Tu kisi rail si

I remember it was between 10-11am on a sunny day in Gokarna. I know that because I had returned from a minor trek in the morning to a near-by beach. I opened this hardcover thin book. It was a collection of ghazals/shayari by Dushyant Kumar.

This raises a lot of questions. Who am I being the most obvious one. Why was I in Gokarna? Was I alone? Why had I gone for a 'minor trek', if such a thing exists? Why did I have this book by Dushyant Kumar? Why did I have a ghazal/shayari book by a Hindi poet, instead of a book on poetry? Why Dushyant Kumar? And why this post now?

Hi. I am Karn Kher. The author of this blog, although I do not reserve the right to say so with the sparse effort I have put in updating it. I am a lot of things and lot of groups can demand to have or not have me on their rosters. I wish to be more in many senses. There was a time when I was rather interested in writing, but over time I have realised I am not good at it and it makes Ricardian sense to not indulge in it either. And there we go again digressing from the topic of discussion. This is what happens usually. I am moved enough to write about something, I start writing, I digress and I close the article as a draft never to be touched again (like a virgin!).

Yes, so Gokarna. I wanted to run away from society, people et al. I was getting bored of humans, traffic, noise, expectations the whole humdrum existence (not suicidal, yet!). Oooo much smart-ass!!
I was about to embark on this new phase of my professional journey post MBA and wanted to do something I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to do later in my life. (Consider this as a polite search for a female who would let their male partners just go alone on a leisure trip without the torrents of explanations and tears! Not that females do that. Because hormone and biology does not exist and we are all the same.) So yeah Gokarna.

I was alone because the few people I asked didn't wish to come along and I was OK with that. I privately wanted to go alone. People do not understand that one can just sit and read. All day long. Being alone gave me the freedom to do as I wish. Wake up at early hours to see the sun already risen, take a dip in water and go back to sleep. Wake up in afternoon, go out for a stroll, randomly keep trekking and return 5 hours later. Sit at a empty shack at one end of the beach and read/listen to music for 8 hours straight. It also makes you wish you had people along with you. To talk to. To look after stuff while you went to the bathroom. To split bills. To ensure you reach your room post alcohol binge. To let the world know you are dead in case you slip from a hill and die. To push you down that hill and claim a kill without being pronounced guilty. Oh yes I forgot Dushyant Kumar.

Ok, minor trek because i got bored and had covered the same route the day before.

During my internship stint, my colleagues mentor was interested in poetry. I know that because while discussing my interests I had mentioned reading Rashmirathi to her. (If I remember correctly, I had once embarked on the journey to translate Rashmirathi to English. Oh David/Abhimanyu me!) She had then recited the below two lines by a poet called Dushyant Kumar.

पार होगी सेनाएं , विजई होंगे राम।
पुल्ल बनाने वाले पीछे रह जाएंगे , आने वाले युग में वानर कह लाएंगे ॥

Now I read Hindi literature rarely. This is because: I do not know many great Hindi authors. I find them too interested in society and its ways rather than individual psychology. Too dramatic. My hindi reading speed is low. So this name, Dushyant Kumar, stuck with me and the fact that he is a वीर रस poet. Some one like our dear old Ramdhari Singh Dinkar.

I bought this book from the railway station stall at Mumbai Central (BCT). This was done to keep up the family tradition of buying a book at any railway station. At least a magazine. If nothing just so that it can be thrown out of the train's window by my sister. So there's this Hindi book stall at BCT which only had this collection of shayari by Dushyant Kumar. No wait, that's not it. I bought this book in Meerut along with many other books (10 to be precise. What? They were cheap!). I selected this book along with Faiz and Rebecca Goldenstein's 36 Arguments for God to be my oeuvre for the Gokarna trip.Why was that Station thing there? Because you had typed something and it made somehow more sense to not delete incorrect information and go Meh!

This post exists because of this song that has been released lately and has a couplet by Dushyant Kumar in it..

तू किसी रेल सी गुज़रती है,
मैं किसी पुल्ल सा थरथराता हूँ ।

The rest of the lines of this shayari don't match up to the greatness of this one line. It was so modern, so mechanical and yet so human. It struck me at once though appreciation for it took a while. To anyone who has ever traveled in a train not the closed compartments of AC but in the excellent ventilation that makes the stinking sleeper class bearable, this couplet makes obvious sense. It is so raw and uncouth like a man's love. I spent quite a few hours repeating it Gokarna, looking at a world changed. Suddenly Wordsworth and his daffodils were crushed while the curves of the rivulet were passed on the bridge. It was so raw and yet there was no nature in it. It was human, all too human.

Then this song turned up today and all these forgotten parchments of my memory which would have withered and lost in the wind returned.

I'ts been some time.

Sun still rises in the east. The same plain hue of orange. It has been ages since i murmured in its silence. The silence. Oh, how i have missed the silence. Birds chirp in the morning. The dew. The wetness of grass. They still linger every morning. I miss them. Do they? Assure me, assure me that every morning there is a receptive human, dragging his feet through the grass. The parched heart. Plain blue sky for miles ahead and beyond. Dreams have not seen the beauty that a morning offers. Day breaks unlike the hearts is something to look forward to. Indeed is it not what all of us live for. Something to look forward to. A ray of hope. A glimmer of light across the tunnel. It is that which makes the burden of life possible to bear.

Melancholy, the sweet nectar of life. You are that one i seek in every corner and receive on every path. But the sweet melancholy of early morning. Reminder of every heart break. Each and Every one. Do you remember that one wherein you fell in love so bad, that love turned sour. The one wherein you never spoke a word and it lasted a year.  Every morning I wait. Beyond every morning lies hope. Beyond every day break the chance of a fresh new tirade of emotions.

You have grown up they say. You are a man now. In some corner lingers the boy. Waiting to catch you while the man in you sleeps as the night turns black. And across the horizon as the sun breaks free, it pounces upon every human emotion. Lifts it up, throws it down and turns it around until what is left is a sleep deprived fragile creature.

Sleep. Sleep and you shall awake. And thus put an end to they myriad of random emotions. Sleep and you shall awake. Give me something to look forward to. Anything.

Rant

Mind your own business. Get away from me. Farther into your holes away from me. I dont want to live the way you do. It might be right. But who wishes to be right. Screw right be wrong instead. Dont smoke. Okay i will. Dont drink. Okay i will. Run away from the commotion into the silent arms of serenity pining for warmth. Better the dreams of love than love itself. I wont betray myself at least. Maybe i will. No one can be trusted. Least of all thy own self. Let the walls crash down and reduce humanity to the whimpering few. Let the sky go dark and let the people be askew. When no ones left  I wont be either. And so much better for it. The stifled scream of words. Words are so miserable sticking like barbs into eyes. Forcing themselve in whatever form possible. Words are so few so pointless, meaningless too. Destroy language. Let anarchy prevail. Let the good people die. Let the bad die too. And all shall live.

Madness Within

The roads were crowded with man and machine. 8:30 in the morning and everyone was racing to their office. "Shit!" exclaimed Rudra. Already soured mood was further decomposed. Someone from office had called. They had asked him to collect some cash for a job he had no idea of. These nuisance makers didn't work month long and at the end of the month delegated labor. Empty brains are lighter and float to the top. Stupidity was appalling and especially so when it earns more than oneself. These 40 something men, after having languished for a life term in the same demeaning job had become his boss. These idiots were supposed to help him. These humans who didn't understand logic or efficiency. To have to listen to them, to reach down to their level, to make them understand, pained him. What killed him was to have to agree to their stupidity just because they were old. Their brains were more rotten than his. They would die before him. They had exhaled, digested longer than him. Screw them. Scum of the earth, stoic by philosophy, cowards by nature. One more moronic statement and he would impale these clowns. oh, what would he not give to see the metallic pike pass though their soft flesh and emerge on the other, like a car passing through a tunnel, like human crossing purgatory.

The obligatory morning rain had just ended. Puddles of water littered the roads. He hopped, he skipped, he jumped while the devil ruled his roost in his brain or the reservoir of reluctance it had become. A morcha was moving beside him demanding stuff. He couldn't afford a leave to join a morcha. He had better stuff do, grow in this darned profession etc. They demanded an end to corruption and return of black money. They were jealous, these joy-kill socialists. Ask them to donate more to bring the poor farmer to their own economic level and listen how they balk. These scums that are middle class, neither the tigers during war nor the lambs of peace. They wanted someones money while they mooched off their owners. These claimers of fake bills , these groaners of good ol' days. Look how they shout. Wish he could strangle them, the breath of a life wasted slowly departing from their pointless lives.

Police had surrounded the morcha and him. The men in khakis, the guardians of nothing. The inspector shouted. A policeman misunderstood and pushed Rudra, lathi charge began.  One rod of wood hit his shoulders. He turned towards the authority, a local lower-middle class employed by 'his' government, living off his taxes, stared back. The devil or the son of god possessed him, depending on which side you are on. He snatched the lathi. The police-man was dumb founded. The policeman stared back. Suddenly our protagonist embodied the evil that lurks just below our humane skin. He became the evil that governments fear, the man society idolizes yet is afraid to accept in its fold. With a snarl he gave what he received and more. He hit back. First the first and then the many. The anger of ages flowed through him. And the blows lashed out. All the sins were in this policeman. One to the shoulder, next to the ribs. Next yet to the neck. The khaki the color of ground reached its inspiration. And the blood on khaki, the red with the soil. With the serpent on the ground now, he kicked. He stomped, he stamped his foot on the face. Anger clouded his eyes, all was right, everything was justified. This society deserved every punishment meted on it. These imposers of imprudent authority,these devil's incarnate He kicked and then some more.

The struggle between other men and uniformed men seemed to exist in a separate realm. His and their realm met for a second. The policemen realizing one of their own, a man who would've been on any side on any other day was losing, shouted and jumped towards him. He was no idiot. Like a paranoid android he ran. He fled the scene his shirt with blood splashed over it clung to his torso. The khakis followed. The traffic had not stopped. This wasn't the first time they witnessed someone being beaten up. This wasn't their introduction to blood. He ran, took the first left, then the first right. Better to get as many turns between them as he could he thought.

His memory and thoughts became myopic. His next meal, his job, his family and the theoretical friends did not concern him. Like a deer running from a predator he ran. He would trade all his future to get away from them, these men who hounded him. He glanced back, they were following him. His liver hurt. His lungs begged for mercy. His brain commanded them to co-operate. Drizzle broke upon the yet-to-dry earth.

When was the last time he ran, he knew not. Men are not meant to run. They are meant to attack stealthily. They were the fittest of the animal kind. They were and what a day it was.

He took a sudden turn and entered a bank. A small branch of a big bank. There were no customers, yet. He ran straight to the security guard and after a kick possessed latter's weapon. The security guard, an overweight man from some other state had come here just for this job.He spent all his excess money home. At least that's what he told his wife. With the gun gone, his proud mustache was just a wasteful accessory. But now what?

Rudras plan extended to the next 5 seconds and not more. With the gun in his hand, he stood. The guard lay still on the floor. Farther from the mad man,safer it was. The many policemen stood outside the glass door.

What the hell? What am i doing here? Why am I here? What is going on? His brain burst, went berserk with sudden deluge of recent past. Past but still recent. A warm dead body. His body shivered with a mixture of fear and anger. A scream welled in his throat. His teeth gnashed, his lips pursed his eyes screamed. Sweat poured, lips parted. His jaw hurt, his eyes threatened to spill over. He couldn't take it anymore. He let out a roar as much out of fear as from anger. He was the lion confronting a hunter. Savage yet hunted. Anger and vigor shot through his body yet his brain was assured of its extinction. The veins on his neck throbbed. His muscles constricted. The noise was animalistic but the human in him wouldn't let him be yet.his fist clenched, his forehead terse he let out a scream. Tears frolicked on his face. The desperation, the humiliation, the sheer anger. With a gun in his hand he erupted. All these years of online gaming had taught him to use a SMG he so expertly held.

The momentary impulse now aside, he waited. His body shivered for his heart. Stalemate ensued for a few seconds seconds or years his brain knew not. A lone policeman opened the door. Guess, it was one of those days when one man is braver than others.15 more stood behind him on the other side of the door. Him versus they.  "Don't. Stay back.", Rudra said. The policeman under estimated him. He under estimated them. The gun was propped up. Silence reigned. If this would have been a movie, there would have been no background music. Life imitated art. A lone trigger twitched. Triggers were pulled and bullets danced. Glass crashed. Storm ensued. So silent and then this noise.16 guns and his, spewed metal.

He lay on the ground. He was tired. Think, think you bastard, the last fleeting thought of this thoughtless life. You could've been so much more on some other day. Why this? Why now? Why me? The shoes of a cashier were the last vision of a dying man. His eyes drooped with exhaustion. Breath was not coming too easy either. The old migraine seemed to be catching up with him.With one last sigh was bought to an end what began as an usual day. The eventful end to an uneventful man. Who would collect the cash now? Tomorrow should be a half working day at the least.

The night is distraught, let the stars sleep at least. I am yet to find what I sought, let the stars sleep at least.

To be deleted

The nothingness of a working life. The early morning blues beckoned him to the land of the living. Technicolour dreams were not for him. Groggily he lingered towards the bathroom. What poise, what passion. He faced the mirror. It is difficult to see how one looks in the mirror with their eyes closed. Why, why this misery? The bed beckoned. Come to me it said, come to what you want, to what you deserve. What is this life of haste? Screw the boss, screw the job. Sleep. Sleep serenely, sleep calmly, sleep tonight, sleep all your life. Why do you need to leave on time today? Why? There's that meeting today, the voice of reason boomed Godlike, all pervasive yet invisible.

His hand accepted the decision and sought the tooth-brush amongst the many tiddly widdlies. A bit of paste and more was squeezed on to the mane of the brush. The eternal struggle, the holy war between man and plaque was waged yet again, albeit in not a very manly way either. Gargle and he was ready to dress up. Water, water. To quench the thirst of that endless night where many a wars were fought in many a heads.

To bath or not to bath is the question. Whether its nobler in mind to bear the slings and arrows of outrageous decency or by taking arms against it end it. (Editors Note: Please stop using this single Shakespearean quote you remember). Like a dog he raised one of his limbs and smelt the armpit. The stink was heretic. To bath then. Partly undressed he walked in. Shower or the bucket. To stand or to sit. To take the water like a man or to accept the eventuality of being wet like a Hindu. Screw the bucket. There was no need to move so many limbs when the turn of a knob would suffice. He stepped outside the realm of the shower and the released the torrential downpour. And now to wet thyself. An arm outstretched entered the upper atmosphere of the wetlands. With a jerk it was withdrawn. With one leg in first the creature became a man. The senses returned albeit reluctantly. Now since it will take forever to write about every twist and turn of the soap on his body, we conclude the bath. The final act of absolution was carried out by a towel and he was ready to wear the employees new clothes. A flick of a comb later, the drone was ready to leave. After he wore his shoes. Of course after he wore his shoes, how stupid the author would have to be to send the lead protagonist without shoes. A lot like me.

He picked up a copy of Mint. It had good English within its reams. The descent from the house began, the boy became a man. From the confines of the house to the expanse of the universe. Though each enclosed the other. Birds chirped, dogs growled. Black shoes rubbing against the gravel, the hero marched. The march of a foot-soldier to the eternal war. Assured of eventual death and the resulting absence of heroics, one more day was to be spent turning the cog of life. Today's duty : Keep the blandness of life intact.

He reached the bus-stop, took out his music player, put the earphones in his ear and was ready for rest of the day. The AC bus arrived. He always entered last in the bus, not out of his will. He sat in an empty seat and immediately blocked the adjacent one,by keeping his bag on it. Sudden revelation of the emptiness of his life and lack of meaning or ambition in it hit him like a wave. It caught his collars, threw him down, dragged him across the street, raised him on a pole and left it there as a symbol of mediocrity. To regain a breath of dignity he dared himself to write something coherent, some write-up/ blog post. And this awful piece of shit was all he could come up with. Its blandness and self centered outlook is a new low for him too. If you have read this, you must have if you are reading this line, please meet me and i promise to return you your 5 minutes of life back. And the ill-tempered, monsoon morning in Mumbai on a Sunday morning ain't helping either. God! How i miss those hang-overs.

Sub-Normality

"Dad put our dog in an asylum without telling me." Tales told when drunk are seldom meant to be heard. She went on talking and picked up a puppy in a lane next to the pub. It yelped to no result. The up-town female suddenly was the not-so virgin, mother Mary. With love in her eyes she stroked the dog. It made an effort to be let loose, with modicum of reluctance she put it down. She said that the dog seems hungry and looked at me pleadingly. Not used to the fickle emotions of the female kind, I looked around and realized the entrance to pubs kitchen was near-by. Without a clue of what to do and fiddling on the borders of drunkenness I ventured and Lo! Behold! brought a bread back. Had entered the kitchen and embarrassed, had asked the nearest chef to give me something to feed a dog. He had stared for a second and curtly, had asked me to pick a piece of bread that lay close by. Like Arthur bringing out his sword, I brought the bread out.

The lady, swept the bread from my hands and showered her love on the dog. The canine, receiver of such affection stuck to its high ground. I holding on to the moral ground, helped her, prevented her from falling, tried to drill reason into her. And a bunch of ruffians too busy to bother stared and laughed intermittently. With my male pride not completely over ridden by alcohol, I did not stoop to conquer.

Whats a boy supposed to do? Would it be appropriate to hold her back? When such emotions surge what right does society have to intrude? Should I try to hold her straight? Would it be indecent? How much touching was allowed for her benefit? What strange tales lurk in the shadows of us, normal people? "He used to beat it when I was gone." No, damn your dad. Damn you. Do I not have enough tales of my own. What waves rolled underneath the calm earth? Why did everything have to be so wrong,do happy endings exist? A million words exploded in my head, conversations erupted. There were a thousand things I wanted to tell her. To hold her shoulders and say, it'll all get right. To tell her, let the past be. Were we still acquaintances? Tomorrow we would again be distant. The dog ran away, fed on left over chicken pieces from the pub, it cared not for the peasants bread.

"Diya, where the hell are you?" She abruptly stood up and moved where rest of the friend circle beckoned. Like the darkness lurking behind the lamp, I followed, silent. And life was normal again and people strangers.

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,