Posts
4.a
“And yes…..please reach station on time…train isn’t Aparna…” I am sure she must’ve smiled cheerlessly after this sentence.
“Yes ma’m!...Roger will be there ma’m!”, A lame attempt to cheer her up.
“Over and out Roger!” She laughed forcibly. Bloody technology has always been unreliable. You can’t trust it to veil your emotions. You always expect a reason like bad connection or low voice output or something like it to conceal your emotions during a conversation. But like a strong electric current, emotions reach the person on the other end of the line, overcoming all obstacles in its path.
“Over and out Charlie” I held back my emotional upsurge. What comes strongly to you than the feeling of the loss is the realisation of their impending incurrence. The realisation that such moments would be rare henceforth stings the composure of the serenity, driving it to fall apart.
“Bye Ani”
“Bye Apu”
“……Love you!”
“Love you too…”I feel like breaking down and crying over the phone. But I resist giving up myself to the reign of tears.
“Bye”
“Byeee”
“T’ta”
“T’ta”
None of us disconnect the phone. We keep holding the phone pressed on our ears and concentrating on little sounds on the other side. Taking our guesses about each other’s gestures.
Aparna finally disconnects the phone. Women are indeed stronger than men.
She had called me up to inform me about her confirmed departure time. She has been calling me up several times for petty reasons like these since morning. She is trying to lull the pace of time through them. But time is a shrewd bastard. It won’t dawdle it’s steps for people like her and me.
There comes a time, when humans have to stand up for their bondings by taking up something that your heart shudders when even thought of. I decide to reach the platform scheduled for departure on time. After all, the train won’t be Apu.
***
Structure of a Perfect Last Meet:
Block 1:
I ask Piyush for his bike. He agrees. Good start!
I leave early to avoid any delay. If I reach early, I can spend time loitering around the station, smoking or sipping tea. But If I reach late, I won’t be able to see Aparna again. My heart misses a beat.
Block 2:
I go to the sole ATM of my bank at the outskirt of the place and withdraw money. I want to buy a parting gift for Aparna. My watch says I have enough time.
Block 3:
I take his bike and ride it for a kilometre and realise that it has a flat tyre. I pull it along to a tyre work shop. The tyre man says it’s a puncture. Needs half an hour to mend. I look at my watch I still have a lot of time.
Block 4:
He opens the tyre and tells me the tube has screwed up, he needs to put a new one. I argue. He wins. I agree. We decide a reasonable price for it. He asks his assistant, a timid young boy, to get one. The boy leaves and returns after eternity with a wrong tube. He leaves again. There’s still quite enough time for me to reach the station.
Block 5:
The boy returns with the right tube. The tube is fixed. I pay. The budget for her gift cuts down a bit. I am still in time to catch her.
Block 6:
I ride fast to make up for the time lost in mending the tube. I find my way through the vehicles. I jump over the speed breakers. I ride through the potholes. I ride past the signal. And I hear a whistle. A policeman walks across the road and stands before my bike. I brake hard to halt exactly eight inches before his knees and vital organs above them.
He asks me for my license. I hand it over to him.
Block 7:
I beg his pardon. I ask for mercy. I spread my arms for clemency. I lean before him for absolution. I join hands before him for amnesty. I join my legs for exoneration. I touch his feet for exculpation. I am ready to give him a blow job for pity.
He agrees on hundred rupees.
I pay him and win my license back. I compromise on a gift that I shall buy. I have still some time left with me.
Block 8:
I begin riding again. I halt at every signal. I am almost near the station. There are no more signals to cross anymore. But still I halt once more. For the traffic that jams the road. No cars move. No space for the bike to find it’s way through. Even the six inch gaps are filled by some vehicle or the other.
My wrist watch says I am running parallel to the time.
Block 9:
I try finding a way somehow through the blocked traffic. Finally I decide to take another route, the longer one, and reach the railway station. I turn my bike and begin moving. The longer route turns out to be the longest one. I am running behind time a bit.
Block 10:
I reach the railway station. But I don’t find a place to park the bike. I go around the other corner. I try my luck at three bike-stands. None of them have 24 inch spave for my bike. I reach the farther bike stand. The fourth one. It accommodates my bike. I am running behind time.
I feel a buzz on my thigh. I pull out my mobile. Aparna calling. I answer it. She says she is on the platform. I say I will reach in five minutes.
Block 11:
I walk my way back to the station. I stand in the queue to buy a platform ticket. The queue is at a standstill. I receive another call from Aparna saying the train would reach the platform in three minutes. I realise I haven’t bought the gift during my efforts to reach on time.
Block 12:
I give up the thought of buying a platform ticket. I compromise on not buying a gift. I run up the bridge skipping steps. Aparna calls me once again. She says that the train would be there in two minutes. I say I will reaching one.
Block 13:
A Ticket Checker stops me. He asks for ticket. I say I don’t have it. He takes me to a corner. I give him an offer. But he refuses it. Mario Puzo frowns in my mind. He is adamant on making a receipt. I try my best for out of law settlement. He doesn’t agree. I hear a loud horn. I hear an announcement.
Aparna calls up again she says she is boarding the train. I am in a panic state. The TC is still adamant on receipt.
Block 14:
I hear another loud horn. I thrust two hundred rupees in TCs hand. I run without looking back at him. I run down the outlet for the platform of departure. I jump down the steps. I see the train moving. People block the exit of the bridge.
I push my way through the crowd.
Aparna doesn’t call me up again. I reach the platform. The train leaves out of the station.
Block 15:
I stand on the platform looking at the rear end of the train. I see a large yellow X on it. The train keeps shrinking in size. So does the X. X. eX. Ex. Ex. Ex means past.
I don’t meet Aparna. I don’t catch a last glimpse of her. She just goes away. Just like that.
Just like that.
(Contd.)
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
3. m
On the way back, we felt a sharp aching in our bellies and we had to thrust something down our food pipes to defeat it. Smoke had burnt down all that we had in our bellies, making the trip stronger for us. There was a fierce urgency of gobbling something NOW!
The arsehole of the world has a peculiarity about its shops. They close down at eight thirty post meridian. After that, every inhabitant of the arsehole is left to struggle with his own destiny even if they need a matchstick. One has to come to the Chowk, where all shops close at nine thirty post meridian or has to go to the adjoining town at a distance of ten minutes form the Chowk.
We sought for the most probable places which would be open at the moment. We found each one of them closed. A fear began building amongst us. Everywhere we would go, we would find shops closed. We wouldn’t find anything to eat. We would have to seek for every shop in the Arsehole and find it closed. We won’t find anything to eat. The ache in the belly would grow and we would have the worst craving for food of our lives. Then slowly the ache would grow and suck everything in. First our gall bladder, then our pancreas, then our liver, then our lungs, then our tongue, then our teeth, our eyes, our intestines, our bladder and finally our hearts. Everything would stuff the belly up and then begin churning. The dilute Hydrochoric Acid would be released in our belly and each of these parts would dissolve into it. And we would obviously die in absence of each of these body parts. We remembered the references and incidents which fortified this fact further.
We desperately kept finding for a shop to eat. And we were persistently finding each one of them closed. We went frantic over food.
“What now?”
“I don’t know”
“What if we don’t get anything to eat?”
“We will die”
“I don’t want to die”
“Me neither”
It wasn’t important who said this to whom. Both of us were in the same state of mind and body. So the conversation could be looked at from both the sides.
But God is a powerful being. Or luck is a strong factor. Or co-incidence is a greatest trick of time. Or whatsoever.
Piyush’s vehicle stood after taking three jerks before a temple. The jerks which a vehicle takes if you ride it on a slow speed at a high gear.
“Piyush…temple!”
“We need something to eat…”
“We will get it here…”
“How?...by praying?”
“No…by pretending to pray”
“But the god won’t listen to our pretended prayer…”
“But the priest would…”
“Yes…I think so..”
“And he’d give us Prasad!”
“Bloody Bhenchod…What a magnificient idea!!...he will save us from dying!”
“Yes…what do you say then?”
“Let’s pretend to pray”
He parked his motorbike out side the temple. I realised it was the same temple, the voices from which could be heard as we sat on the Rock of Loneliness.
We entered the temple. On the right of the temple there was a small lake of people sitting as if prepared for a discourse. And before them stood a lone microphone. We crossed the next door. And we saw the god.
We saw two black stone idols, dressed and garlanded. A god and his soulmate. Both stood close to each other with their hands on their waists. The way parents look at the mischief of their toddler. They stood as if they were looking at the world with distress and were about to question each one of them who were responsible for the ruckus.
I moved closer to them. They looked at me through their stone eyes. The couple from Pandharpur. The guardians of countless saints and followers. The inspiration of innumerable pages of poetry. And the reason for largest sacrifices. The couple behind the miracle that shaped the generations and minds of Maharashtrians. The parents whom their kids meet twice a year, walking over a distance of hundreds of kilometres from every corner of Maharshtra. The Vithoba and the Rakhumai of Pandharpur. The love of millions of Warkaris. The hope of and resort of the numerous distressed souls. The Marathi face of Vishnu. The Ghati incarnation of the Krishna. I closed my eyes and a voice rose to the skies.
“Pundalik Varda….Haare Vithhal”
Hundreds of cymbals rattled in synch with each other. A strong voice overcame them and sang aloud.
“Hari mukhe mhana…Hari mukhe mhana….punyachi ganana koan kari”
‘Sing the god’s word…sing the god’s word…for your deeds are counted’ A verse from the Dnyaneshwari. The abridged version of Bhagvad Geeta written by a great saint Dnyaneshwar at the raw age of twenty. Almost my age. A Geeta for the common men in Maharashtra.
I opened my eyes. I saw Piyush greedily shoving the bananas from Prasad into his oral cavity. I walked past him. He didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t seem to care.
I walked towards the voice. I saw an army of white kurta, dhoti and large turban clad men with cymbals in their hands. Ringing them in unanimity. They raised to crescendo as I approached near. And suddenly they stopped. One amongst them took his flute to his lips and played it aloud. It filled my ears.
A sudden voltage fluctuation turned the mercury lights blue. Spreading a blue gleam over us. Their clothes seemed blue and my body. One of the cymbal men came to me and placed a peacock feather in my pocket.
They all turned to me and began singing.
“Hari mukhe mhana…Hari mukhe mhana….punyachi ganana koan kari”
‘Sing the god’s word…sing the god’s word…for your deeds are counted’
***
The arsehole of the world has a peculiarity about its shops. They close down at eight thirty post meridian. After that, every inhabitant of the arsehole is left to struggle with his own destiny even if they need a matchstick. One has to come to the Chowk, where all shops close at nine thirty post meridian or has to go to the adjoining town at a distance of ten minutes form the Chowk.
We sought for the most probable places which would be open at the moment. We found each one of them closed. A fear began building amongst us. Everywhere we would go, we would find shops closed. We wouldn’t find anything to eat. We would have to seek for every shop in the Arsehole and find it closed. We won’t find anything to eat. The ache in the belly would grow and we would have the worst craving for food of our lives. Then slowly the ache would grow and suck everything in. First our gall bladder, then our pancreas, then our liver, then our lungs, then our tongue, then our teeth, our eyes, our intestines, our bladder and finally our hearts. Everything would stuff the belly up and then begin churning. The dilute Hydrochoric Acid would be released in our belly and each of these parts would dissolve into it. And we would obviously die in absence of each of these body parts. We remembered the references and incidents which fortified this fact further.
We desperately kept finding for a shop to eat. And we were persistently finding each one of them closed. We went frantic over food.
“What now?”
“I don’t know”
“What if we don’t get anything to eat?”
“We will die”
“I don’t want to die”
“Me neither”
It wasn’t important who said this to whom. Both of us were in the same state of mind and body. So the conversation could be looked at from both the sides.
But God is a powerful being. Or luck is a strong factor. Or co-incidence is a greatest trick of time. Or whatsoever.
Piyush’s vehicle stood after taking three jerks before a temple. The jerks which a vehicle takes if you ride it on a slow speed at a high gear.
“Piyush…temple!”
“We need something to eat…”
“We will get it here…”
“How?...by praying?”
“No…by pretending to pray”
“But the god won’t listen to our pretended prayer…”
“But the priest would…”
“Yes…I think so..”
“And he’d give us Prasad!”
“Bloody Bhenchod…What a magnificient idea!!...he will save us from dying!”
“Yes…what do you say then?”
“Let’s pretend to pray”
He parked his motorbike out side the temple. I realised it was the same temple, the voices from which could be heard as we sat on the Rock of Loneliness.
We entered the temple. On the right of the temple there was a small lake of people sitting as if prepared for a discourse. And before them stood a lone microphone. We crossed the next door. And we saw the god.
We saw two black stone idols, dressed and garlanded. A god and his soulmate. Both stood close to each other with their hands on their waists. The way parents look at the mischief of their toddler. They stood as if they were looking at the world with distress and were about to question each one of them who were responsible for the ruckus.
I moved closer to them. They looked at me through their stone eyes. The couple from Pandharpur. The guardians of countless saints and followers. The inspiration of innumerable pages of poetry. And the reason for largest sacrifices. The couple behind the miracle that shaped the generations and minds of Maharashtrians. The parents whom their kids meet twice a year, walking over a distance of hundreds of kilometres from every corner of Maharshtra. The Vithoba and the Rakhumai of Pandharpur. The love of millions of Warkaris. The hope of and resort of the numerous distressed souls. The Marathi face of Vishnu. The Ghati incarnation of the Krishna. I closed my eyes and a voice rose to the skies.
“Pundalik Varda….Haare Vithhal”
Hundreds of cymbals rattled in synch with each other. A strong voice overcame them and sang aloud.
“Hari mukhe mhana…Hari mukhe mhana….punyachi ganana koan kari”
‘Sing the god’s word…sing the god’s word…for your deeds are counted’ A verse from the Dnyaneshwari. The abridged version of Bhagvad Geeta written by a great saint Dnyaneshwar at the raw age of twenty. Almost my age. A Geeta for the common men in Maharashtra.
I opened my eyes. I saw Piyush greedily shoving the bananas from Prasad into his oral cavity. I walked past him. He didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t seem to care.
I walked towards the voice. I saw an army of white kurta, dhoti and large turban clad men with cymbals in their hands. Ringing them in unanimity. They raised to crescendo as I approached near. And suddenly they stopped. One amongst them took his flute to his lips and played it aloud. It filled my ears.
A sudden voltage fluctuation turned the mercury lights blue. Spreading a blue gleam over us. Their clothes seemed blue and my body. One of the cymbal men came to me and placed a peacock feather in my pocket.
They all turned to me and began singing.
“Hari mukhe mhana…Hari mukhe mhana….punyachi ganana koan kari”
‘Sing the god’s word…sing the god’s word…for your deeds are counted’
***
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
3. l
We are sitting on the Lonliness Rock. I can hear cymbals ringing in a temple on the other side. A faint clinking noise. And a high pitched voice of a man. Singing words undecipherable due to the distance between us.
I light my joint and pass on the light to Piyush. He lights his one with it.
I take a deep drag. I hold up the smoke and blow out as less as I can. I wait for some moments. It begins affecting. I get drenched in its daze.
A lethargic stupor paints me in itself. I absorb its paint as if it were mine. I know it’s having the same effect on Piyush. We sit silently tripping on the cars passing on the Expressway.
“Bhenchod…they were together today!” Piyush drones.
“Bhenchod…because of you!”I shout!
“What?!”
“yes Madarchod…………You!!!”
“How me?...Maine kya kiya”?...What did I do?”
“You couldn’t stand up for your love….Chutiya!!!”
Outburst! I was blasting into pieces. And I was enjoying it!
Piyush hid his face in his palms and sobbed. His body jerked at his each whimper.
“Why are you crying now like women?...Saala chutiya…look where he has gone…and where you are…you should have acted fast…but you were busy with your love in the eyes bull shit….this is what you are left for now….weeping like a widow!!!....Lundfakir saala!” I continued.
He sobbed more. I enjoyed it more.
“You saw him having ice cream…..he must be having dinner with her later….then he will take her for drinks later….and then he will have her….and you will be left here alone to masturbate…gaand fattu saalaa!!”
“What should I do then?” He says with wet eyes and helplessness.
“Suck my dick!!....I asked you that day…What do ‘You’ want to do?....you had no answer then….I said I will ask you later….and I am asking you again today…..What do you want to do?...decide fucker….decide NOW!”
“How can I?” He was almost sitting on the ground.
“Why can’t you?” I stood beside his contracted posture.
“Because he is my friend!”
We resembled the flutist and the warrior on the cover of Bhagvad Geeta.
“So….?..” I begin. “So what?...So you will leave the women you love for him?....and will he do the same for you?”
My question put him in a prolonged stupor. His trip had mixed with his study. He was floating towards a limitless destination in the darkness of gloom. And he had to keep floating till he got back to the point where he stared at.
“I ask again…will he do the same for you??” I had to wake him up from his trance.
He raises his head and looks at me undecided.
“What happened?...You aren’t able to answer?”
He shakes his head.
“Then we shall test!” I say concretely.
I know certain realities for sure. And even when I am stoned, they stay with me. Or maybe, only they stay with me. And I know what answer will Piyush get.
I feed my revenge its first piece of flesh. The game has begun.
Now I can go near to my heartbreak. Caressing Apu’s loss in peace.
(Contd.)
I light my joint and pass on the light to Piyush. He lights his one with it.
I take a deep drag. I hold up the smoke and blow out as less as I can. I wait for some moments. It begins affecting. I get drenched in its daze.
A lethargic stupor paints me in itself. I absorb its paint as if it were mine. I know it’s having the same effect on Piyush. We sit silently tripping on the cars passing on the Expressway.
“Bhenchod…they were together today!” Piyush drones.
“Bhenchod…because of you!”I shout!
“What?!”
“yes Madarchod…………You!!!”
“How me?...Maine kya kiya”?...What did I do?”
“You couldn’t stand up for your love….Chutiya!!!”
Outburst! I was blasting into pieces. And I was enjoying it!
Piyush hid his face in his palms and sobbed. His body jerked at his each whimper.
“Why are you crying now like women?...Saala chutiya…look where he has gone…and where you are…you should have acted fast…but you were busy with your love in the eyes bull shit….this is what you are left for now….weeping like a widow!!!....Lundfakir saala!” I continued.
He sobbed more. I enjoyed it more.
“You saw him having ice cream…..he must be having dinner with her later….then he will take her for drinks later….and then he will have her….and you will be left here alone to masturbate…gaand fattu saalaa!!”
“What should I do then?” He says with wet eyes and helplessness.
“Suck my dick!!....I asked you that day…What do ‘You’ want to do?....you had no answer then….I said I will ask you later….and I am asking you again today…..What do you want to do?...decide fucker….decide NOW!”
“How can I?” He was almost sitting on the ground.
“Why can’t you?” I stood beside his contracted posture.
“Because he is my friend!”
We resembled the flutist and the warrior on the cover of Bhagvad Geeta.
“So….?..” I begin. “So what?...So you will leave the women you love for him?....and will he do the same for you?”
My question put him in a prolonged stupor. His trip had mixed with his study. He was floating towards a limitless destination in the darkness of gloom. And he had to keep floating till he got back to the point where he stared at.
“I ask again…will he do the same for you??” I had to wake him up from his trance.
He raises his head and looks at me undecided.
“What happened?...You aren’t able to answer?”
He shakes his head.
“Then we shall test!” I say concretely.
I know certain realities for sure. And even when I am stoned, they stay with me. Or maybe, only they stay with me. And I know what answer will Piyush get.
I feed my revenge its first piece of flesh. The game has begun.
Now I can go near to my heartbreak. Caressing Apu’s loss in peace.
(Contd.)
Sunday, July 5, 2009
3. k
“Harshad and Shamita!”
The names shake me a bit too. But I am not Piyush to crash over conclusions on minimal information. In that case I would have jumped back in surprise and wondered how Shamita could have shifted her loyalties on such a rapid pace, after having a ‘sleep fest’ for four days with the ‘Bastard’.
“Where?” I begin my investigation.
“At the Xerox centre….”
Xerox for world’s information is the name Indians have given for Photocopy machine. Nobody knows how it adopted this name. But it has been decades since it has been living with the name. Even shops have hoardings with the names as Xerox centres. The phenomenon occurred when photocopy machines released by Canon were called Canon Xerox. That was the final step in conforming the name Xerox for the machine. Later on there were Colour Xerox and Xerox Photos too. Along the time, Xerox are cheaply available and 93% of India’s educational growth is dependent on the presence of Xerox Centres near the colleges and schools. Name any author and I’d bet that his work has for sure encountered the scanning light of a ‘Xerox’ machine.
“Must’ve gone for notes…”
“People who go for notes don’t eat ice creams together…” Piysuh snapped as if I had pricked his heart with a sharp needle.
“Were they having an ice cream?”
“Yeah…and that bastard bought her one”
I used to be similarly jealous when I was in school and had newly discovered dark hair over my upper lip and pimples on my cheek. Over the years I had learnt to shave those hairs and pimples disappeared on their own, Piyush’s romantics were still stuck in his pimple days.
“Hmmm…” I just hummed.
We sat silent for some time. He, caressing his baseless heartache. And me, fondling mine.
The turmoil churned inside me continually. I wanted to choose the grief of loosing Aparna. But something held me back. It was revenge. It stood like a guard between me and Aparna’s grief. I had to satiate him to reach the grief inside. My ego, in an unrealised form had engulfed the love in me. And the only way to rescue my love was to overcome the ego. And the only way to overcome it was revenge.
“Hari Patti maarega??” I ask him to bring him out of his cocoon of self dismay.
“Haan” he agrees.
“Chal…”
I go to my sack. Put my hand in one of its side pockets. I pull out a packet made out of newspaper. I open it. I pick two cigarettes and empty them. I take the leaves in the packet in my hand and crush them with my thumb on my centre of my palm. I crush them into a neat powder. I separate the seeds. I fill the crushed dust in the cigarettes.
“Here or outside?” I ask him.
“Outside” he says.
(Contd.)
The names shake me a bit too. But I am not Piyush to crash over conclusions on minimal information. In that case I would have jumped back in surprise and wondered how Shamita could have shifted her loyalties on such a rapid pace, after having a ‘sleep fest’ for four days with the ‘Bastard’.
“Where?” I begin my investigation.
“At the Xerox centre….”
Xerox for world’s information is the name Indians have given for Photocopy machine. Nobody knows how it adopted this name. But it has been decades since it has been living with the name. Even shops have hoardings with the names as Xerox centres. The phenomenon occurred when photocopy machines released by Canon were called Canon Xerox. That was the final step in conforming the name Xerox for the machine. Later on there were Colour Xerox and Xerox Photos too. Along the time, Xerox are cheaply available and 93% of India’s educational growth is dependent on the presence of Xerox Centres near the colleges and schools. Name any author and I’d bet that his work has for sure encountered the scanning light of a ‘Xerox’ machine.
“Must’ve gone for notes…”
“People who go for notes don’t eat ice creams together…” Piysuh snapped as if I had pricked his heart with a sharp needle.
“Were they having an ice cream?”
“Yeah…and that bastard bought her one”
I used to be similarly jealous when I was in school and had newly discovered dark hair over my upper lip and pimples on my cheek. Over the years I had learnt to shave those hairs and pimples disappeared on their own, Piyush’s romantics were still stuck in his pimple days.
“Hmmm…” I just hummed.
We sat silent for some time. He, caressing his baseless heartache. And me, fondling mine.
The turmoil churned inside me continually. I wanted to choose the grief of loosing Aparna. But something held me back. It was revenge. It stood like a guard between me and Aparna’s grief. I had to satiate him to reach the grief inside. My ego, in an unrealised form had engulfed the love in me. And the only way to rescue my love was to overcome the ego. And the only way to overcome it was revenge.
“Hari Patti maarega??” I ask him to bring him out of his cocoon of self dismay.
“Haan” he agrees.
“Chal…”
I go to my sack. Put my hand in one of its side pockets. I pull out a packet made out of newspaper. I open it. I pick two cigarettes and empty them. I take the leaves in the packet in my hand and crush them with my thumb on my centre of my palm. I crush them into a neat powder. I separate the seeds. I fill the crushed dust in the cigarettes.
“Here or outside?” I ask him.
“Outside” he says.
(Contd.)
3. j
It is a dilemma. There are two strong emotions reigning your thoughts. And you don’t exactly know which one to subscribe to.
On one side you have the pain of loosing your love every moment. And on the other side you have a revenge ablaze inside you. And you stand holding these two emotions laterally. Like the symmetrical wings of a butterfly. Occupying equal parts of your contemplation. Choice of one neglects the other. You tend to loose your balance around hundred times a day making a choice. You try to correlate them to draw solitary solution for both. But they expand in different directions. And you run directionless to contain them.
Your sensations heighten. You can get highly reactive. Even on a snap of a finger. And it’s a phase when you could display any outburst of emotion any number of times.
Piyush enters the room depressed. Considering his emotive latent, it is an obvious reaction to some inconsequential incidence. Based more on assumptions than on reality.
“Welcome!!....cigarette?” I held out the cigarette in my hand before him.
He refused it. I didn’t force him. He didn’t demand again. I would’ve loved to say ‘fuck yourself’. His high power melodrama puts me off somehow. Each time he wears this morose expression, he assures me that a long verbal assault in on its way. The one against which I would he defenceless. And the only solution to counter it is by using the primitive method of defence. Attack.
“What happened?” My aggravation condensed into a question.
“Nothing!”
‘Then why are you sad shitpiece?!’ I felt like shouting on his face. But peace is a virtue.
“Then why are you sad dude” I say peacefully.
“I saw them together” He replies with pain. A pain of a lifetime for him. A pain of a teenager for me.
“Who?” I ask.
He sits on the bed pulling his legs close to his chest. A clear sign of prevailing gloom. I walk over and sit besides him. I give him a cigarette.
“Tell me…whom…”
He breathes in deep. Exhales. Then rubs his palms over his face. He tires me well with his damned built up. He speaks out…
(Contd.)
On one side you have the pain of loosing your love every moment. And on the other side you have a revenge ablaze inside you. And you stand holding these two emotions laterally. Like the symmetrical wings of a butterfly. Occupying equal parts of your contemplation. Choice of one neglects the other. You tend to loose your balance around hundred times a day making a choice. You try to correlate them to draw solitary solution for both. But they expand in different directions. And you run directionless to contain them.
Your sensations heighten. You can get highly reactive. Even on a snap of a finger. And it’s a phase when you could display any outburst of emotion any number of times.
Piyush enters the room depressed. Considering his emotive latent, it is an obvious reaction to some inconsequential incidence. Based more on assumptions than on reality.
“Welcome!!....cigarette?” I held out the cigarette in my hand before him.
He refused it. I didn’t force him. He didn’t demand again. I would’ve loved to say ‘fuck yourself’. His high power melodrama puts me off somehow. Each time he wears this morose expression, he assures me that a long verbal assault in on its way. The one against which I would he defenceless. And the only solution to counter it is by using the primitive method of defence. Attack.
“What happened?” My aggravation condensed into a question.
“Nothing!”
‘Then why are you sad shitpiece?!’ I felt like shouting on his face. But peace is a virtue.
“Then why are you sad dude” I say peacefully.
“I saw them together” He replies with pain. A pain of a lifetime for him. A pain of a teenager for me.
“Who?” I ask.
He sits on the bed pulling his legs close to his chest. A clear sign of prevailing gloom. I walk over and sit besides him. I give him a cigarette.
“Tell me…whom…”
He breathes in deep. Exhales. Then rubs his palms over his face. He tires me well with his damned built up. He speaks out…
(Contd.)
Saturday, July 4, 2009
3. i
Light emits as I unfold the last corner of the paper. A blindening light. It fills the room. I close my eyes. I look at it through the small gap of my eyelids.
I touch it. An electromagnetic wave emanates from it. It touches my fingers. It enters the pores on them and soak my fingers in itself. It sends a vibration down my fingers and keeps them throbbing. It moves ahead with its gazillion crawlers. Millimetre by millimetre it approaches ahead. Swallowing each layer of me steadily. I am not able to take my hand off. It spreads in my hand and takes my shoulder in its wrap. Like an enormous army of ants it spreads over my chest. It begins expanding in opposite directions. One towards the belly and other towards my head. I feel it rising up my neck, my chin and my lips. I don’t move. I don’t resist. I just let it occupy me.
The wave gulps down my cheeks and my nose. Slowly it takes in my eyes. I don’t feel the pain anywhere now. My forehead gets nibbled by it. And then my head. The wave reaches the top of my head. It ends at a point and I become a part of a sudden blankness. All I can see around me is clean white luminescence. And I stand at the centre of it. I don’t even know if it is the centre. I just stand there. Or maybe I float. Suddenly countless plugs arrive from all directions and poke into me. They bring me back to my existent self. I quickly take my hand off it.
The cover is intriguing. A blue prince with a flute and a peacock feathered crown. He has countless faces. He has numerous hands. He possesses innumerable weapons. A series of myriad bodies follow on both his sides, replicating him, like a folded belt of human shaped bullets kept behind him. But everything dissolves into that single self. The blue flutist. Limitless rays of light flowing out from the rear of his head. At his feet I see two sides of a war. Each side looking at him in awe. From the lines of chariots that stand where his feet rest. And a cloud of dust. The devoted have joined their hands. And the opponents are enthralled. They are in no state to join hands. It’s a scenario that no warrior shall forget. And it’s a scenario that no war shall have.
But there is something more above that blue figure of almight. A name in bright red bold letters.
I turn to Aparna.
I find her looking at me with a smile. An emotive upsurge occurs within me. I put my arm around her and kiss her deeply. I close my eyes tight.
This woman knows me inside out. Maybe she reads my soul. Or is it visible in my eyes to her. Is it that she feels my vibrations? Or is it that she is one with me? Or is it that she is a piece of me separated at soul distribution in heaven. Or have I transferred a part of me when I kissed her for the first time. Was she me? Or was I her. Or were we each other.
Even when I forget her completely, she is a part of my life. She unknowingly forms the backdrop of every thought I think. She is like a diary in which I note every moment of my life. Expressed or unexpressed. Told. Untold. I keep writing my life into her. Things which I don’t say at times, and yet she understands.
And it is only when she is parting away from me, I realise this. I realise that I am bound to her. Of all girls I live with, she is the one I am compulsively obsessed about. She is my need, my craving, my addiction. She is my high. She is my breath. She is my erotica. She is my romance.
She is…
Kolkata was about to render me dilapidated. I yearned for her even in her company.
Maybe, I was in love with her. Maybe it’s just a parting thought. Maybe its Maybelline. Maybe it’s just a temporary feeling.
Maybe I won’t be the same Anay after her.
(Contd.)
I touch it. An electromagnetic wave emanates from it. It touches my fingers. It enters the pores on them and soak my fingers in itself. It sends a vibration down my fingers and keeps them throbbing. It moves ahead with its gazillion crawlers. Millimetre by millimetre it approaches ahead. Swallowing each layer of me steadily. I am not able to take my hand off. It spreads in my hand and takes my shoulder in its wrap. Like an enormous army of ants it spreads over my chest. It begins expanding in opposite directions. One towards the belly and other towards my head. I feel it rising up my neck, my chin and my lips. I don’t move. I don’t resist. I just let it occupy me.
The wave gulps down my cheeks and my nose. Slowly it takes in my eyes. I don’t feel the pain anywhere now. My forehead gets nibbled by it. And then my head. The wave reaches the top of my head. It ends at a point and I become a part of a sudden blankness. All I can see around me is clean white luminescence. And I stand at the centre of it. I don’t even know if it is the centre. I just stand there. Or maybe I float. Suddenly countless plugs arrive from all directions and poke into me. They bring me back to my existent self. I quickly take my hand off it.
The cover is intriguing. A blue prince with a flute and a peacock feathered crown. He has countless faces. He has numerous hands. He possesses innumerable weapons. A series of myriad bodies follow on both his sides, replicating him, like a folded belt of human shaped bullets kept behind him. But everything dissolves into that single self. The blue flutist. Limitless rays of light flowing out from the rear of his head. At his feet I see two sides of a war. Each side looking at him in awe. From the lines of chariots that stand where his feet rest. And a cloud of dust. The devoted have joined their hands. And the opponents are enthralled. They are in no state to join hands. It’s a scenario that no warrior shall forget. And it’s a scenario that no war shall have.
But there is something more above that blue figure of almight. A name in bright red bold letters.
Bhagwad Geeta
I turn to Aparna.
I find her looking at me with a smile. An emotive upsurge occurs within me. I put my arm around her and kiss her deeply. I close my eyes tight.
This woman knows me inside out. Maybe she reads my soul. Or is it visible in my eyes to her. Is it that she feels my vibrations? Or is it that she is one with me? Or is it that she is a piece of me separated at soul distribution in heaven. Or have I transferred a part of me when I kissed her for the first time. Was she me? Or was I her. Or were we each other.
Even when I forget her completely, she is a part of my life. She unknowingly forms the backdrop of every thought I think. She is like a diary in which I note every moment of my life. Expressed or unexpressed. Told. Untold. I keep writing my life into her. Things which I don’t say at times, and yet she understands.
And it is only when she is parting away from me, I realise this. I realise that I am bound to her. Of all girls I live with, she is the one I am compulsively obsessed about. She is my need, my craving, my addiction. She is my high. She is my breath. She is my erotica. She is my romance.
She is…
Kolkata was about to render me dilapidated. I yearned for her even in her company.
Maybe, I was in love with her. Maybe it’s just a parting thought. Maybe its Maybelline. Maybe it’s just a temporary feeling.
Maybe I won’t be the same Anay after her.
(Contd.)
Thursday, July 2, 2009
3. h
“Why did you have to fight?” she tosses a rhetoric at me.
“I didn’t Apu…he did!”
“Out of the blue?”
“Not exactly…sorta’ revenge” I clarified.
“For what?”
“For teasing before general audience!”
“Why do you have to tease someone in public?” She touches my cheek with the warm water bag.
“I believed that he was my friend…”
“So now it’s proved that he wasn’t”
“Yeah…the bastard!”
“Cool down angry young man!...” she mocks. My face creases bit. She sees it. She bends over me and spreading the curtain of her dark hair and kisses me gently on my cheek. “My Doga!” she says and laughs aloud. I regret revealing my Doga addiction to her.
“Yeah my Monica!” I run my hands through her soft hair and slid my fingers slowly down her cheek. My finger slides swiftly down her silk. It reaches her lips. I trace her lips with the tip of my index finger. She smiles and looks into my eyes. I smile with a tinge of discomfort. My cheek pains whenever I smile. She is sitting on her knees, resting her legs on the sides of my waist.
I pull her closer. She bends further without a spare word. Our lips touch each other.
Aparna was about to leave for Kolkata in three days.
“When will you be back?” I had asked her when she had told me about it.
“Don’t know” she had answered.
“As in…”
“As in I don’t know about it…I don’t know if I may return or not” She had said gravely.
“Why??”
“I have my own reasons!” She had replied. Like every girl she too had kept a mystery to herself.
The rest of the evening we had spent wiping each other’s tears. There were abundant of them. I was loosing her. It was like loosing the most essential gear of the machine. It was like leaving me incomplete.
Today I was meeting her for the last time. And this occurred. Poor thing had taken me home and was helping me out with my lame endeavour of pain management.
My hand slowly crawls to the back of her head. Her hair flowing through the gaps between my fingers. I caress her hair. She digs in deeper. Pain begins to spread in my cheek as we get passionate. I neglect it and continue with the spree. My other hand wanders on her waist. It finds the gap between her top and her pyjamas. I slip my hand in through it. She intends to limit it to kissing. She immediately resists it and slaps my hand. She looses her balance in this attempt and she crashes on my jaw. A lightning of strikes my jaw and goes running to the brain. I push her back and yell in pain. She picks up her balance and sits back. But on my belly. I feel like a hammer landing on my belly. I shout again. She shifts back impulsively to land her buttocks on my apparatus, crushing my balls. The eternal pain of my manhood popped up. I ‘ouch’ed as cutely as the pain emerged. Another impulse of guilt possesses her. She shifts back and places her lovely lady hump on my thigh. Exactly where Rahul has kicked me. Ripples of pain run through the entire area. I cry out again. She finally jumps off me. I twist and turn with the agonizing remnants of my pain.
“I am sorry!” she says filled with concern. I can se the fear of seeing the dead body of a man killed by mistake in her eyes. She escapes to the kitchen. I think she feels she has killed me and is worried about it. Maybe she will return with a sack and stuff me in. Then she will put me in the dicky of her car and take us to a cliff and push us down. Me and the car. And the car will go down rolling and blast into pieces. And so will my body. All evidences gone. I begin thinking about the cliff she would take me too.
Instead of a sack she arrives with a bottle of water and a glass.
“Here…” she says pouring the water into the glass.
I am still twisting with pain. She bewilders over the perfect way to feed me water. She takes a try to pour it directly into my mouth. But her aim isn’t so good. It falls on my eye instead.
She keeps the glass aside and helps me sit with my back resting against the wall. She then helps me out with gulping water as rapidly as possible by tilting the glass further before I take any gulp. I feel better. She sits reclining her head on my shoulder.
“I am sorry” she says.
Her apology pushes me into a fit of rage occupies me The pain reminds me of Rahul. Of his punches and his kick. Of my public humiliation. And of pain. Of a hurt ego.
“Why are you sorry?....He should be sorry…”
“Leave it na Ani…”
“No Apu…I can’t…the favour will be a returned…”
“You are too hot headed sometimes.”
“Or I wouldn’t be me…”
“Yeah yeah…I am scared”
“You lost your turn…” I say winking. “It’s Rahul’s now…”
“Again the same thing!...Ani…promise me…”
“What?”
“That you won’t touch that son of a bitch…”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to be in any problems Ani…these are shit guys!...”
“I don’t care…They should get their due…”
“Okay…don’t listen to me if you don’t want to…who am I?”
I look helplessly at her. She looks away.
“Okay…” I agree finally. “No raising hands on them…”
“Sure?” she throws a fake glare at me.
“Yeah…promise” I keep my hand on her head.
She hugs me.
“Ani….” She says adjusting her head in the notch on my shoulder.
“Yeah naanu…?”
“I have a gift or you…” she says.
“Are you pregnant?” I ask with a mischievous smile.
“Shut up!” she hits me with a pillow.
“Then?”
“One sec…”
She jumps out of the bed to her bag. A typical Socialist marked Shabnam with Che Guevera and Bob Marley on it, living within the constraints of circle badges and other such signs. She pushes her hand in and pulls out a neatly gift wrapped rectangle.
“What is it?” I say fondling it.
“Parting gift…a new perspective…”
“But what??”
“Open it.”
I untie the ribbon and put it around my neck. I unwrap the gift paper like tearing off the gift’s clothes. I open the paper.
What I see inside delights me.
(Contd.)
“I didn’t Apu…he did!”
“Out of the blue?”
“Not exactly…sorta’ revenge” I clarified.
“For what?”
“For teasing before general audience!”
“Why do you have to tease someone in public?” She touches my cheek with the warm water bag.
“I believed that he was my friend…”
“So now it’s proved that he wasn’t”
“Yeah…the bastard!”
“Cool down angry young man!...” she mocks. My face creases bit. She sees it. She bends over me and spreading the curtain of her dark hair and kisses me gently on my cheek. “My Doga!” she says and laughs aloud. I regret revealing my Doga addiction to her.
“Yeah my Monica!” I run my hands through her soft hair and slid my fingers slowly down her cheek. My finger slides swiftly down her silk. It reaches her lips. I trace her lips with the tip of my index finger. She smiles and looks into my eyes. I smile with a tinge of discomfort. My cheek pains whenever I smile. She is sitting on her knees, resting her legs on the sides of my waist.
I pull her closer. She bends further without a spare word. Our lips touch each other.
Aparna was about to leave for Kolkata in three days.
“When will you be back?” I had asked her when she had told me about it.
“Don’t know” she had answered.
“As in…”
“As in I don’t know about it…I don’t know if I may return or not” She had said gravely.
“Why??”
“I have my own reasons!” She had replied. Like every girl she too had kept a mystery to herself.
The rest of the evening we had spent wiping each other’s tears. There were abundant of them. I was loosing her. It was like loosing the most essential gear of the machine. It was like leaving me incomplete.
Today I was meeting her for the last time. And this occurred. Poor thing had taken me home and was helping me out with my lame endeavour of pain management.
My hand slowly crawls to the back of her head. Her hair flowing through the gaps between my fingers. I caress her hair. She digs in deeper. Pain begins to spread in my cheek as we get passionate. I neglect it and continue with the spree. My other hand wanders on her waist. It finds the gap between her top and her pyjamas. I slip my hand in through it. She intends to limit it to kissing. She immediately resists it and slaps my hand. She looses her balance in this attempt and she crashes on my jaw. A lightning of strikes my jaw and goes running to the brain. I push her back and yell in pain. She picks up her balance and sits back. But on my belly. I feel like a hammer landing on my belly. I shout again. She shifts back impulsively to land her buttocks on my apparatus, crushing my balls. The eternal pain of my manhood popped up. I ‘ouch’ed as cutely as the pain emerged. Another impulse of guilt possesses her. She shifts back and places her lovely lady hump on my thigh. Exactly where Rahul has kicked me. Ripples of pain run through the entire area. I cry out again. She finally jumps off me. I twist and turn with the agonizing remnants of my pain.
“I am sorry!” she says filled with concern. I can se the fear of seeing the dead body of a man killed by mistake in her eyes. She escapes to the kitchen. I think she feels she has killed me and is worried about it. Maybe she will return with a sack and stuff me in. Then she will put me in the dicky of her car and take us to a cliff and push us down. Me and the car. And the car will go down rolling and blast into pieces. And so will my body. All evidences gone. I begin thinking about the cliff she would take me too.
Instead of a sack she arrives with a bottle of water and a glass.
“Here…” she says pouring the water into the glass.
I am still twisting with pain. She bewilders over the perfect way to feed me water. She takes a try to pour it directly into my mouth. But her aim isn’t so good. It falls on my eye instead.
She keeps the glass aside and helps me sit with my back resting against the wall. She then helps me out with gulping water as rapidly as possible by tilting the glass further before I take any gulp. I feel better. She sits reclining her head on my shoulder.
“I am sorry” she says.
Her apology pushes me into a fit of rage occupies me The pain reminds me of Rahul. Of his punches and his kick. Of my public humiliation. And of pain. Of a hurt ego.
“Why are you sorry?....He should be sorry…”
“Leave it na Ani…”
“No Apu…I can’t…the favour will be a returned…”
“You are too hot headed sometimes.”
“Or I wouldn’t be me…”
“Yeah yeah…I am scared”
“You lost your turn…” I say winking. “It’s Rahul’s now…”
“Again the same thing!...Ani…promise me…”
“What?”
“That you won’t touch that son of a bitch…”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to be in any problems Ani…these are shit guys!...”
“I don’t care…They should get their due…”
“Okay…don’t listen to me if you don’t want to…who am I?”
I look helplessly at her. She looks away.
“Okay…” I agree finally. “No raising hands on them…”
“Sure?” she throws a fake glare at me.
“Yeah…promise” I keep my hand on her head.
She hugs me.
“Ani….” She says adjusting her head in the notch on my shoulder.
“Yeah naanu…?”
“I have a gift or you…” she says.
“Are you pregnant?” I ask with a mischievous smile.
“Shut up!” she hits me with a pillow.
“Then?”
“One sec…”
She jumps out of the bed to her bag. A typical Socialist marked Shabnam with Che Guevera and Bob Marley on it, living within the constraints of circle badges and other such signs. She pushes her hand in and pulls out a neatly gift wrapped rectangle.
“What is it?” I say fondling it.
“Parting gift…a new perspective…”
“But what??”
“Open it.”
I untie the ribbon and put it around my neck. I unwrap the gift paper like tearing off the gift’s clothes. I open the paper.
What I see inside delights me.
(Contd.)
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