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This is a weird city.
When I had come to the arsehole of the world, I found it dead. I felt imprisoned in it. Trapped between the forest of four storied lifeless buildings. I wanted to break free. I wanted to run back home. Coming from a fast paced city, I felt the zero pace of this suburb suffocating. I wanted to run madly around it. And I wanted the place to run with me. I wanted to fill it up with action. Pump Life into its laziness. Send its adrenaline rushing. I wanted the people create a cacophony. I was not used to this silence. I wanted to change this place. Because I badly felt out of place here.
And then Dilip came up with an idea one evening. To leave the suburbs and visit the city. We took the city bus.
And the moment I stepped into the, I felt the lost hustle and bustle of my last city come back to me. The city had embraced me in its arms. It had dissolved me in. I had felt the rhythm of it. I had touched its heart beat. And it had touched mine. I had found life on the barren patch of land. And I was into an affair with it.
Content was gushing through my heart and spreading all over through my veins. That was when I had discovered a connection between us. A connection between me and the city. A connection between my city and me. A connection between this city and my city. A connection between the two inseparable entities. A connection of love, hate, friendship, jealousy and other such contrasting feelings. A connection with feelings. A connection which is today an Expressway. A dream project that had come true.
My hatred for the place slowly turned into love with time. I have developed a thick bonding with it now. But the period of this struggle to create it was troublesome. Yet all is well…that ends well.
As I stand on the footpath of JM Road waiting for her, I realize this. That this is a weird city. On one hand it isolates you, and on the other, it clutches you close to her heart. A crazy city.
She doesn’t come yet. But I hear weird voices coming from a distance. I walk in their direction.I am supposed to wait for Aparna near the large Gulmohur tree. Opposite Crosswords. Our regular location. We were to go to her place as her parents had gone for a wedding to my city. Which also means I will have to rush with my undertaking, as the distance between the two cities was just two and half hours by Expressway, and they could return any moment. Otherwise, there are other days too, when they go to office. But that was during the day. Such evenings seldom occur.
The sound gets sharper. I am pulled towards that mysterious sound. It sounds like a cacophonic rhythm played aloud on speakers. With a harmonium and little cymbals. The curiosity builds up in me. It grows. It grips my being. Like a huge creeper it winds itself around me and drags me towards itself. As I approach closer to the voice, the words slowly appear before me from the cloud of voices and music. Their haze moves aside as I advance closer to the words. At last they fill my ears with their sharp edges.
‘Hare Rama. Hare Rama. Hare Rama. Hare. Hare…
Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna. Hare. Hare…’
The words wrapped around me. I felt the soothing coldness of them touching me. I opened my mouth to follow their rises and dips with my voice. And the phone rang. A hard vibration and then the tune. ‘Vibrate then ring’.
I am shaken out of reverie. I come back to Anay. I see four bald foreigners dressed in light saffronish pink robes. They were chanting the name of Rama and Krishna in their own trance. A similar stated Indian stood besides them with a counter full of books on Krishna. And the center stage was grabbed by the ever famous Bhagwad Geeta.
The book of the books. The base of Hindu culture. Quoted some thousands of years ago by the Lord himself, to guide his beloved friend Arjun. It has been the national bestseller since the day it was spoken. People went crazy for it. And not just a generation, but generations after generations. It had given an identity to a religion which was struggling for a holy scripture. A religion which only had epics, statistics, philosophy, psychology, mathematics and medicine but no holy scripture to follow. A religion which must’ve felt left out without it. And it must’ve come finally. From a sage with fourteen assistants writing it. Smartly inserted in an epic. Safely spoken out of an Incarnation’s mouth.
It’s relevance changed over time. From a way of life, to a code of conduct, to a secret knowledge of the high castes, to a religious propaganda, to a means of attracting west, to a base to run your religious sect and endorse it to laymen, to a subject of research. It has traveled a long journey.
It has been the motivator of wars. The source of clashes and reason for uprisings. The bloodiest of hostilities have initiated from this holy book. Covered under the veil of righteousness.
In modern times it is the weapon of the fundamentalists. The senior IIM Baba’s management curriculum. And book of trust for the Indian courts. ‘Geeta par haath rakhkar kasam khaaiye…..ke main jo bhi kahunga sach kahunga’.
Yet Geeta is the source of life for so many people around our lives, who follow and believe every word in it religiously.Another religion sellers were putting the word of god on sale once again. Along with an exclusive cover showing Krishna driving Arjun’s chariot.
‘Bhagwad Geeta. As it is.’
And the ISKON logo.
But what had caught my eye was the picture of Krishna. A young confident gentleman as on the book. Firmly holding the straps to the horses. Eyes set on the opponent, road or the aim, whatever applies. A charming lad with a peacock’s feather on his crown. A friend, a philosopher, a guide and a God! Krishna the ultimate being. The pole star of the Pandavas. The lover of Radha. And the man behind the Kurukshetra war. The US of those days. And the meaning of my name. Krishna.
The phone rang again. I hurried thrusted my hand into my jean’s pocket and pulled it out. ‘Aparna Calling…’.
I press ‘Answer’.
“Where are you?” her voice overcomes the surrounding traffic.
I look around for a landmark. I see the petrol pump. Oh Damn! I am not supposed to be here.
“Near the petrol pump"
“Why did you go there??.....weren’t we supposed to meet opposite the Crossword?”
“Yeah…but I felt like walking few more steps…”
“Shut up! Liar….now wait there…I’m coming..”
“Okay!”
I had met Aparna in my free time. Every time is a free time for me actually. But then I had enough time from my lethargy to go to a cybercafé and check social networking sites. And in one such visits I had found her through a common fan club. I loved these sites then. These were my gateway to socializing. At minimal costs of 10 or 15 per hour, I could a hell lot of people. From different places. Of different ethnicities and with same enthusiasm to socialize. Finding new friends. I would say, finding someone to lie down with. Socializing is just a name. All that everybody wants to do is to get laid. And they find new ways to do that. Social networking is a new medium for it. For the likes of me, who cannot afford pubs, discos or even coffee joints, social networking comes as an answer. I had met Aparna through one such endeavour. I wan on a Dom Moraes’ fan club. She was there too. I dropped her a ‘Hi!’ She dropped me a ‘Hi!’ That’s where it all began. Fortunately she was from the weird city. Localite! Been staying there since childhood. That augmented our chats more. And the day arrived when we finally met. And then there were coffees, poetries, movies, readings, screenings and at times shopping too. Rest all followed too. Sometimes I feel I am in love with her. Sometimes I feel, there would be a vacuum after she leaves. Sometimes I feel, we should be together for lifetime. But, that’s just sometimes. There are no promises. There are no commitments. There are just moments to live. All we do is just live them to the fullest.
Her scooty halts beside me. Its shrill horn fills my ears. She wont stop honking till I plug my ears with my fingers.
“Yes…Yes…Yes! I saw you Appy!....now stop honking!” I say shouting over the honk device.
“Why are you standing here?” Ma’m asks.
“Waiting for you…”
“But you were supposed to wait there.” She points out to the large Gulmohur.
“But I am waiting here!” I hold her hand and change the direction.
“leave my hand you jerk!”
“I won’t!”
“Bachao bachao….dekho yeh gunda meri iijaat loot raha hai!” She gets faux melodramatic. Aparna occasionally burst into such fake overtly melodramatic episodes. With enactments that match the flavour of a 1980s Masala movies.
“Yahaan tumhaari awaaj sunanewaala koi nahi hai raani….aa jao meri baahon mein!” I perform my Amrish Puri.
She punches me in my belly. I cry ‘Bitch!’. She snaps ‘Arsehhole!’ We both laugh.
“Now tell me….what were u doing here?” she always has this tone of authority as she talks to me. Before the world, she is just clinically harsh. A hard nut to crack. Which I had already cracked with the cyber nutcracker. I only had to enjoy the core now. And I had got used to it now. So much that it would not be easy to let it go.
“I was seeing these books!” I pointed at the ISKON books.
“Really??...you liar!”
“Really!”
“Bhagwad Geeta?”
“Not exactly….all of them”
“Why?...want to wash the sins of sleeping with me?”
“Is that a sin??...Then let me be a sinner”
“This assures me that you weren’t watching Bhagwad Geeta at all!....jerk!…You must’ve reached here come chasing some girl…”
“No really…”
“Yeah…I know…..Bhagwad Geeta...you are Krishna anyways...but in sense of women...not otherwise!!”
The line struck me hard. ‘You are Krishna anyways’. I couldn't her the rest of the sentence. It just vapourised in air. That one line give birth to an unfamiliar turmoil within me. It churned within me my state of being. I felt something come to my throat. Maybe the same universe I had swallowed with butter when I was a kid. Which Yashomati Maiyya was shocked to see. I look up. A blue tarpaulin hung some feet above me. It had cast a blue shadow on my body. As if it was an integral part of me. I remembered the notes of a Basuri that Ameya had taught me in the school years. The peacock feather my Granddad had given me many years ago, came swinging down from the branch of the tree above me. The words reverberated in my ears. ‘you are Krishna anyways’
“O re!....what are you thinking?” She pulls me out. Like most women, she too was good at it.
“Nothing!”
“Nothing??....liar….Must be thinking of a new way of getting me laid…..saalaa Fucker!”
“Yeah…that gaali suits me in your case!” I divert the investigation with humour.
“Yeah…yeah…come get seated now and molest me on the road…horny arse!”
I sit on the pillion seat. I neglect her words. Her only words that remain with me are, “you are Krishna anyways”. Was I Krishna? Would I quote Bhagwad Geeta? Would I start a war? Would I cleanse earth of wrong doings? Will I carry Gowardhan mountain on my pinky? Or will I dance over the Shesh Naag‘s fang after defeating it? Or……will I bed 16000 women?
Aparna rode past a cow. I found the cow staring at me. And me at her. Like an old connection that goes beyond centuries. Of a God dressed up as a Gwala or the cowherd and a cow standing behind him. It seemed to me like the same one.
I knew her…in my last life!
* * *
(Contd.)
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
1.j
I was taken aback by her answer. Is this what all her pain and sufferings come to?
“Tell me na Anay…What do you think?”
“Is it important?” I snap back.
“Yes….It is!” She almost shrieks and starts crying again.
I hold her again and start comforting her.
“It is important what you think….please tell me what do you think...” She says in a tear soaked voice.
I feel pity for her at that moment.
“Should we talk about it here?” I ask.
“Let’s go to the room”
“Let’s go to the canteen”
“I don’t feel like going anywhere today….let’s sit in my room”
“Okay..” I agree.
I am the only privileged one who is allowed to enter her room whenever she or I want. At times, it makes me comfortable to enter her room. It is always so tidy. Unlike our room. Messy. Even the messiness in her room has tidiness to it. Except once or twice, when one of the Victoria’s Secrets was lying noticeably on the heap of clothes on her bed. And I always get something homemade to munch whenever I enter her room. But today, that pleasure might not be on the list.
I enter her room. Shamita goes straight to the loo. Preeti is about to leave for her lectures. She greets me. I greet her. She picks up her books and leaves. This is usually the time when studious are in a hurry. She reaches the doorframe and turns back.
“Please try to put some sense into her….she has gone crazy” he says in a soft tone to me and leaves immediately. She doesn’t even wait to know my reaction.
Shamita comes out of the loo and sits on the bed with her chin resting on her knees. He shorts slipped down slowly as she sat folding her knees, pulling them close to her chin. Without her knowledge, a phenomenon had been uncovered. I stood staring at it mesmerized. It ended into another Victoria’s Secret. I had an uncontainable urge to touch the phenomenon. I went closer pulled by them. On being close, the phenomenon mesmerized me more. I stretched out my hand. Everything around me darkened into an illuminated darkness. The phenomenon glowed in its place. It was the moment of rendezvous with divinity. My hand was almost upon it and the world brightened up suddenly. Realization struck me on my medulla oblongata. I was standing near the bed she sat on. I hadn’t been there to slide my hand over the phenomenon. My presence there had a higher cause to it. I Sat down besides her. I offered her one of my chewing gum strips left in my pocket from I don’t know when, to comfort her. She smiles with tearful eyes and takes it.
“Tell me now Anay…what I should do?…” She says.
It is a difficult question for me to answer. If she was to decide purely on my response, I would’ve clearly asked her to ask that bastard to Fuck Off! But the problem here was of love. She still had the same amount of love she had for him before. And with this, things would never change by my statement. People, especially women, become blindfolded in love. And in this extreme psychological condition, they never accept logic presented to them by individuals surrounding them. So I had to find an answer. And guess who helps me now. Bollywood!
“What does your heart say Shammy?....what do you want?” I speak out my favourite lines.
“I want to go back to him...”
“Then that is your answer”
“Really?”
“yeah Shammy…nobody else can decide your happiness except you…..so do only what your heart says…If you want to go back to him…then go back to him!...Just be a bit careful…and I know that you will be” I place my hand on her head.
Never ever try to preach a person in love about his mistaken path. One, you will be categorized as Bad. Two, you will not be heard at all. Let them learn from their experiences. Burnt child dreads fire. Had learnt it in fourth standard for a scholarship exam.
She smiles amidst her tears. I smile back.
The smile says it all. She is going back to him. Sidelining every moment of pain and exclusion. She was prepared to run back into his arms. She had already decided it. All she wanted was a social approval. He roommates had already declined her idea, leaving her helpless. Shaking her predetermination. Leaving her in tears. And I was the twig which she needed. Upon which she could step and raise herself. Rise high and touch her otherwise insoluble decisive perplexity about going back to him. And now that she had it, I am assured that she would go back to the bastard. I resolved her dilemma. But it had given birth to a new question. How were Harshad and Piyush to be told about it? Without letting them know the past. Without bruising Shamita’s character. Without letting them feel that I am lying to them because I am close to her. And without letting the thousand other qualms clog the minds of those two chauvinist male lovers, whose minds are certain to run in all directions towards her, excavating and envisioning her existent and inexistent past. It was difficult.
Shamita had wiped her tears with the right mega sleeve of her top. The glumness on her face had disappeared by now.
“Thank you Anay!......you are the best!” She says turning to me and hugging me again. This time, out of happiness. Tighter than last times. For a second I gasp for breath after her blitzkrieg hug. Then I feel a venom spreading into in the heat of the hug. I loose control over my equilibrium. I am about to tumble over the edge of her bed. To gain my balance back, I struggle to grab something for anchoring myself. I land my hand on something and it sinks into it. It emits a warmth that envelopes my hand into it. The warmth which reaches my heart like a lightning and fills into my body. My half alive corpse gurgles with bliss. I dig my hand deeper into it. My fingers ink into it, curling up. Involuntarily forming into a gentle clutch, kneading it in a reach for support.
I am holding the phenomenon.
(Contd.)
“Tell me na Anay…What do you think?”
“Is it important?” I snap back.
“Yes….It is!” She almost shrieks and starts crying again.
I hold her again and start comforting her.
“It is important what you think….please tell me what do you think...” She says in a tear soaked voice.
I feel pity for her at that moment.
“Should we talk about it here?” I ask.
“Let’s go to the room”
“Let’s go to the canteen”
“I don’t feel like going anywhere today….let’s sit in my room”
“Okay..” I agree.
I am the only privileged one who is allowed to enter her room whenever she or I want. At times, it makes me comfortable to enter her room. It is always so tidy. Unlike our room. Messy. Even the messiness in her room has tidiness to it. Except once or twice, when one of the Victoria’s Secrets was lying noticeably on the heap of clothes on her bed. And I always get something homemade to munch whenever I enter her room. But today, that pleasure might not be on the list.
I enter her room. Shamita goes straight to the loo. Preeti is about to leave for her lectures. She greets me. I greet her. She picks up her books and leaves. This is usually the time when studious are in a hurry. She reaches the doorframe and turns back.
“Please try to put some sense into her….she has gone crazy” he says in a soft tone to me and leaves immediately. She doesn’t even wait to know my reaction.
Shamita comes out of the loo and sits on the bed with her chin resting on her knees. He shorts slipped down slowly as she sat folding her knees, pulling them close to her chin. Without her knowledge, a phenomenon had been uncovered. I stood staring at it mesmerized. It ended into another Victoria’s Secret. I had an uncontainable urge to touch the phenomenon. I went closer pulled by them. On being close, the phenomenon mesmerized me more. I stretched out my hand. Everything around me darkened into an illuminated darkness. The phenomenon glowed in its place. It was the moment of rendezvous with divinity. My hand was almost upon it and the world brightened up suddenly. Realization struck me on my medulla oblongata. I was standing near the bed she sat on. I hadn’t been there to slide my hand over the phenomenon. My presence there had a higher cause to it. I Sat down besides her. I offered her one of my chewing gum strips left in my pocket from I don’t know when, to comfort her. She smiles with tearful eyes and takes it.
“Tell me now Anay…what I should do?…” She says.
It is a difficult question for me to answer. If she was to decide purely on my response, I would’ve clearly asked her to ask that bastard to Fuck Off! But the problem here was of love. She still had the same amount of love she had for him before. And with this, things would never change by my statement. People, especially women, become blindfolded in love. And in this extreme psychological condition, they never accept logic presented to them by individuals surrounding them. So I had to find an answer. And guess who helps me now. Bollywood!
“What does your heart say Shammy?....what do you want?” I speak out my favourite lines.
“I want to go back to him...”
“Then that is your answer”
“Really?”
“yeah Shammy…nobody else can decide your happiness except you…..so do only what your heart says…If you want to go back to him…then go back to him!...Just be a bit careful…and I know that you will be” I place my hand on her head.
Never ever try to preach a person in love about his mistaken path. One, you will be categorized as Bad. Two, you will not be heard at all. Let them learn from their experiences. Burnt child dreads fire. Had learnt it in fourth standard for a scholarship exam.
She smiles amidst her tears. I smile back.
The smile says it all. She is going back to him. Sidelining every moment of pain and exclusion. She was prepared to run back into his arms. She had already decided it. All she wanted was a social approval. He roommates had already declined her idea, leaving her helpless. Shaking her predetermination. Leaving her in tears. And I was the twig which she needed. Upon which she could step and raise herself. Rise high and touch her otherwise insoluble decisive perplexity about going back to him. And now that she had it, I am assured that she would go back to the bastard. I resolved her dilemma. But it had given birth to a new question. How were Harshad and Piyush to be told about it? Without letting them know the past. Without bruising Shamita’s character. Without letting them feel that I am lying to them because I am close to her. And without letting the thousand other qualms clog the minds of those two chauvinist male lovers, whose minds are certain to run in all directions towards her, excavating and envisioning her existent and inexistent past. It was difficult.
Shamita had wiped her tears with the right mega sleeve of her top. The glumness on her face had disappeared by now.
“Thank you Anay!......you are the best!” She says turning to me and hugging me again. This time, out of happiness. Tighter than last times. For a second I gasp for breath after her blitzkrieg hug. Then I feel a venom spreading into in the heat of the hug. I loose control over my equilibrium. I am about to tumble over the edge of her bed. To gain my balance back, I struggle to grab something for anchoring myself. I land my hand on something and it sinks into it. It emits a warmth that envelopes my hand into it. The warmth which reaches my heart like a lightning and fills into my body. My half alive corpse gurgles with bliss. I dig my hand deeper into it. My fingers ink into it, curling up. Involuntarily forming into a gentle clutch, kneading it in a reach for support.
I am holding the phenomenon.
(Contd.)
1. i
It is one of the most uncomfortable moments in my life. When a girl hugs and cries. If I am into a relationship with her, it is my chance to further proceedings. But if it is a girl who is just a friend, I become utmost uncomfortable. Like now.
Her tears were drenching my T-shirt. He arms were around me. She was sticking to me. In her entire self. I could feel her warmth. I could see her collar stretched to her shoulder. I hugged her and patted her back with extreme efforts to divert my feelings. As I took my mind off the volcanic movements within me, I realized that she was crying.
“Tell me Shaami Kabaab…what happened?” That’s what I call her. Shaami Kabaab. It has long story to it. We used to call her Shammy. People still do that. Then one day I tasted Shaami Kabaab at Mohd. Ali Road. And the name reminded me of her.
Next day I called her that. Shaami Kabaab. She was mad at me. Reason. She asked why I called her that. And I replied she could be as hot to east as Shaami Kabaabs. But the name became the connecting factor between us. It was an anchor with which I pulled her out of delicate moments. The name always draws a smile on her face. Or at least made he open up. Like now.
“He called up again last night!” She said wiping her tears.
I hugged her tighter. The ‘He’ she refers here is her ex-boyfriend. I would take the liberty to call him a bastard. In truest sense. I consider bastard the worst of abuse. That is because other abuses just hit you. They degrade you. ‘Bastard’ abuses your source of life. Your mother. Her character. And her integrity. It’s worse than son of a bitch.
That bastard went around with her for two years. In third year, he broke up with her. Got another woman. Got married. And in fourth year, he started calling her again. Saying that he missed her. That he wanted to be with her again. That he was not happy with his married life. And this girl, lost into the past every time he called up. And the old flame turned into fire. And each time he was talking to her on phone, she had to fight this fire. And after that, she spent at least eighteen hours surviving the great emotional upheaval she went through on the phone call. And when he couldn’t convince her, he abused her on phone. Easy way out. Last night was one of those kinds. And the morning was this one.
“Don’t cry Shammy…come on….what did he say
He…….he said…..he said he loves me!” She cries more.
Bhenchod! What a move. Now he just doesn’t need her. Now he has realized he loves her. And what about all these days she had spent with her irritative loneliness? Where was he then? Where was his love when she was going through the post break off turmoil? Everybody, and I mean Every damn body had to face her aggravation then. And now, the bastard comes and says that he loves her. How convenient!
“Bastard!” I finally say it before her.
The moment the word is uttered from my mouth, her demeanor changes instantly.
“No Anay…” She said wiping her tears “…He means it!”
“How do you know…”
“He cried last night on phone…”
What a judgment of genuineness. He cried on phone last night. And what a woman to believe it. How easily his tears could change her attitude towards him. What do we classify this as? Naivety or stupidity?
“….He wants me back in his life Anay…” She said further.
I just nod my head.
“What do you say Anay??” She asks me.
“What do you feel?”
“I want to go back to him Anay!”
(Contd.)
Her tears were drenching my T-shirt. He arms were around me. She was sticking to me. In her entire self. I could feel her warmth. I could see her collar stretched to her shoulder. I hugged her and patted her back with extreme efforts to divert my feelings. As I took my mind off the volcanic movements within me, I realized that she was crying.
“Tell me Shaami Kabaab…what happened?” That’s what I call her. Shaami Kabaab. It has long story to it. We used to call her Shammy. People still do that. Then one day I tasted Shaami Kabaab at Mohd. Ali Road. And the name reminded me of her.
Next day I called her that. Shaami Kabaab. She was mad at me. Reason. She asked why I called her that. And I replied she could be as hot to east as Shaami Kabaabs. But the name became the connecting factor between us. It was an anchor with which I pulled her out of delicate moments. The name always draws a smile on her face. Or at least made he open up. Like now.
“He called up again last night!” She said wiping her tears.
I hugged her tighter. The ‘He’ she refers here is her ex-boyfriend. I would take the liberty to call him a bastard. In truest sense. I consider bastard the worst of abuse. That is because other abuses just hit you. They degrade you. ‘Bastard’ abuses your source of life. Your mother. Her character. And her integrity. It’s worse than son of a bitch.
That bastard went around with her for two years. In third year, he broke up with her. Got another woman. Got married. And in fourth year, he started calling her again. Saying that he missed her. That he wanted to be with her again. That he was not happy with his married life. And this girl, lost into the past every time he called up. And the old flame turned into fire. And each time he was talking to her on phone, she had to fight this fire. And after that, she spent at least eighteen hours surviving the great emotional upheaval she went through on the phone call. And when he couldn’t convince her, he abused her on phone. Easy way out. Last night was one of those kinds. And the morning was this one.
“Don’t cry Shammy…come on….what did he say
He…….he said…..he said he loves me!” She cries more.
Bhenchod! What a move. Now he just doesn’t need her. Now he has realized he loves her. And what about all these days she had spent with her irritative loneliness? Where was he then? Where was his love when she was going through the post break off turmoil? Everybody, and I mean Every damn body had to face her aggravation then. And now, the bastard comes and says that he loves her. How convenient!
“Bastard!” I finally say it before her.
The moment the word is uttered from my mouth, her demeanor changes instantly.
“No Anay…” She said wiping her tears “…He means it!”
“How do you know…”
“He cried last night on phone…”
What a judgment of genuineness. He cried on phone last night. And what a woman to believe it. How easily his tears could change her attitude towards him. What do we classify this as? Naivety or stupidity?
“….He wants me back in his life Anay…” She said further.
I just nod my head.
“What do you say Anay??” She asks me.
“What do you feel?”
“I want to go back to him Anay!”
(Contd.)
Sunday, May 24, 2009
1. h
It is a house just around the corner. A few steps from my house. Not a long walk. Then a right turn. A few steps more into the large arch formed by two Gulmohur trees. You will stand before a gate. You have pull out your mobile and call the number. Someone will appear on the terrace of the bungalow and will ask you to wait. And then, within a span of five to ten minutes, Shamita will appear at the gate.
How she looks, depends upon the time you visit her. If it is early morning, she comes as untidily as she can to appear sexy. The collar of her top sliding to her shoulder. One of the Victoria’s Secrets peeping out. Shorts or Pyjamas, depending on the season, creased and crumbled. She comes tying her hair, her waist flashing the silver chain around it glows in the morning sun with her belly, as she raises her hands to hold the silky mass in place.
If its breakfast time, She comes with wet hair and radiant face, the splendour that usually surrounds a freshly bathed girl. But this woman makes it even more special. She comes out softly drenched. Like hurriedly dressed up after her bath, without caring much about wiping the water off. And in this dampness, her wear holds on to her closely. You do feel like watching a miracle.
If it is afternoon, her loose hairs curl up on her top. A plain light colour with a dark shorts below it. It’s a lazy afternoon after all.
But it’s the evening that tops it all. All make up. All high end clothing. All high end footwear. Everything that is created to make a woman look beautiful. To top it all, a perfume, that acts as a pheromone driving the guys crazy. It is the time when guys like Harshad and Piyush are struck in the heart. And motorbikes pass innumerably on the road before her room. It’s the time, when the middle-class girl from Mumbai becomes a Cinderella. And Princes contest to have a single glimpse of her. Nobody had ever turned their head when she used to pass by when she was graduating with me. Even I had to hang around, owing to my set up with Sonia. Maybe she had discovered her beauty at this place or she had improved with time. But for me, she has always been the old Shamita. The mediator with unexpressed sensuality. I stand before the gate of the house.
It’s breakfast time. I am expecting the usual wet marvel. It’s the everyday breakfast together and then going for lectures. The lectures part I avoid. And I am successful in holding her back from doing so, at times. These are the times when she doesn’t want to attend the lecture. It’s her decision and not my skill. At these times she doesn’t even want to be around the campus. We have many places to go in such situations, places which I had explored last evening or last night. Other times, she resists the temptation and attends lectures. At these times, I get back to my regular pastime like hanging around somewhere in the campus.
I had called her up around three minutes ago, and Preeti, her roommate had appeared on the terrace to deliver the message that the princess will be descending from the castle in five minutes. I have to wait two more minutes for her now. But that is just a theoretical statement. The truth is she can come down in any lapse of time ranging from two minutes to half an hour. And all I can do is wait. Another phone call can be made, but holds the eternal risk of you being signed off as impatient.
I am prepared for the delay. The repressed have no voice. They only can resent.
I pick up a Champak flower fallen beneath the small tree in that bungalow’s courtyard. The tree had grown enough to shower its flowers across the compound netting. That is a thing I like about trees. Thy grow with their own mind and decide it on their own, if the flowers or fruits have to be given to the owner of his neighbours. It is one of the simpler ways nature can slap human faces.
The flowers are so pretty that I cannot resist picking one up. I smell it. The fragrance is enticing. It has been an unknowing habit by now to give the flower I pick up, to Shamita.
I stand looking at the flower. I know she would take time. And suddenly I see her coming. I stay stunned. Not just because she is early. Also because she isn’t in her breakfast look at this breakfast hour. It’s her early morning disarray. Unkempt top and creased shorts.She comes to the gate and smiles forcibly. I find it odd. This is unusual. Not as unusual. It does occur. But whenever it does, it does mean there is something that has gone wrong.
“Good Morning!” I greet her with the flower.
“Good Morning!” She smiles sadly looking at the flower. I get the usual partial bear hug in return.
“What happened?...u haven’t taken a bath?” her Victoria’s Secret on the shoulder catches my eye. I try hard to get my eye off it.
“No yaar!”
“Why?”
“Don’t feel like re!” She ties up her hair. The waist chain glitters with the belly. Another Victoria’s secret peeps out. My heart begins racing. I turn my eyes away.
“Breakfast?”
“Nope” She pulls her top to cover her belly. That stretches her top over her attributes. Another lovely moment.
“Don’t feel like that too…”
“What happened re?” I ask with a false concern. But there is an evident disturbance on her face.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me yaar…come on….something has happened…It’s on your face…You can’t hide it from me…” I can be aptly phony when it comes to women. Or maybe I am truly concerned about them and I don’t recognize it.
She just nods.
“Come on…tell me…” I place my hands on her head.She suddenly hugs me and starts crying.
How she looks, depends upon the time you visit her. If it is early morning, she comes as untidily as she can to appear sexy. The collar of her top sliding to her shoulder. One of the Victoria’s Secrets peeping out. Shorts or Pyjamas, depending on the season, creased and crumbled. She comes tying her hair, her waist flashing the silver chain around it glows in the morning sun with her belly, as she raises her hands to hold the silky mass in place.
If its breakfast time, She comes with wet hair and radiant face, the splendour that usually surrounds a freshly bathed girl. But this woman makes it even more special. She comes out softly drenched. Like hurriedly dressed up after her bath, without caring much about wiping the water off. And in this dampness, her wear holds on to her closely. You do feel like watching a miracle.
If it is afternoon, her loose hairs curl up on her top. A plain light colour with a dark shorts below it. It’s a lazy afternoon after all.
But it’s the evening that tops it all. All make up. All high end clothing. All high end footwear. Everything that is created to make a woman look beautiful. To top it all, a perfume, that acts as a pheromone driving the guys crazy. It is the time when guys like Harshad and Piyush are struck in the heart. And motorbikes pass innumerably on the road before her room. It’s the time, when the middle-class girl from Mumbai becomes a Cinderella. And Princes contest to have a single glimpse of her. Nobody had ever turned their head when she used to pass by when she was graduating with me. Even I had to hang around, owing to my set up with Sonia. Maybe she had discovered her beauty at this place or she had improved with time. But for me, she has always been the old Shamita. The mediator with unexpressed sensuality. I stand before the gate of the house.
It’s breakfast time. I am expecting the usual wet marvel. It’s the everyday breakfast together and then going for lectures. The lectures part I avoid. And I am successful in holding her back from doing so, at times. These are the times when she doesn’t want to attend the lecture. It’s her decision and not my skill. At these times she doesn’t even want to be around the campus. We have many places to go in such situations, places which I had explored last evening or last night. Other times, she resists the temptation and attends lectures. At these times, I get back to my regular pastime like hanging around somewhere in the campus.
I had called her up around three minutes ago, and Preeti, her roommate had appeared on the terrace to deliver the message that the princess will be descending from the castle in five minutes. I have to wait two more minutes for her now. But that is just a theoretical statement. The truth is she can come down in any lapse of time ranging from two minutes to half an hour. And all I can do is wait. Another phone call can be made, but holds the eternal risk of you being signed off as impatient.
I am prepared for the delay. The repressed have no voice. They only can resent.
I pick up a Champak flower fallen beneath the small tree in that bungalow’s courtyard. The tree had grown enough to shower its flowers across the compound netting. That is a thing I like about trees. Thy grow with their own mind and decide it on their own, if the flowers or fruits have to be given to the owner of his neighbours. It is one of the simpler ways nature can slap human faces.
The flowers are so pretty that I cannot resist picking one up. I smell it. The fragrance is enticing. It has been an unknowing habit by now to give the flower I pick up, to Shamita.
I stand looking at the flower. I know she would take time. And suddenly I see her coming. I stay stunned. Not just because she is early. Also because she isn’t in her breakfast look at this breakfast hour. It’s her early morning disarray. Unkempt top and creased shorts.She comes to the gate and smiles forcibly. I find it odd. This is unusual. Not as unusual. It does occur. But whenever it does, it does mean there is something that has gone wrong.
“Good Morning!” I greet her with the flower.
“Good Morning!” She smiles sadly looking at the flower. I get the usual partial bear hug in return.
“What happened?...u haven’t taken a bath?” her Victoria’s Secret on the shoulder catches my eye. I try hard to get my eye off it.
“No yaar!”
“Why?”
“Don’t feel like re!” She ties up her hair. The waist chain glitters with the belly. Another Victoria’s secret peeps out. My heart begins racing. I turn my eyes away.
“Breakfast?”
“Nope” She pulls her top to cover her belly. That stretches her top over her attributes. Another lovely moment.
“Don’t feel like that too…”
“What happened re?” I ask with a false concern. But there is an evident disturbance on her face.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me yaar…come on….something has happened…It’s on your face…You can’t hide it from me…” I can be aptly phony when it comes to women. Or maybe I am truly concerned about them and I don’t recognize it.
She just nods.
“Come on…tell me…” I place my hands on her head.She suddenly hugs me and starts crying.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
1.g
“Shamita”
He ha ha ha ha. I feel like laughing out loud. LOL in chat terminology. I was unable to hold the spurt of laughter gushing out. I held it back with great efforts. If it hadn’t been for Piyush, I would’ve laughed badly. On his face. Melodramatic mess saala. What a joke. Two great individuals falling in love with a same woman. Holy cow!
We stand at a point, which has been visited upon by numerous Hindi films. A plot so old, yet so popular. A love triangle. An poignant situation where romance meets geometry. I always wondered which type of triangle is a love triangle. Acute? Isosceles? Or a right angled triangle? Can Pythagoras theorem be applied on the love triangle. Which is the adjacent side? And which is the hypotenuse? Do the theorems of triangular similarity apply on them? Or can they be trigonometrically evaluated? Are there any theorems that are related to these triangles. Maybe those would solve them for better.
Like this new triangle that was being constructed before me. There was a straight line. A line that connected Harshad and Piyush. And a point emerged at a certain distance near this line. Or was it always there, but realized later? But the point doess intrude in the private space of the line. And lines were drawn. From the two ends namely Harshad and Piyush to this point. The triangle formed. In geometry, a triangle always binds the three points together. It’s because pencil lines lack feelings. They are just lead scratches on a paper. When the triangle comes to life here, it feels. And that’s where it starts differing from geometry. In a human triangle, the third point divides the line joining the first two points. No perpendiculars and no bisectors. Just presence. And no geometric law has been able to solve this dissection. I wish Pythagoras had given this a thought.
The line between any two of them was going to be dissected soon. That’s the law. My law of human geometry.
“What happened?...why are you quiet?...she is a good girl na?” Piyush seemed worried by my contemplative silence.
“Yes…of course dude!” I replied. “No doubts about that!”
“Then??....is there any problem…..I mean I am asking you because you are closest to her….Tell me if there is any problem….I will solve it! ”
“No problem man!”
“Do you like her?” He speaks it out directly like a naïve soul. I like it more than the path Harshad had chosen to get the same information.
“No man!” What I have is just lust. You love her. You have more right to approach further.
“Then…?”
“Isn’t she a bit different from the girls of your choice?” Yes he had a choice. He came from rural India. And like the rural youth, he was always taken aback by the amount of freedom enjoyed by the urban women. They are attracted to them. They want to spend nights with them. They want to peep into their cleavages. The want to stare at their thighs. They want to possess them and get laid for a million times with them. But they only want a homely female as a wife and as a lover. Reason is simple. They cannot trust urban women. A judgment arrived at, looking at the way the urban girls dress up. Piyush was one such epitome of hypocrisy. He had always maintained on sleeping with urban girls, whom he was unsuccessful in wooing even a single one till date, and marrying a rural girl, of whom he was assured about morality, clean character and preserved virginity. But I knew he would hook one. He was rich. And that says it all. But I never thought that something of this sort would ever occur. He had fallen in love with a girl he would otherwise not trust, by his measurements of character evaluation
Yes….but she is different….I know….my heart says so!” He replies.
What Ghanta different! Just say you have gone head over heels over her and have secretly kept aside your hypothetical ideals beneath your mattress. Bloody hypocrite
And if she isn’t?” I ask him generally, “I mean…I am asking you generally!”
“Then I will get her straight!”
Yes. Like million boyfriends in this country who hit their girlfriends when they seem to loose an argument with them. Like all those lovers who forcibly get their girlfriends to bed. Like all those macho men who restrict their girls from socializing after they get into a relationship with them. Like all those embodiments of masculinity who verbally abuse the queens of their heart with choicest of abuses about their character. And she, like all those girls, who gullibly swallow up all this, will bear it all, if she falls in love with you. Like all girls who undergo this wordlessly, for god knows what reason, maybe for the sake of love, she too would endure it all and succumb to you. In that case, you would be damn lucky.
“Yeah….right!” I said.
“So….what do you think?....should I go ahead with it?”
“What does your heart say?” I thank the great Bollywood line churners for this.
“That I should”
“Then you should!!”
“Thanks man!” He hugs me tight.
Out of helplessness, I hug him too. I realize, it is not he who is hugging me. It’s a trouble to follow that’s wrapping me in its arms. He almost cries as he hugs me.
That night he is in a different high altogether. Everybody comes home. We drink, smoke and chat. But he doesn’t tell anybody about his new found love. He is the usual chatter dick. I feel privileged to be a part of his secret. I feel filled up with his respect. I feel like hugging him now. But as the honor fills into me, also does a fear clouds my mind. What if I am not able to keep his faith in me alive? What if I break the delicate toy of trust he has placed in my hands. I smoke more. And so do I drink!
(Contd.)
He ha ha ha ha. I feel like laughing out loud. LOL in chat terminology. I was unable to hold the spurt of laughter gushing out. I held it back with great efforts. If it hadn’t been for Piyush, I would’ve laughed badly. On his face. Melodramatic mess saala. What a joke. Two great individuals falling in love with a same woman. Holy cow!
We stand at a point, which has been visited upon by numerous Hindi films. A plot so old, yet so popular. A love triangle. An poignant situation where romance meets geometry. I always wondered which type of triangle is a love triangle. Acute? Isosceles? Or a right angled triangle? Can Pythagoras theorem be applied on the love triangle. Which is the adjacent side? And which is the hypotenuse? Do the theorems of triangular similarity apply on them? Or can they be trigonometrically evaluated? Are there any theorems that are related to these triangles. Maybe those would solve them for better.
Like this new triangle that was being constructed before me. There was a straight line. A line that connected Harshad and Piyush. And a point emerged at a certain distance near this line. Or was it always there, but realized later? But the point doess intrude in the private space of the line. And lines were drawn. From the two ends namely Harshad and Piyush to this point. The triangle formed. In geometry, a triangle always binds the three points together. It’s because pencil lines lack feelings. They are just lead scratches on a paper. When the triangle comes to life here, it feels. And that’s where it starts differing from geometry. In a human triangle, the third point divides the line joining the first two points. No perpendiculars and no bisectors. Just presence. And no geometric law has been able to solve this dissection. I wish Pythagoras had given this a thought.
The line between any two of them was going to be dissected soon. That’s the law. My law of human geometry.
“What happened?...why are you quiet?...she is a good girl na?” Piyush seemed worried by my contemplative silence.
“Yes…of course dude!” I replied. “No doubts about that!”
“Then??....is there any problem…..I mean I am asking you because you are closest to her….Tell me if there is any problem….I will solve it! ”
“No problem man!”
“Do you like her?” He speaks it out directly like a naïve soul. I like it more than the path Harshad had chosen to get the same information.
“No man!” What I have is just lust. You love her. You have more right to approach further.
“Then…?”
“Isn’t she a bit different from the girls of your choice?” Yes he had a choice. He came from rural India. And like the rural youth, he was always taken aback by the amount of freedom enjoyed by the urban women. They are attracted to them. They want to spend nights with them. They want to peep into their cleavages. The want to stare at their thighs. They want to possess them and get laid for a million times with them. But they only want a homely female as a wife and as a lover. Reason is simple. They cannot trust urban women. A judgment arrived at, looking at the way the urban girls dress up. Piyush was one such epitome of hypocrisy. He had always maintained on sleeping with urban girls, whom he was unsuccessful in wooing even a single one till date, and marrying a rural girl, of whom he was assured about morality, clean character and preserved virginity. But I knew he would hook one. He was rich. And that says it all. But I never thought that something of this sort would ever occur. He had fallen in love with a girl he would otherwise not trust, by his measurements of character evaluation
Yes….but she is different….I know….my heart says so!” He replies.
What Ghanta different! Just say you have gone head over heels over her and have secretly kept aside your hypothetical ideals beneath your mattress. Bloody hypocrite
And if she isn’t?” I ask him generally, “I mean…I am asking you generally!”
“Then I will get her straight!”
Yes. Like million boyfriends in this country who hit their girlfriends when they seem to loose an argument with them. Like all those lovers who forcibly get their girlfriends to bed. Like all those macho men who restrict their girls from socializing after they get into a relationship with them. Like all those embodiments of masculinity who verbally abuse the queens of their heart with choicest of abuses about their character. And she, like all those girls, who gullibly swallow up all this, will bear it all, if she falls in love with you. Like all girls who undergo this wordlessly, for god knows what reason, maybe for the sake of love, she too would endure it all and succumb to you. In that case, you would be damn lucky.
“Yeah….right!” I said.
“So….what do you think?....should I go ahead with it?”
“What does your heart say?” I thank the great Bollywood line churners for this.
“That I should”
“Then you should!!”
“Thanks man!” He hugs me tight.
Out of helplessness, I hug him too. I realize, it is not he who is hugging me. It’s a trouble to follow that’s wrapping me in its arms. He almost cries as he hugs me.
That night he is in a different high altogether. Everybody comes home. We drink, smoke and chat. But he doesn’t tell anybody about his new found love. He is the usual chatter dick. I feel privileged to be a part of his secret. I feel filled up with his respect. I feel like hugging him now. But as the honor fills into me, also does a fear clouds my mind. What if I am not able to keep his faith in me alive? What if I break the delicate toy of trust he has placed in my hands. I smoke more. And so do I drink!
(Contd.)
Monday, May 18, 2009
1.f
“How do you feel?” He asks me.
Absolutely fine! What else would I feel? You have fallen in love. People falling in love take themselves in high regards. I’ve seen quite a few of them. They tend to ask such questions. Even worse at times. ‘How do you feel?’ was a lot better one. It at least considers your position. The questioner deserves gratitude.
“It’s great!....finally you have found your soulmate!” Courtesy Harshad! for that elegant word.
“Yes….I think she is my real Jeevan Saathi….god sent!....just for me….our knot has been tied in heaven…trust me!”
Confidence is the greatest possession of strong men. Strong men like Piyush. They even know what God has in mind for them. It’s divine to know such truth. I wish I possessed even a quarter of that magnificent power. The power to recognize the aptness of every occurring in your life. That too, when you only know only a single facet of its occurrence. I respect such enlightened existences.
Out of the respect, I smile broadly and nod. I also wink in addition, to make it look more genuine.
He takes it as a smile of acceptance. He speaks further.
“What?....will just keep smiling or will you ask the name too?”Yes I will ask the name. And I will also pretend to be happy to know it. Also will I congratulate you on your great choice and then feel concerned about your families. I have a plan of action ready. And I have just practiced it to perfection. You don’t know. There was one before you with the same declaration.
“What’s the name??.....Tell me quickly….I am dying to know!!” A class act. Some things need no rehearsals.
He blushes. I feel llike saying “Wow! You look so cute when you blush!”. But I avoid doing it. That would put me to the risk of being his next crush. Maybe his Jeevan Saathi too. I didn’t want to be in that situation. Yet I couldn’t avoid commenting on his blush rush.
“”Oh man!...you are blushing like a girl!!...” No girl blushes this way. Also, girls don’t blush this way. That is quite a chauvinist idiom. Like many other of them. Using it could land me in problem with girls, which I didn’t want. So I usually avoided using it, to prevent myself from hurting delicate feelings of delicate hearts in those delicate beings. But as I said, I had to comment on it. It was too compulsive an urge to restrict. “What to do…It’s happening for the first time…” He replies blushing even more.
First time? Was he falling in love for the first time. This twenty six years old bullock was falling in love for the first time? What was the problem? Didn’t he have balls or did his hormones start functioning on this very auspicious day.
“Really?...That’s nice…so tell me…what’s her name?”
He says it in a tone even he himself wouldn't have heard. And he blushes again.
“Arey……louder…a bit louder….I dint hear you” As I said, he stamped his foot on the floor like a girl.
Then wearing an XXL sized smile he said in a slightly higher pitch….
(Contd.)
Thursday, May 14, 2009
1.e
I buy a cigarette from the Panwallah below the Gulnohur tree. It’s his closing time. His dingy shop winds up under the swift moments of his hands in a light of a dim kerosene lamp. He smiles to me in the kerosene light as he hands me over the cigarette. The smile theory works again. I give him a drunken smile in return. He laughs.
It is usually a ritual at his shop to light the cigarette in your own. To pick up one of the thin white strips of the card paper, carefully descend it in the chimney lamp. Pull out the strip carefully and light your cigarette up before the strip turns into ash. A dark black line, difficult to stay firm in d wind. I try to look out for the strips. He bends over his one foot counter and lights me a match. This is how the smiles repay you. I light my cigarette on the small flame at the tip of a small stick, protected by his cupped hands. I smile again. He smiles back in acknowledgement. Not a word spoken between tow of us during this. Yet, like a jet stream flow the words amongst us.
I start walking up the hill again. Slowly smoking my cigarette. Walking against the mild breeze that runs down the hillock. The smoke I blow out, runs along with the wind. And the moonlight, like concierge, keeps an eye over them. Monitoring their slow progression down one hill. And up the other. The wind and the smoke go hand in hand.
I keep walking ahead. The cigarette to keep me company, in this lonely, sleepy town.
I take the turn towards my room. A pregnant woman sits on the public bench with her husband. They are having an ice-cream. A cheap one. Mewad. I pass by them. They don’t look at me. They are engrossed in the world of their own. They remind me of Mom and dad. My Mom always said that she used to have a lot of ice creams when I was in her womb. My mom and dad would’ve looked just like them while having an ice cream. And a smoker must‘ve passed by them when they were doing so. But they probably wouldn’t have noticed him. Not probably. For sure they mustn’t have. These two didn’t notice me. Maybe when their child grows to be of my age, he too will pass a couple having an ice-cream. And they won’t notice him. And the cycle would go on.
I come to my room. I climb the rusted iron stairs and stand before the main door. I knock it. Piyush opens it. I smile to my luck. The ever enthusiastic fucker. Enthusiastic to the extent of opening the door before anybody else would even move from their seats.
“Welcome my friend…..welcome!” He welcomes me with open arms. He puts his arms around my shoulder and takes me into the passage.
I wish someone or the else comes to disengage his hand from my shoulder and talk more than the types of majestic greetings Piyush delivers. But no one comes forth. I doubt if there is someone to do that. I pass by Samrat’s room. It’s closed. I sense the danger. We reach our room. It’s empty. Within the resonance of my mind, I yell out…..Maa ki aankh!!
“Where are the rest?” I ask.
“They are gone to live their lives….” The royal arse replies.
What a pity! People go out and live their lives. And they leave poor Piyush back to sulk alone.
And he is left all for me. To fill his bullshit into my ears. I need more ear buds. Cleaning it off my ears stays a task at the end of the day.
“….and so did you!...but you returned before them…” he continues.Yes I did return my friend. To listen to you.
“I was with Harshad…..he had some problem…” I try to explain. I know it would be in vain. Yet I try.
“Did I ask??....I am just happy that you returned.”
I smile.
“What happened?” I ask with a face of a seer. To guess that something has happened from the way he is talking, doesn’t require you to be a seer. But this does shock him.
“How did you know that something happened…”
“I can understand dude!”
“You are the only one who understands.” He hugs me.
I hold him by his hands and slowly move him away from me, careful enough to not hurt his delicate inner self.
“Now tell me…..what happened?” I am not so eager to know. But the venom has to be spilled. Or he will keep spitting it on us every now and then. And I am sure the magnitude of his distress could range from ‘nobody dried his rinsed underwear’ to ‘Someone shot a cow in Iraq’. His has a problem. And it is that he has problems. And the problem further complicates when nobody understands him. Except one human being. Me!
“There is a problem”, he says.
I had guessed that already.
“What problem?” I ask.
“See…” I hate it when he says this. See. It spoils the entire tempo of emotion that he and the listener are being flown in. After an emotionally charged preface, comes a word which pulls the entire effect to a mere ‘matter of fact’. Like a women speaking about importance of contraception after a wild sexual encounter. See. Yes I am seeing you. Speak further. He would. I knew that he would. And he did. “…..I am disclosing this only before you…because only you understand me….”
I nod in acceptance and acknowledgement. Gandu!
“…I don’t want anybody else to know about it….”I move my head sideways this time. Indicating, ‘Trust me mate! Nobody would!’.
“….I….have a problem….”
One more time, and it would be a hat trick.
“…..and it is that…..I am in love!”
Goodness gracious me! One more time. One more moron.
Unbelievable! I couldn’t believe myself. What was I hearing? Another son of a bitch had fallen in love. And guess what?!...Who is the most eligible man who could be trusted with this information? Me! Of all their friends…Me! Of all their friends in the world….Me! I am the trusted. The loyalist. The man who could understand. The worldly wise. I am the ultimate human for all the people in love could come and entrust their secret with. Damn them!
It is usually a ritual at his shop to light the cigarette in your own. To pick up one of the thin white strips of the card paper, carefully descend it in the chimney lamp. Pull out the strip carefully and light your cigarette up before the strip turns into ash. A dark black line, difficult to stay firm in d wind. I try to look out for the strips. He bends over his one foot counter and lights me a match. This is how the smiles repay you. I light my cigarette on the small flame at the tip of a small stick, protected by his cupped hands. I smile again. He smiles back in acknowledgement. Not a word spoken between tow of us during this. Yet, like a jet stream flow the words amongst us.
I start walking up the hill again. Slowly smoking my cigarette. Walking against the mild breeze that runs down the hillock. The smoke I blow out, runs along with the wind. And the moonlight, like concierge, keeps an eye over them. Monitoring their slow progression down one hill. And up the other. The wind and the smoke go hand in hand.
I keep walking ahead. The cigarette to keep me company, in this lonely, sleepy town.
I take the turn towards my room. A pregnant woman sits on the public bench with her husband. They are having an ice-cream. A cheap one. Mewad. I pass by them. They don’t look at me. They are engrossed in the world of their own. They remind me of Mom and dad. My Mom always said that she used to have a lot of ice creams when I was in her womb. My mom and dad would’ve looked just like them while having an ice cream. And a smoker must‘ve passed by them when they were doing so. But they probably wouldn’t have noticed him. Not probably. For sure they mustn’t have. These two didn’t notice me. Maybe when their child grows to be of my age, he too will pass a couple having an ice-cream. And they won’t notice him. And the cycle would go on.
I come to my room. I climb the rusted iron stairs and stand before the main door. I knock it. Piyush opens it. I smile to my luck. The ever enthusiastic fucker. Enthusiastic to the extent of opening the door before anybody else would even move from their seats.
“Welcome my friend…..welcome!” He welcomes me with open arms. He puts his arms around my shoulder and takes me into the passage.
I wish someone or the else comes to disengage his hand from my shoulder and talk more than the types of majestic greetings Piyush delivers. But no one comes forth. I doubt if there is someone to do that. I pass by Samrat’s room. It’s closed. I sense the danger. We reach our room. It’s empty. Within the resonance of my mind, I yell out…..Maa ki aankh!!
“Where are the rest?” I ask.
“They are gone to live their lives….” The royal arse replies.
What a pity! People go out and live their lives. And they leave poor Piyush back to sulk alone.
And he is left all for me. To fill his bullshit into my ears. I need more ear buds. Cleaning it off my ears stays a task at the end of the day.
“….and so did you!...but you returned before them…” he continues.Yes I did return my friend. To listen to you.
“I was with Harshad…..he had some problem…” I try to explain. I know it would be in vain. Yet I try.
“Did I ask??....I am just happy that you returned.”
I smile.
“What happened?” I ask with a face of a seer. To guess that something has happened from the way he is talking, doesn’t require you to be a seer. But this does shock him.
“How did you know that something happened…”
“I can understand dude!”
“You are the only one who understands.” He hugs me.
I hold him by his hands and slowly move him away from me, careful enough to not hurt his delicate inner self.
“Now tell me…..what happened?” I am not so eager to know. But the venom has to be spilled. Or he will keep spitting it on us every now and then. And I am sure the magnitude of his distress could range from ‘nobody dried his rinsed underwear’ to ‘Someone shot a cow in Iraq’. His has a problem. And it is that he has problems. And the problem further complicates when nobody understands him. Except one human being. Me!
“There is a problem”, he says.
I had guessed that already.
“What problem?” I ask.
“See…” I hate it when he says this. See. It spoils the entire tempo of emotion that he and the listener are being flown in. After an emotionally charged preface, comes a word which pulls the entire effect to a mere ‘matter of fact’. Like a women speaking about importance of contraception after a wild sexual encounter. See. Yes I am seeing you. Speak further. He would. I knew that he would. And he did. “…..I am disclosing this only before you…because only you understand me….”
I nod in acceptance and acknowledgement. Gandu!
“…I don’t want anybody else to know about it….”I move my head sideways this time. Indicating, ‘Trust me mate! Nobody would!’.
“….I….have a problem….”
One more time, and it would be a hat trick.
“…..and it is that…..I am in love!”
Goodness gracious me! One more time. One more moron.
Unbelievable! I couldn’t believe myself. What was I hearing? Another son of a bitch had fallen in love. And guess what?!...Who is the most eligible man who could be trusted with this information? Me! Of all their friends…Me! Of all their friends in the world….Me! I am the trusted. The loyalist. The man who could understand. The worldly wise. I am the ultimate human for all the people in love could come and entrust their secret with. Damn them!
(Contd.)
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