The Bard of Blood Read Online Free Page A

if it was a football this time.
He skipped lightly, readying himself to take the shot. The goal was at quite a distance, and there was no margin for error. He narrowed his eyes, cut out the environment from his system and, then, with a quick run-up, shot the ball as hard as he could. The ball ricocheted off the top of the goalpost and bounced into the goal. The crowd went silent for what seemed an eternity. And then they suddenly erupted into a wild and rapturous applause. The students, the teachers, everyone regarded the literature professor with new eyes. It was possibly the most dramatic football game they had ever witnessed!
    The Professor walked back, unable to contain his smile. He took a towel and wiped the sweat off his ash-grey temples and the tip of his long nose. He picked up a bottle of water and emptied it over his head. His T-shirt was drenched with sweat. They had never seen the Professor like this before. He was usually dressed in a crisp white shirt and well-ironed trousers. But today, here he was, smiling like a young boy who had just managed to pull off the impossible.
    The other teachers came up to him and began to pat him on the back and shake hands with him joyously. They still couldn’t believe what had happened. It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening. The Professor smiled at them all and some even heard him laugh—a rarity. The losing team, meanwhile, faced the jeers of their classmates, which they were just not prepared for.
    This is when they spotted the Principal of the college, a tall, elderly man with a slight stoop, scurrying towards them. ‘Professor Anand,’ he gasped, his mouth agape. ‘There is a call for you. It’s from the PM’s office!’
    The Professor turned and narrowed his eyes at the Principal. The other teachers shot each other confused looks.
    The Principal continued, almost out of breath. ‘Two men are here, at my office, waiting to take you back to Delhi.’
    And then, suddenly, to all those within earshot, the football match they had just witnessed became the most believable part of the day. The confusion amongst the teachers turned to shock and bewilderment. Within minutes, a distorted version of the news spread through the campus like wildfire. Professor Kabir Anand had been summoned to Delhi by none other than the Prime Minister of India himself.

    ‘Hello, Professor Anand,’ a voice greeted Kabir curtly as he answered the phone in the Principal’s office. ‘I’m Arun Joshi.’
    Two tall, broad men, clad in identical shirts, waited outside the door, not letting the Principal into his own office. Known to be a calm man otherwise, even he was flustered with the matter at hand. He walked away, cursing under his breath.
    ‘This is uncalled for,’ Kabir replied. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing so important that you had to call up the college principal. Besides, I do happen to have a cellphone. You guys at the Wing must really keep up with new technology.’
    ‘Well, I wasn’t getting through. And, yes, it is that urgent.’
    ‘Does the prime minister want me to teach his daughter Shakespeare?’
    ‘No,’ Joshi replied. ‘The prime minister doesn’t have a daughter.’
    ‘Exactly!’ Kabir snapped. ‘Please never call me again.’
    ‘This is a matter of high importance, Kabir Anand.’ Joshi was beginning to lose his cool. ‘And there is a chopper at the base waiting to get you here.’
    ‘Tell me what it is now,’ Kabir said. ‘I don’t want to miss my favourite show on TV tonight.’
    ‘I’m afraid this matter can’t be discussed over the phone,’ Joshi said. ‘I will see you at the Office in a bit.’
    The line went dead. Kabir turned to see the two men watching over him, blocking the door.
    ‘You can tell Joshi to screw himself,’ Kabir said. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
    Kabir took a step towards the door. The men didn’t budge.
    ‘Sir, we have been instructed to bring you back. Now we either step out amicably, or . . .’ The other man