Help!

"I am dying. I can fell it in the air. I can feel it in my bones, I can feel it my hair. I was a child just a few days back and look how time flies. I had dreams for myself, not one but many and I outgrew each. As days passed so did my heartbeats and with each a new dream. I could have been this or that. I wanted to be this or that. I was okay with being mediocre too but even less, I had not estimated. It is not that I am dead but I can feel myself melting away as if the self I carried has disappeared with time. Layers have been worn off and slowly everything will unravel into nothingness. What is the point of beauty or worth, if it is not appreciated. Any greatness not recognized is self-delusion. And I am not delusional.

I am dying and the people around me, don't know this. They expect me to participate in their daily charades. Let's chat they say and let's dance. But they don't talk, they gossip, whisper nothings. They don't dance, they repeat steps they remember, steps that others will appreciate. I know I am not great. It was I think the first thing I recognized about myself. That and the fact that I used a lot of 'I' in my work. But I write what I write even if I write a lot Is. Days pass, even years and what will they remember of these days and years. The great nothing. No consequence like billion others before them, they will slide of the face of earth. Do you realize we have one lifetime to live and that's it. Voila like a cheap magic trick we will disappear from the face of this earth never to return. Finish! Vamoosh! and nothing. Do not think much and life makes sense. For a moment stop and think and this vast castle of cards falls apart leaving nothing. I am dying. We all are."

Look what I found in her bag.

Let me see that... Wow.Too much angst. I think you should talk to your daughter, maybe she needs help. Is she okay? Is she sick?

Yes, yes she is fine. I promise. But, but do you, with all your writing awards, think it's good? Would you give her any tips to improve her work?

Not bad actually, if she didn't mean it. I think she should expand on it. Explore her inner sensibilities a bit further. There are hints of excellence which if worked upon could make this printable. But this does not look like a work of 17 year old girl. Are you positive it is your daughters work?

Yes, yes, of course, who else would write it. Not me.

You girl's quite grown up then. Tell her she will be alright, she could always be great writer.

You really think so sister?

The day after, years later

It was a stupid fight. A war of egos. Why did he act so base?  It did not make sense. Last night he had pitied himself. It made no sense. He must have been wrong. Not that she was completely untouched of evil but he, he knew better. He understood the deeper reason for all this. Why did he need to act such? Someone has to make those sacrifices. Someone has to understand. He was supposed to do that. They had agreed to it. Take the deeper lunge. Come out unscathed. The gender let him down and he was ready to repent it now. He didn't mean it. He did not know what to say when the time arrived. Always the incorrect words, always the flaring of a spark and the regret on the day after.

He turned left. She looked so pretty asleep. So pure of infractions of emotional kind. He must have been wrong. How can someone so pretty ever be incorrect? He stared at her. She was calm. Last night had not been. Where was the gentleness of this soul, the humanity of emotions, anything, but the ferociousness of impulses.

He touched those cheeks, that face. These were not the thoughts of last night. She was untouched of societal pressures. She knew what was right. She said she did. He hoped she did.  This wasn't the first time.  He had seen her like this many times. but this morning was different. It had been like waking  up in a time warp. Every morning he woke up in love. but today was different. He tried to bring forth the same love. but it was missing. He loved her. He thought so, he ought to. but there was something missing. He could not find the same lovely lady he had fallen in love with the morning before. She was not the same girl, she was not her, she could not have been her. He summoned all the repressed feelings of love but he was staring at an empty pot (par uske samne sirf ek khaali gadha tha). There was nothing more left to give. Where was the love, where the emotions? It seemed  like a long time ago when he had promised her he would not change. He had. It was his fault. He could not find those evil nuances he had loved. The face was suddenly normal. It was the same old. He tried to make himself emotional. Forcing himself to think of all those dreamy nights when he had been engulfed himself in her charms. Her faced looked ordinary. What was it that she did few days back? Memories of her smile, her impish look and not a rock moved in his mountainous heart. As if all the emotions had drained out. Even this thought registered at a sub optimal level. but what is optimal. I should be angry at least but could not bring himself to cry. He ought to be sad but he could not bring himself to shout. He wanted to love but could not. This was not his first time in love, it was his first time out of it. What irritated him was that he would  nothing about it, time would pass and things would happen. In brief, he would act distant and not talk about it, she would notice and would talk about it, he would agree but not talk about it, he would hurt her and not talk about it, they would engage in a scene and would shout about it, he would be back in it and she would be out of it. Life makes for strange stories when you wish to add emotional spice to your bland going on. Anyways she woke up, he had agreed it was his fault last night, she acted normally, he gave up on being dramatic and life was normal again. But the memory lingered.

GIGO

"Are you from around here?" is a stupid question to ask a taxi driver. Let's agree that I am not very intelligent then. The world was from around here. The stars weren't too far off if we only tried hard enough and believe me we didn't. 

"No, I am not from here." 

"Where are you from?" 

"Banaras. Some village near Banaras." 

"Ah, Banaras!" 

My eyes sparkled, not with the shimmer of Twilight fans but with the glow of a wand post spell making. Here was the famed North-Indian cabwallah. I wont lie, I feel a bit closer to them being a quarter UPite myself. 

"Where exactly in Banaras ?" I asked. 

Let me assure you I have been to Banaras once, for 2 days, and that too years back and don't remember a wee bit of that trip. 

"If you take a left from the main bridge near Banaras you'll get to our village." 

"Oh, and since when have you been here?" I queried. 

"It has been ten years. My wife kid stay with me here." 

"And how has the place been treating you?" I had spent a bit more than a year in Mumbai. 

"Its nice. A bit costly though. We spend 4.5k for rent." 

"Where do you live ?" I asked. 

"In a shanty near Lower Parel" 

"A posh place." I remarked. He grinned and said "I cannot stay at Navi Mumbai, its too far off." 

Yes, bloody hell it is. No pubs too. It is one big retirement society. 

"How big is the business then? Earning the legendary dough that salaried middle class thinks everyone (even beggars supposedly) else earns." 

"Oh its fine" he said "We pay Rs. 100 in the morning to the taxi owner. Get this taxi with its tank full and return the same every night. But I am planning on going to Banaras now. Parents want to live with me and I can't afford that in Mumbai. We live in a nice home in our village, stuff millionaires dream of here. I will buy a cab and ply on the roads there."

"But isn't Mumbai less corrupt, I mean if you have your papers correct, there is no hassle. In UP you will have to pay to every guy who demands and further travel on those broken roads. I said defending the city where Half of India earns and three fourths spend."
"Yes that there is. But the tourist thing is picking up there. If I speak English tourists pay well and there is no meter system there so I earn more from them."

At least he knew what he wanted to do. He had plans. I have notions, threads of idea running lose and an absent ambition which could never weave a dream from them.

The night was cold. At least it was not raining. It had been an ugly week. The foreseeable future was bleak. The bridge was approaching. I would soon cross into the cage of this new city now. To keep the Q & A running I asked "Why don't you work for Meru? They pay better." "Nah," he said "the system was same there. You paid 150 there every morning, whether you drove the car or not. So you ended up paying even when sick."

It's a strange thing, this life. Some Fridays you are running around to the nearest pub and others you are staring alone at your laptop with all your friends busy. Yet the world goes on, everything remains the same in both the cases, it only one's personal condition which is different. Our lives are like linear stories which interact with the lives of others sometimes leading to a consequence. To live in the present and starve in the winter or to plan for the future and lose the present. As always moderation is the answer. But what is life if not living in the extremes? The safety of average is the life of most. A life lived more ordinary. Has there ever been a sunset which has not been observed by anyone? The irrational thoughts of a drunk man.

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.