Melodramatic s(n)obbery

Not all those who die manifest themselves as roses, what faces become dust and are lost forever.

"Tell me it gets better." he asked his mother. "Yes son, it does." she said. It didn't for her. For him she hoped it did. Born of a broken home and a burnt house she had married a man who would never betray her. Absence of heart break is love for some. Those who do not aim heaven for they know the truth about it.

Parents divorced early during her childhood. It wasn't easy growing up in an Indian society without a father. She hadn't met him after the divorce. All she remembered was a smile and she wasn't sure if it was Rajesh Khanna in an old Hindi movie or her father. Mother had brought her up well and she had brought up her mother well. The early days, she faintly remembered, had been difficult, living in their aunt's place. Her mother's incessant wet tears. Strange how she remembered the tears more than her fathers smile. Maybe because they lasted longer.

Not a happy family her aunt's was either. Aunt was a nice woman. Not perfect but bearable and her husband an understanding man. How she wished to be born there. To have a father to teach her to ride a cycle. Interestingly she hadn't learned how to ride ever. Not that no one did teach her. Her husband had tried once but the absence of a father figure teaching her to ride was imprinted on her mind to an extent that she refused to learn. Her uncle couldn't be the father she wished. He had a autistic son to look after. Each family unhappy in its own way. Still born, still living, still surviving.

After living with her aunt for two years her mom eventually shifted out with her. A welcome relief for both her mother and aunt. Her mother got a job as a teacher in a primary school not far away. Their house with one bedroom and a hall was as big as her ambitions. Not huge but cozy enough. School was a nightmare, and like a bad dream she lived it all alone everyday. It wasn't difficult. She passed and not remarkably either. She passed and her mother wasn't bothered by teachers. Or by the bullies who mocked her everyday and threw her tiffin. In the end she resorted to emptying it before hand. Mother was too sad anyways. She had realized sadness is the natural way of life and that happiness is an aberration, the warmth of sun to be feared lest it burns you. School days flew by. School days always seem to have been fleeting in retrospect. But she remembered how days didn't seem to end like the horizon. There was always more at the end.

Her mother sobbed sometimes in her sleep. She cried sometimes during day too. Odd serials used to make her cry. Some episode some day and out poured torrents of tears, flooding the room with melancholy. She had learned her lesson. Never would the mother of a dying child, cry in front of anyone. Never would the world know of her sorrow. Something that was her and would remain her forever. It frustrated her husband to see her come out of bathroom red-eyed and not acknowledging the reason for it. It was always some speck of dirt or extra rubbing of eyes. He had quit demanding as he did with the bicycle lessons. He had learned enough in life to not attempt a female to reveal her secrets.

"Why all this misery, this over emphasis on tears?" I said to the author.

"It is easier. Sorrow is the natural state of humanity" I replied.

"Giver them some happiness. Some thing to live for except death." I persisted

"Let it be." author replied.

And then was born to the Kumar's a son. Not the most beautiful blue eyed kid, he was her kid. She didn't get an option, neither did he. Forced upon each other they learned to love the twists destiny introduced. Destiny is a bitch.

Her mother attempted suicide twice. She had to be hospitalized for a month each time. Apparently 20 sleeping pills weren't enough. She should have tried 30 second time, but then. Those 2 months she stayed with her aunt's. And each time her mom came back home, she asked her not to redo it because she hated the autistic child.

Her kid by the grace of the absent god was born normal. Normal was good enough. He was the average kid whose right everyone wants to protect. Guess it was the genes then.

"Mother will I be ok?" He wouldn't be. He had some form of cancer. The best friend of any author who wants to drop a character off. Death was imminent. Chemotherapy immediate. A ring as dark as devils halo lingered around his eyes. With cheeks sunk and hair cut he looked like a famine victim. Her heart with a sword drawn through it wept. Her soul trampled on, trembled. Her mother who had all her life wished to die lived and this poor soul was about to die. Equations of life were not balanced. Law of nature was blind indeed.

Her husband had told her what the affliction was but from his silence she knew he would die. First her father, then her mother almost and now her son. This wasn't fair. It wasn't right. This won't do. With her sword drawn against the might of life she would fight to change destiny. She would burn the pages of any book God wrote. Her son wouldn't suffer.

As her husband arrived,some doctors report in his hand, she sat next to her now dead son, . The poison had worked. The war was won, he hadn't suffered. Swift the candle had been blown.

The doctor had realized the cancer was curable.

The Thursday

Some bombs blew up in some part of the town yesterday. Here I am en route to office today, fodder for evil, like a meek goat to the butcher. Realizing its a fight between death by starvation or by bomb is no comfort either. Which one will u have, Ma'am? Ah, bomb, excellent choice if I may say so. Our chef makes a brilliant version of it. A little IED here and lots of ingenuity. Do not worry though no one is going catch anybody in this town of millions.

The station's not as crowded as usual. Some wives have made their husbands stay at home and some husbands have asked their wives to rest at home. Remainder poke their heads one by one up the stairs on to the platform. No unattended bags here. They won't attack just the day after the previous attacks? They did blow up 3 consecutive bombs but still. We all will die one day won't we. Haha.

Too many new faces in the station today. All dressed for office. There is a guy in informal dress though. A red henna dyed beard. He looks shifty, wonder what's going on in his mind.

Trains are late and scarce today. A slow one creeps in slowly and is quickly occupied. The coach is full of people. That guy gets in too. Here begins the journey that might not end. Too many new faces in here. I am afraid. Having thought about it last night, I have concluded I am afraid of death. Afraid of dying. I do not wish to die. Held at the gun point I would be the one grovelling and begging for mercy. Whenever I think of myself in a blast, I prefer being the one who just survived.

Second station arrives and I am pretty sure now I do not want to die. Kill them instead. Kill those nameless faceless entities that I can forget within minutes. I try to push to the center. Let the others act as shield for me when it goes off. Let them cushion the effects of the explosion.I do not want to be a statisticians delight, a number. I do not want to be the dead body that increases the death count to 20. No one likes the dead. I do not like them. I sometimes have this nightmare where i am buried alive in a coffin. The curse of not dying. The train does eventually get crowded. People pushing against me. Which push will trigger the bomb? I try not to touch anyone. A Herculean task in this over crowded city.

Third station and by now there are so many people in here. So many faces to be figured out. Which one is from SIMI and which from ISI? Is that bearded guy from LeT? I scan for bags big enough to carry a bomb. There a suitcase on the carrier. It could carry a bomb. I stare at it and the people near it. A man stands up, fidgets with it and sits back down. Ah, if that suitcase blows up and I survive I could give a sketch of the terrorist. Strange he does not look like a Muslim though. Maybe he is. You never know. Unlike usually, breathing does not come naturally now. I make an effort, for how much longer i have no clue.

Here cometh, Kurla. The land of the leftovers. The crowd goes berserk. Everyone gets down. Everyone gets in. You know whats wrong with this country. Muslims. Why didn't they all go to Pakistan? Wasn't that the logic behind partition anyways? I am afraid of bearded people now. And the skull cap. Which one will blow up, I wait? I don't want to die. I have Muslim colleagues, mind you. I fear I couldn't vouch for them either now. You never know with these people. There's a hidden evil in each and everyone of them,. Blowing up like crackers at random places. I wonder what do they think. When they blow up will it matter i like Urdu and read Urdu poetry? What about having read so many books? Does that count? Ah, what's the point to it. There is none.

Fifth station and I no longer care what they think. I don't wish to know their demands. Take all that you want. Let me live. The person next to me is gazing around, maybe he is checking out his victims. Making sure his death is worthy of at least some condolence from the American president. There's an eerie silence today. No one seems to be smiling or chatting. No one mentions the previous nights events. As if the mere mention of it will cause it to re-occur. I do not talk either. What if it does? I do not wish to know. I do not wish to travel but I am too afraid to be afraid. It will become normal, I placate myself. The narrator never dies, I should narrate something.

At the sixth station a man just jumped from our coach on the platform. People stared. A lot was left unsaid. Did he leave something? A furtive glance roamed over the luggage area. A questioning look on every suspicious bag. I wonder what does that thin man standing at the door do after his office hours? Prime minister asked us to be calm. What was anyone going to do anyways? Will the bombers listen to his request? I do not wish to blame anyone. I have had friends from every community. I realize chemicals do not understand religion. Let the dormant fears and prejudices lay where they belong, in the deep crevices of my heart. Let them lay still until I need someone to blame for situations where I myself am powerless. Do not just end my existence. Do not let the sole reason for my death be my fate. I never realized I would get this afraid. I always thought I wouldn't care. Maybe one does when his own life is at stake. The train approaches the last station, my destination.

Dear CST, majestic and humble. Huge but not as vulgar as the Delhi station. There's something calm about it today. Some platforms lay barren. A circus no one attends. 8 policemen on one platform some sitting, some strolling. What is a man supposed to do in times like these? I walk on to my office.

Drifting on the Precipice

If I was to die tonight, everything would be just right. But here I am, and all's not fine. Few years back I wouldn't have ever thought of being in a pub at this time. But here I am and all's not fine. The number of students in the lecture hall has been dwindling. Literature, as we know it, is dead. Dying perhaps. The last bastions shall fall soon. The watchmen shall go back to whence they came. To be burned between woods, the woods that could've been books, the books that could've been Hamlet.

I could've been someone rather than this pale reflection of a morose narrator. Could've been burning in the glory of literary fire, but now I sit amongst the smoke, coughing occasionally. No one cares anymore. Where is Italo Calvino? Where is Nabokov? It's 6pm in the pub and why is, bloody hell, anyone here. They don't serve whiskey the way they used to. The beer is all bitter nowadays. It was not so always. This new generation shall never know the difference and all feeble protests shall be gulped down. But I know the difference. I have lived those days. What about me?

A complaining sarcastic old man now, I was once a complaining sarcastic young man. Words desert me now. I have lost my mirth. Lets go somewhere far away into the hinterlands of humanity. Way back when everything was new. Men flying in air was a novelty to be looked upon as man's triumph over nature. Nowadays all everyone does is complain about the price of peanuts served in airplanes. Don't people realize they are flying. They are up in the sky where Gods' reside.I have gotten old. I hate myself sometimes. Sometimes I just sit all day patronizing myself.

Why am I here? What convoluted moment in the long and twisted history of mankind resulted in a bitter me mumbling to self in this dark, wooden pub? It's time I left. This pub,this life. It's time I walked away. The games lost, the pawns and the kings are resting in their box. The player survives the pieces, the player faces the ignominy solitary, of having lost the game, self and everything.

One last drink and then to the abode of the lost tragic hero we walk to.

In the house

I don't remember leaving the window open. The cool night breeze runs its soothing hand on my cheek. Look how high it blows, look where it beckons to. Stop,stop this breeze, this fleeting moment, a second of bliss in this lifetime of sadness. There's a hand on my neck choking me, an emotion in my heart bruising me. A pain I am used to.

Enough. 'tis enough. Shall not have it anymore. I shan't be humiliated by destiny, shan't be thrown around by the greater Will. Rashkolnikov killed her, I shall end my tragedy. I don't want to live. Down with the dictatorship of fortune, to hell with the divine Scribe. Where is the epilogue of every sad tale? Where lies the gun? Ah, the grim metallic reaper. So cold, so cold and yet the blood goes so warm. Why do I cry now that the revolver is held up? Why do these streams flow over the contours, now that there shall be no tomorrow to repent over? This world shall end with me. My world shall end. This sea of troubles, this outrageous fortune. I am sorry, Mom. Dad I wish it could've been better. The guns loaded. The barrel between my eyes. My last vision. This dark cylindrical barrel of the revolver, this endless hole that my life has been.Why? Why? Stop stupid tears. End this farce. Pack up the tragedy. Remember the dreams that you shall dream when you sleep, the sleep of death. What soliloquy was it? Hamlet, wasn't it. Some mortal coil. To die, to sleep. How belittling, now that I die literature deserts me too. What else shall this world take from me now that literature goes away too? Life, but life's just a trifle.No, no more, the last bastion shall not fall. How could I forget this passage? Where lies that book. Ah, let me check.

A thin line of saliva trickles in between those lips. The tears have not yet dried. Sweat, like dew drops on his face exists but merely. His face sideways with Hamlet below it. The revolver still on the table.

To die, to sleep--

To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. There's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

Hope Lost.

"Lets go and check out the city" Priyanka said. There was a shine in her eyes."Yeah. Sure I'll ask Mohan out too. After the 5 pm class then." "Uh, okay." Mohan liked her. He never said so but somethings need not be explicitly stated. He had been searching for a chance to meet her for quite sometime now. He's a nice guy. This was the first time I had seen him actually trying for a female. And I have known him since school.

So the clock stuck 5. Earth had made the necessary rotation. But our dear professor lingered. Like an irritating song the lecture on structure's did not seem to end. She's in my class, amongst the frontbenchers too. She's a nice girl, not shallow, neither too incomprehensible either. Like a good book she was interesting and not too deep either. But then she wasn't my type. I had loved and lost quite recently. The song got over, about time too. A silent prayer to the gods was offered by the students. With their chains broken now, the flock of boys dashed towards the door and Mohan went with them. She stayed back, so did I.

Mohan met us outside the department. He was trying to withhold his laughter. Mohan has this strange habit of grinning when faced with a female he liked. "So lets go."

I walked ahead and let the two of them come together. "How are you?" Mohan asked. "Fine and you?" She replied politely.
"Stupid class that,eh?" "Yeah, stupid professor too."
"All of them are strange here dunno what they plan on doing." "Uh hunh." "We have this strange prof who has to throw one student out every class." "Hmmm."
This was going nowhere. "Lets take a pic." I said. "Sure". She handed Mohan the camera and stood next to me smiling. He obliged. "Lets take a pic of you two now." I offered. I and the smile were replaced with Mohan and an indifference that would've ashamed gravity. Photograph taken, walk continued.

She walked next to me with Mohan on the other side of her. "Where are you from?" she asked. She knew the answer, I had answered that many times in the class. I smiled and said "Surat. Mohan's from my school too. We were in the same class. He was the topper." He wasn't. He was my best friend. He grinned. "Where are you from?" he asked. "Kolkata." Land of everything right in Indian literature and everything left in Indian politics. "Dirty and humid isn't it?" "Naah, not much you get used to it. Surat aint too dry either." "But the weather's good at least." "Weathers good in Kolkata too,hunh." And there goes the conversation. Time for photography session two. Session one was repeated with more photographs of me and her than Mohan and I desired.

It isn't as if Mohan can't talk. He talks just fine with us. We have been in debates many a time. He gets along with other boys also pretty well and was in talking terms with other females too. It was time I moved on in life too. Time for the search to begin afresh. Two females had been zeroed on. Future existed whether I wanted it to or not.

The topic of professors had been taken up afresh. With renewed vigor he lectured on his theory about the education system. He also mentioned a teacher who had mocked him in front of the whole class and how that event had scarred him forever. It had taken 3 years of friendship for him to divulge this tale to me over a drink. She never noticed. She looked ahead. She didn't care. I wished she did. I didn't want to interfere lest he take it otherwise. He asked questions, he received monosyllables. He put in some more funny incidents. I smiled, they were funny. She didn't seem to think so. What was she thinking? I know, but if I don't mention it maybe it'll go away. "Why are you boring me? I don't care." Silence reigned. Dusk was upon us. Few stars twinkled, they glistened like tear drops shed by moon. Birds squawked on their way back home, on their way back to their loved ones. I suggested returning to our abodes too. She readily agreed. Mohan followed.

An auto-rickshaw was boarded. She sat between us. As in rickshaw so in life. She was tired, so was I. Mohan had too many emotions mixed up. The steel horse reached her house in no time. Her head had just rested on my shoulder. Awkwardness is not an awkward enough word. Why this, why now? The return began. I looked at him. He was thinking something. I was trying not to.

Pessimistic Romantic

I wished to move my arm but did not; I feared she, who was leaning on it, might wake up. Thus the arm remained in situ through out the bus journey. The joy of juvenile affection.

Yes, I was juvenile in college. Freedom they say is a difficult bird to cage, well so is a man’s heart. We gave our hearts’ out for free. Every girl could take it, it was up for sale. And then there was this beautiful female in our batch. They say a thing of beauty is joy forever, even if she is committed to some other guy. She was a joy to watch, to talk to. But then I stood no chance with her. You see I had gained sense by my second year of college. I had realized life is not about running after dreams. It is about realizing achievable goals and, god damn, achieving it.
She was an achievable goal. We did hang out in the same group and we had spoken before. But now things were different, I had an aim in life, temporarily. (In the future, I wanted to open up a coffee shop cum pub in bourgeoisie Mumbai but more on that later.) I wish 12th standard biology also explained the process of attracting human females, I had no clue. How is one supposed to change your daily banter in to love-talk? When does friendship become love? What the hell is this love anyways? I made efforts. I am ashamed of them of course; I was juvenile as has been mentioned earlier too. But boy, I did try. To be fair though, she didn’t mind it. I wanted her to. I wanted her to ask me to fuck off. She didn’t. I fear she was half-waiting for it.

Locate Target. Aim target. Shoot.

I love McD. Cheap food, upper-middle class crowd and A.C. I held her hands, looked into her eyes and spoke my brains out. I knew not what, but speak I did. What else was there to do? And so, was the aim achieved. Houston, the eagle has landed.
And then what? What’s a boy supposed to do? We spoke a lot. I had asked her to not to make a public declaration of our co-dependence but it seemed the college were co-signees. Everyone knew, everyone gazed. Pretty soon everyone started speaking, but then so were both of us.

Days passed by. Talking continued. We knew each other a lot. This is not good. If you stare at Monalisa a lot, you will eventually find a flaw and then whenever you look at it, the flaw will surface. The flaw will dominate the view. The twitch in the movement of brush across her face will destroy the magic of her beauty. It did for me.

I didn’t want to hint anything to her. I wasn’t in love but I wasn’t a heart-breaking ogre either. Distances increased. Pauses became frequent and talks smaller. Days passed by. CAT happened (but that’s a tale for some other day). And then one day abruptly, in cafeteria she said she didn’t love me. I didn’t break her heart after all. But suddenly the glow on her face was gone, the sparkle was lost. There was a hint of moisture in my eyes. So this is how it ends. So this is it. It’s over. When did it begin? 2 weeks after the McD episode, I think. And that folks was the end of second love story of my life.

We are friends still. Not a good position though it is. There’s always that hope. That lingering question. Don’t matter though, ‘coz I ain’t gonna ask it.

Relax

Relax. This is not a thriller. This is not a conspiracy theory. Take a deep breath in, let it out now. Loosen your back, stretch your legs. If you have any urgent work now, stop reading this, finish it, then come back. This post wont change your life. If you don't have an urgent work, congratulations you have deciphered the secret of life. If it is day now, take your head a little further away from the monitor, don't strain your eyes, you won't miss a thing. If it's night switch on the light. If you smoke keep an ashtray handy. As you might have seen this post ain't too long. Anyways, you are amongst a selected few who know this post exists. Be proud your friends shall never get to read it, unless of course you make them read it, which I am sure you won't.

Now that I have instilled some self-confidence into you, I ask what do you expect the post to be? A sad love story? Why haven't we lived enough of those? What you want is something interesting, something that takes you away from your dreary existence, to a land where you reign supreme. Any bad thing/person can be just thought away. You want some support to build you dreams tonight. You may or may not find them here. This might change your life, or again this might not. Does it matter? For a few seconds you want to live someone else s life, cry over some one else sorrows, laugh at someones jokes. You want to be someone else. And once you have read this you'll be yourself again. Safe in your old familiar environment.

But let me warn you, as I said this wont change you, but it might change your environment, your habitat. For this is the story of you.

Quite a few years back was born a child...and you ended up reading this post.

That's it? This was a waste time. You demand your time back. Take it, I have loads of it and no purpose. Trouble is you expect a lot. But what are expectations if not great? Ha, this is my last line I wont give you the pleasure of deriving any pleasure from this.