crack, cracks spread,in seconds it shatters and glass pieces fall. “Hey man”, a voice called out to him and a shoulder nudged his own. A hand that was not his own stretched out beside him and washed him under a gush of tap water. “You mind?” the man asked as Herc stared at the face beside him. He was in the bathroom, there was crowd behind waiting to use the wash-basins. He took a few steps back and made way for the man.
 
Rays of multicoloured headlights poked into his eyes. Herc was angry at himself, no not at himself he decided. “Hey Herc, over here”, he could barely hear Rocky’s voice over the blaring techno music. His friends were sitting at the table, the waiter had already bought their drinks. Holding on to threads, that’s what this meeting was about. Friends trying to hold onto their friendship as life spreads them apart.

“This one’s yours”, Cass pointed out to a glass when he took his seat. In spite of that stupid question that made him angry, Herc was happy to be among friends. They drank, they danced, they drank a bit more. Once upon a time, they all would have said, the night is young, but now, it is more like the day is over. To each of their own home’s they went.

The next day may have bought on a new day for Herc, but there was still a lingering anger and it never effing went away. Yet, with that anger, there was a joy, a new day brought new opportunities.

To office he went, he did not hate his job, neither did he like it. It was something like... you rather relax at home, but work is okay. The work was something he like to do, but there was as much as he wished it, his rules were not abided here. It was the market rules and his bosses rules, but not his own... that was only in his head.

The sun went down and the moon rose up and darkness was put at bay with artificial lights. Yet, Herc chewed on his pencil completing work that never got done which pushed him to sit in office and get home late. He may be done with today’s work, but tomorrow’s remained and day after thats too. A list was there with his name – his to-do’s. He just wanted to get it completed.

His real work awaited Herc at home, but he would be too tired when he reached. Work that he did not get paid for, it was his passion and you get paid only for your passion when you get recognition.

The second hand ticked forward, the countdown for the next precocious minute. Getting off late made it difficult for his passion, for his friends. Oh, what would Herc give to change all that. Life would be much easier then.

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