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.

A life that never did.

He was a normal man. But can a man be normal? Tapas worked in a 9 to 6 job. He wasn't best at it. He knew that. He did not love his job. He knew not what he loved. At an age of 30, he had realized life was not going the way it was supposed to. He knew better things were possible. He knew he could do better. But better at what he knew not. Trouble was not that he didn't think, trouble was he did too much of it.

Tapas loved books. He devoured them. He felt them. He hated the new age Indian post MBA authors. He hated Chetan Bhagat. He hated chick-lit. Books were capable of so much greater. He had read so much better books. He loathed anyone who said they liked these books. He preferred the classics and not necessarily aged books. He wanted to be moved, to be stripped off his defenses, to be reduced to tears. He had cried while reading books. He had cried to Devdas, to Jude the Obscure, to The Last Burden. He hadn't cried though when his grand mother had passed away. He liked her but tears never gushed from their springs then. Stripped of that solace, of that belief in one's own humaneness, he was a shadow of devil. Lurking but not shamed. What sadness is the life of a flower that blooms only once in it's lifetime, but then there are lives that never do.

Every good story is essentially a sad one. Everyone dies, in the end. Of late he had been reading Crime and Punishment. If Rashkolnikov, could do it, so could he. All he needed was the perfect subject, the perfect murder victim. He wanted to kill someone, to know he had the strength to do it, to know he could take live or forgive. For isn't the power over someone Else's life the greatest power. To know the swift movement of one's hand could end a life's story. To know one could undo the great creation of God. He wanted to not just script but perform the greatest crime. The untraceable murderer, the unmotivated murder.

Dear World, I hate you.

Half the articles in this book will be love stories. Boy meets girl, falls in love. Hearts break.

Is it just the hilly views of our tiny frontier or is that all that our minds fathom at this age? Sun will shine, so shall the moon. You’ll write and be forgotten soon. I hate love stories. I hate those who write love stories. I hate the stupid smiles. I hate the cheesy dimples. Yes, god-damn it, I hate them. Yes, I have taken the God’s name in vain. But isn’t He vain. Giving us life at his will and taking it away similarly. Either you don’t give it or if you have given it don’t just take it away when you deem fit. So much for the ultimate freedom of human choice, all just liberal-atheist propaganda. There’s no ultimate freedom, you weren’t born by your own choice, and there cannot be ultimate freedom. You will read this, you will toss it away. You might not read this, you will toss it away.

Nothingness has an artistic beauty that no thing can ever obtain. Hence, I wish to write nothing worthwhile here. Maybe it will add some beauty to this mushy creature. Maybe it will be tossed outside by the editor, for who wants to read nonsensical articles now. I do. There are too many sensibilities, latent prejudices, too many do-gooders, to many hard-working people around. Too many wanna be messiahs-if-i-had-the-time people now. Be bad, be nice, be human. Be whatever you are. Or rather please don’t be what you are, ‘coz you might just end up being the prick of the classroom.

I hate you. I hate myself too if that is any consolation. I hate the concept of the all devouring rain or the all destroying heat. I hate having to wake up in the morning. I hate waking up late feeling lazy. This isn’t a hate mail. It’s a love letter to all you self-condescending goth/emo punks out there. Don’t worry folks you aren’t the only one who hate yourself, I hate you too, now quit whining and get me a glass of scotch on the rocks please.

But sometimes I hate the fact that love is so hard. I hate that hearts break. I hate love matters so much. Do away with it. Love is not the way. Love is the by-lane that leads to nowhere. People fall in love and rise out of it. But everyone does fall in love. The silent guy in the end corner seat has too. That cheerful ugly girl has blushed at glances too. They too think people are thinking of them. Ah, load of non sense.

Yes it’s getting a tad too long. If you wish to stop reading, do so now, rest of it is as empty as the above. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe this is the foundation stone to the greatest story ever told. Hang on Shakespeare in me is yet to wake up from his alcohol induced slumber. Naah, chuck it. He ain’t waking up any time soon. Leave it now. Turn the page. That’s it. Nothing more here now. Bugger off.

Run Smith Run

Do you want to know how this ends? Do you want to know what the F*** is going on? I'll tell ya sonny, I'll tell ya well good, how this goes down...

A truck rolled up the avenue. Nothing unusual about it, except that this was a a truck rolling up a regular avenue. It slowly came to a stop in front of Smith's house. Birds had been awakened as had been Smith. "Holy shit! a truck? The whole bloody truck?" The money bag flew out of the upper cupboard and in to the socks went the Smith & Wesson M&P9 pistol. This was the back up one. When in trouble, have a back up. Latter was what Smith hadn't planned for. He had not planned that today would happen. It was supposed to be a clean sweep. The whole gang had been blown up in the explosion in the yard, he had escaped with the dough but then out of the graveyard shift rolls out the good old Truck. Why the truck? How come the whole damn truck? Where were men enough for it?

Doors swung open, both the door of the truck and the back door of the house. As Smith jumped the fence he heard the front door fall and thick soled shoes thumping on it. Idiots, ha, hadn't he told them many a time, always block both the entrance. Thank god, they didn't learn. Thank God, he had a back up car a few yards ahead. He ran like his life depended on it, well it did and he did run pretty fast. The few female joggers smiled at him, where were they when he jogged every morning?

As he took the turn he heard something whizz past him, a look back and there were the cars galloping towards him and people in there firing at him. The cars too? The truck and the cars? What was it the rebirth? The Second Revelation?

When in doubt go left. And left he ran into someone's back garden, jumped his second fence. They couldn't get him. He was the best, that's why the job had been given to him. Run, Lola, Run. It was a beautiful morning, specially the clouds, they had some beautiful shapes. It was a good day to die. It was a good day to live. Ah, spring, the first day of spring. The rye field used to look so cheerful as the rye swayed. Maybe, everything does count a little more than we think.

He had lost the car following him and had found the car that was to be his ride. Silently, he congratulated himself on being so professional. Experience does teach a thing or two. A few seconds more and he will have vroomed out of the newbies' reach. The black Chevrolet shined in it's full glory, bestowing upon it's viewer a sense of pride. He pushed the handle of the car. It wouldn't budge. The bloody keys, those harbinger of sorrow of remorse unknown, in the bloody table drawers. May untold woe and tragedy befall those that remain hidden in their dark corners when needed. Life is a tragedy on repeat loop.

Well then, again, Run Lola Run. Now what? What was the back up to the back up plan?
...
Contd.(Hopefully!)

Pakistan within

Dear Banno,

I still remember, how beautiful you looked when sleeping. Those petite lips contracting into a pretty smile, eyelashes fitting so perfect into each other, the face so peaceful. Of course, I haven't been able to sleep of late, I can't seem to forget the cross-roads near Karim's shop. Hope you remember that's where all of us friends use to hangout together. Ah, the good old days. But then most of my life has been nothing but re-collection of those days in here.

You always asked me what I thought of as I waited near the shop, for you. Why, dear it's you I thought of. I didn't mention it then , I should have. That tiny lane you came from, bordered by open sewers which used to flood during the monsoon,ah, what a stench. Look what I have started doing flowing away with the sewage.

I never said I love you, but then they said it before I could and then I could never mention it, could I? As I waited for you, while near by Ganges rolled on in all its holy majesty, I thought of saying my heart out to you. What happened then? Why am i here and you out there married, i guess, by now?

Pakistan had just been formed, my dear. That eternal damned moth-ridden state and a Pakistan had formed in the village, in all our hearts. The Great divide from which only blood migrated but the souls were left behind. One night a horde of 15 Muslisms came to my house and threatened to kill me if I didn't stop seeing you. How furious I was, how bloated in youthful anger? I promised to chop the head off every damned Muslim who said that but then i remembered your dad had intervened the day before and made the horde go away. The borders had been drawn, the migration was inevitable. But we were in India, this was the secular land, the land of a million religions, of religions people hadn't heard of, of religion people can't talk against. Why then did I have to go?

When I told you of the incident, you asked me to stay, to prove them wrong, to do something brave. Oh, how I wished to turn into the Aurangzeb and chop the heads of the dissidents, of anyone who dared to speak against you. Maybe, you wanted me to run away with you, I can never know. But that evening, when I went back home, my folks were very scared for my life. That same night a bigger horde came in and dared us to show my face so that they could kill me on-the-spot. My parents caring as they were hid me in the basement. They trapped the volcano amongst old boxes. Your dad had again intervened and saved the day. As I came out of my shelter, the lull was contagious. It was decided that I should leave my village. I should go somewhere, to Bombay.

I never said good-bye, did i? It was all so sudden, so out of the blue, but then I had to go for the sake of my parents if nothing else. A hurried suitcase was packed, the same one in which I had stared few hours back seething with rage and now, I stare with growing disappointment in life. With a caravan of 10-15 Hindu uncles and Karim I was sent off in the night local. As is reached station I had vague hope that you would come, your dad must have told you. And you, the unfettered, would break free and be with me. We would run away as you had planned, from this village which was mine but never ours. As the train gave its first puff, I thought I smelt you or maybe it was the banks of Ganges. As I lost the vision of the platform I knew there was to be no more Banno, there was to be no more me.

Mumbai, yes they call it Mumbai now, it has as many rats in its gutters as humans on the roads and equally filthy are both. The first few days were terrible. The nightmares of people pounding on my door, of you drowning in the gutter like Ganges, of you shirking off the news of my absence. But then a man has to eat doesn't he. Ah, life caught up on me and now its only when I am sleeping do i remember my village. I am afraid the only time I will forever be en my village will be in my dreams, the longest dream ever dreamed, in the eternal sleep.

But that's a very sad note to end on for a woman who must have a kid or more by now. Hope you bloom forever and forget me. Hope the star-less sky the engulfs my nights, lay's not a finger on your roof. Hope you do remember me. Hope, the hope never dies.

Falteringly yours,
Karn

Letters

Dear God,

Dear God, my dog died today. Could you please return him to me. You know my mother said, everyone who dies goes to you, so i thought you might have him right now. If you could please send him back, sir. I know it might be some trouble but you know i promise to help you out henceforth. I could... I will be good now onwards. I will do all my homework from now on. I will clean my room. I will not even cry when i am hurt. I will never shout at anyone. I will not make fun of ELijah. I promise God. I know i have not been the best i could have been.

I am a kid sir. I might have made some mistakes but will not anymore. I love him, i love pucho. I will not be angry at him when he wets my face by licking me in the morning. I have no friends other than him. I used to play with him every evening and if he does not want that I will not. I will ...I will do anything you want. I am so sorry...i didn't mean to hurt you or him, if i ever have. Please forgive me.

If you cannot return him, at least pat him for me once. You know he likes playing ball and used to go with me to walks in the garden. Could you please take him to garden once in a while. I know you must have huge beautiful gardens everywhere up there. Or if you could take me up to him. I could come up there to look after him, otherwise he would get lonely. But then mother would cry as she did when grand mother passed away. Please do send Pucho back.

Mommy said you lived in heaven and everyone who dies goes to you. Could your dead postman take this along when he come here next. And i didn't eat that cookie, the servant did, though when i told Mommy so she thought i was lying and scolded me, hope you know that and are not punishing me just for that. I promise not to eat cookie ever again. I am sleepy now, have to go to school tomorrow. Hope you get this letter, Please send pucho back, please,please,please,...