Story of a well

Once upon a time in Kabul, there lived two kids. Arif and Ehsan. Arif was on the heavier side while Ehsan was slender. Once bored of their monotonous summer holidays, they decided to play football in an empty field in the neighbourhood. There was an old well in the field, which fed the locality's water tank. One of Ehsan's sky-high shot accidentally entered into the well. For a moment, they both became perplexed. But, they both knew that it was not a deep well and they knew how to swim. Without wasting a moment, both of them jumped in.

The cold water kissed their heat-tormented bodies and they relished in the newly discovered swimming pool. They kicked the ball, played water polo with it, and finally, after an hour of refreshing break from the scorching summer heat, they decided to climb up using the iron-holders fixed alongside the old well's wall. Eshan, good with high-shots, kicked the football out in one go and started climbing up. Arif followed.

When Arif stepped on the third iron-holder, he couldn't get a good hold for his big foot. He twitched it and gave the holder a little jerk, only to find it coming off and experiencing a free fall into the well. The shriek, 'Ehsaaa....aan', was soon muted by the cold water gushing in Arif's open mouth. Ehsan upon hearing the shriek became worried and quickly looked below. He saw Arif lying in the bed of water with his body submerged, while his hands and mouth struggling for breath. 

'I'm coming Arif, just be there.' Ehsan shouted and started climbing up faster than before. 

'I'm waiting.' Arif said panting, hoping Ehsan to bring someone to help him come out of the well. Soon Ehsan disappeared outside the well and that left Arif all alone, with only his heavy breaths as his companion.

The lull, the dim light, the cold, the disappearance of Ehsan and his loud heartbeats began to scare him. He once again shouted, 'Ehsan, are you there?' to which there was no response. He battled his fear by pacifying himself that Ehsan might have gone to call his father or elder brother to help him out. 

Suddenly, a splash occurred just a few centimeters away from him. Ehsan was back! And a moment later, the football came flying in and hit Arif on his head.

Puzzled, before Arif could ask what was happening, Ehsan replied, 'Sorry, the ball went really far, that's why I took so much time to bring it back. Let's restart the game.'

Joystick

2003

Streaks of sweat trickled down our newly tonsured heads. Despite the riotous chanting of mantra during the last rites of our grandfather, which demanded our presence, we decided that cricket required more attention. Our grandfather died of a heart attack, after which a wave of abominable melancholy struck the entire household, except the two of us. It wasn't that we didn't bother, it did affect us, but only for a while. Like love, sorrow in adolescence doesn't stay for long.

It had been three hours that we had been playing cricket. Tired as well as a little afraid that our mercurial Mama would reprimand us for being so callous, we decided to call it off. I, Shantanu, 14, carried the bat and the wickets while my cousin, Ashwin, 12, brought the remaining equipments viz. gloves, pads and the ball. To prevent ourselves from being caught red-handed returning from the playground despite the lamentable situation, we sneaked inside through the back door. The entire family was meditative to the tune of the plump pundit chanting mantras in his typical nasal tone.

ॐ त्र्यम्बकम् यजामहे सुगन्धिम् पुष्टिवर्धनम् ।

उर्वारुकमिव बन्धनान् मृत्योर्मुक्षीय माम्रतात् ।।

Unconcerned with the process, we entered a room, darkened by the dusky sunlight peeping through the windows. I was sweating profusely due to the sultry atmosphere in the room. I hindered Ashwin from switching on any lights to avoid people outside in the aangan to realize that we had returned from the playground. I closed the door and the two of us lay on the ground, looking up at the dark ceiling.

'My entire pant is wet because of sweat. God, now I can't even change it as my dry boxer lies in the other room.' I uttered helplessly.

'Mine too.' Ashwin muttered, heaving a sigh.

The sun had dipped further down, dusk was giving way to the dark ghastly night. The room was now totally dark. I twisted and turned; made some noise with my clothes as though I was playing tug of war against the ceiling. Except for the very dim flickering light of diya kept outside seeping through the crevices of the door, there was nothing that could bring even a trace of light to brighten the room up.

There was a stark silence in the room, the blatant noise made by the pundit outside was somehow numbed by the closed door and the sudden rhythmic sound that Ashwin heard.

'Shaan bhaiya, why are you shivering? Bhaiya?' Ashwin asked, worried.

'Ah..it's nothing. I'm just playing video game, ah... with joystick,' I replied, slightly panting.

'Why are you breathing heavily, are you okay? Should I call someone?' Ashwin asked, concerned.

'Hell no. Stay here. Join me, do you want to hold the joystick?' I moved my right hand to grab hold of Ashwin's left and pulled it towards myself. Owing to Ashwin's nervousness, it took a lot of effort on my end to pull his hand on me.

'Grab it. Leave it free. Isn't it big?'

'What's it bhaiya? It's hot,' Ashwin muttered, afraid.

'Don't worry, just keep playing with it. This way. Do it faster, then I'll show you how to play with yours.'

Ashwin nervously caught pace, continued stroking for two minutes until his elbow started hurting.

'I can't do it anymore. I'm tired.'

'Don't stop. I will beat you if you stop. I'll complain to Mama that you broke my video game.' I asserted.

Two minutes later, I wiped Ashwin's shivering wet hands with the curtain and made some more noises with my clothes, which stopped after he heard the sound of zipping.

Ashwin felt a sudden encroachment inside his pants. In awkfard fear, he oppugned, 'Shaan bhaiya, what are you doing?'

'I'm just making you feel happy. Be relaxed.'

'Shaan bhaiya, don't touch it. Nobody has ever touched it before.'

'Arey, I'm your elder brother. I have seen you naked at birth, you don't need to feel shy. Just trust me and see how wonderful it would feel.'

The next five minutes Ashwin didn't speak a word. Another five minutes went by and he was panting.

'Even your joystick has got size. But where is the proof of your masculinity? It hasn't arrived yet.'

'Bhaiya, it's hurting me, please stop. Please. Oh god, there's a weird sensation ... oh ....in my lower stomach...oh, oh...sigh.'

'Done. How does it feel? You had plenty of it stored, you never knew it, didn't you?'

'Bhaiya, what was that? I am feeling really frightened.'

'Don't worry Ashu, it's just excess energy inside you. Keep throwing it aside from time to time.'

'I want to go outside, Bhaiya.'

'Don't tell anyone about it otherwise I would tell Mama that you broke my video game.'

'Hmm.'

The next three days, Ashwin's behaviour had completely changed. He was clinging to his mother all the time, being totally disinterested in me. I realized that what had happened was not right. Not at all right. However, being just 14, my conscience wasn't righteous enough to make me feel sorry. Idle, I became involved in the puja-paath, with frequent long breaks to the loo. My joystick missed Ashwin. Five days later, the families dispersed in different corners of the country and the memories of the dark room was buried in the dark corner of both of our minds.

Seven years later.

21st October, 2010

Today, a very distressing memory came crawling into my head. As I am at my grandmother's place, I was asked to sleep in the very same room. Yes, the very same room where once I had physically abused Ashwin. I couldn't sleep the whole night. Though it has been seven years of the event, but ever since my conscience came into being, I had been bitten by the self-hate of doing something so vile in my utter senselessness. The ghastly memory of sexually abusing my younger brother aches my heart every time it flashes by. Sounds of his nervous breaths, worried voice and shivering body haunted me the entire night. I kept staring at the dark ceiling, in hope that the dark speckle of bad memory inside my head could be erased, but alas. 

I wonder what would Ashwin be thinking of me. That I'm homosexual, who assaulted him? Oh no, that shouldn't happen. God, someone tell him that I was just curious. It happens at puberty, doesn't it? He would be carrying hatred against me, he would never ever forgive me for what I did in my utter irresponsibleness. How would he feel when I tell him that I have a girlfriend? That I'm straight. I had just crossed puberty during that phase, that's why I was so sexually charged. Would he believe me at all? Maybe he would consider me a bi. Or maybe, he won't even talk to me for what I had done. Fortunately, they live so far that we haven't met again. Or fortunately, nobody died in the last seven years that could have brought the family together. Oh what shit I am writing. Maybe I should catch some sleep.

'Shaan, wake up.'

'Mom, come on, let me sleep. I couldn't sleep the entire night.'

'Get up. You have to go to the railway station in half an hour to pick someone up.'

'Who is coming now, I'm really tired Mom, please let me sleep.'

'You'll be delighted. Wake up.'

'Oh Mom, please tell me who's coming.'

'Your childhood mate Ashwin, along with your Mausi.'

My sleep disappeared in a second. It was as if someone had poured down a bucket full of steaming hot water on my face. I jumped up from the bed, as though, it had a spring on it. I washed my face, four times and reconfirmed from my mother, 'Ashwin and Mausi, right? Why are they coming? They didn't bother to remain in touch with us or grandma for the last seven years, how come now suddenly, they are coming over.'

'He has just finished his schooling, is done with all the examinations. They are moving out of their town after seven years, as they were busy in his education. It's time to celebrate. They are giving a surprise to your grandma, that's why they didn't inform us beforehand. Don't tell her about it at all. Also, do bring rasgullas, on your way back from the station.'

I was flabbergasted. The faster I wanted to run away from the humiliation, the nearer it appeared. I had no idea at all as to how to go ahead. As I bathed, I decided that the first thing I would do when I find Ashwin alone would be to apologize to him for what I had done in the past, for spoiling his pleasant childhood and make sure that I would convince him about my being straight, this wish was somehow more important than every other one.

With hesitant steps, I went towards the car - old Maruti 800, started it and drove to the station, along with my Mama. The train was exactly fifteen minutes late, which is quite a feat for the Indian railways. As I surreptitiously watched through the moving bogeys, I saw the oval face of my Mausi sitting in the coach that stopped right in front of me. My Mama and I immediately went inside the coach and just when I entered, I was stopped by an extremely handsome young man with long hair smiling at me.

'Hi Shaan bhaiya, how are you? Do you recognise me?' He said, flashing his mild smile.

'Oh my god, Ashu, how are you?' We hugged; the warmth was fake from my side as I was feeling really cumbersome.

The inward awkwardness was suddenly sublimated by the welcoming behaviour by both Ashu and my Mausi. It seemed that my wrongdoings of the past had been obliterated by the sands of time. I felt somewhat relieved, but at the same time, the urge to apologize became stronger as soon as I saw the tall, fair and handsome Ashu. I didn't want him to have any hard feelings against me and at the same time, I wanted to get rid of the remorse that had stayed in me ever since the day that dark room threw its darkness in my life.

We went back to the bungalow, which was an archaic sprawling duplex built by my grandfather who was a very successful doctor. My grandmother tells me that it was the first bungalow to be built in the town of Burla, way back in 1959, when my mother was just born. Amidst cheers, jest and hullabaloo of family get-together, the stark silence of remorse in my heart continued to storm my soul. I wanted to talk to Ashu personally, but we were never left free to talk to.

We didn't even realize how the day got stolen by the bright moonlight and sumptuous dinner, comprising of three subzis, dal and pulao, that were served in front of us, which I swallowed after first swallowing my considerable guilt.

'As we have limited beds, we have decided to put one extra bed in each room. Ashu, you sleep in Shaan's room, we have put an extra cot there. Your Mausi will come in Grandma's room.' My mother said to both of us.

Horrid thoughts about the previous night pervaded my mind. I realized that this was going to be worse than the previous night. But at the same time, I was prepared to apologize and get free of the heap of guilt residing in my gut. Carrying our blankets on our shoulders, we went to the room. I was rehearsing inside my head how I would begin my apology statement. We entered the room, the bed was already set, I dumped my blanket on my side and waited for Ashwin to drop his on his side, but he carried it on his shoulders throughout.

'Bhaiya, please turn off the lights please.' Ashwin said to me in a sleepy tone. I did what I was instructed. The wave of awkwardness embraced me tissue by tissue. Ashwin dropped his blanket on the bed, hearing the sound of which I was mightily relieved.

I lay down on the bed, hid inside my blanket while he was still standing. I waited to sense the right opportunity to start my monologue.

'Ashu, I had to say something.' I began.

'Haan bhai, tell me.' Ashwin said and jumped on the bed, pulling my blanket towards him. I felt bizarre, so much that for a few seconds I lost track of what I was saying.

'Bhai, tell me.' Ashwin asserted as he made himself comfortable within my blanket. Yes, my blanket.

'Ashwin, I am ...' A swift movement near my pubes interrupted my monologue. It was a hand - a fair, big and handsome hand, hidden beneath the darkness of my blanket.

'Even I am gay, bhai.' Ashwin said and caught hold of me. Dumbstruck, I started shivering. I couldn't see. I couldn't feel. I couldn't smell. I couldn't taste. I could just hear.

'Bhai,  you don't know how thankful I am to you. Ten years ago, had you not helped me out, today I would have felt so bad about myself for not being straight. You made me realize that I was homosexual and I don't need to fear anyone. Thank you so much, bhai. All the while, the sheer thought that you were like me, and doing good for yourself, kept me going through the hard times.' Ashwin continued as his grip became stronger.

'Bhai, I had always thought of you and tonight, I want to repay the debt that I had been waiting to repay all the while.' Ashwin said and inched closer to me.

I can't describe how the next twenty minutes went. For all I knew that I had unknowingly physically abused him once, he had the right to unknowingly avenge from me once. Once, for all.

I didn't tell Ashwin anything. Anything about everything. The next day, I left my granny's place without telling anyone. There was a new remorse troubling me now. In a snap, I called my girlfriend and broke up with her. I told her that I had cheated with her and she didn't deserve me. I didn't tell her how, when and where. She cussed at me. She cursed me. I didn't respond back. I cut the phone.

She didn't call back. Just SMSed: asshole. I echoed her SMS loudly and it hurt.

I had been abused, twice, at the cost of remorse. And not surprisingly, I felt better.

P.S. This is just the first draft. Requires more drafts. This is the first time, I have written on such a sensitive topic. Suggestions/critiques welcome.

आराम

एक अजब सा सन्नाटा है 

जैसे, कोई कुछ बोलना चाह रहा हो

और बोल न पा रहा हो 

आँखें तरसती वो देखने को

जो अभी तक रूबरू नहीं हो सका

मैं खुद से पूछता कि कोई आने वाला है क्या?

खुद को सन्नाटे के सिवा कुछ न सुनाई देता 

मैं ताकता, मंडराता इस आस में कि कुछ उभर के आएगा

पर इस बेरंग आँख मिचोली में कुछ भी हाथ न लगता

बेबस, नाराज़ जब मैं हार मान कर घर लौटता 

तब सन्नाटा बोल पड़ता, और समझाता 

"ढूँढने से राम मिलता है, आराम नहीं"

दर्द

दर्द तो बहुत हुआ था

जब तुम जुदा हुए थे 

तनहा तनहा खुद को देख कर

मैं बेचैन सा रहता था, 

यह सोच कर खुद को तसल्ली देता कि 

एक दिन तुम वापस आ जाओगे,  

जानते हुए कि ये नामुमकिन सी बात है 

पर क्या करूँ? ये दिल भी बड़ा खुद्दार है 

खुद की ख़ुशी के आगे 

सच को भी झुठला देता है 

दर्द तो बहुत हुआ था

जब तुम जुदा हुए थे 

अब दर्द कम है, जाने अनजाने में 

ज़िन्दगी खुद-ब-खुद ही चल पड़ी 

तुम्हारी आदत अब ज़रूरत नहीं रही 

और तुम्हारी ज़रूरत, एक याद बन कर 

सीने के किसी कोने में छुपी बैठी है 

हकीक़त ये है की मैं तुम्हे भूल चूका हूँ

जैसे तुम, मुझे,
है,  कि नहीं? 

दर्द तो बहुत हुआ था

जब तुम जुदा हुए थे 

My Violent Nature vs My Family Pediatrician

It's about the time when I was just 4 years old. My little sister was just born and trips to the pediatrician were a part of daily routine. Our pediatrician was a very old and irritable person, who would blame my mother for every little problem concerned with my baby sister's health. I used to hate him. In short, he was a typical misogynist, hailing from a patriarchal society. Once, when I went along with my parents and baby sister to him, he weighed my sister on the weighing machine and started shouting at my mother, blaming her for not taking proper care of her and being irresponsible. Being four years old, seeing some old irascible man shout at my mother provoked me and I started hitting him with my little fists and shouting like Dharmendra, 'Meri mummy ko daantte ho, main tumhara khoon pee jaunga'. The doctor got surprised and looked at me with his gruesome eyes, which couldn't frighten me enough, since I continued punching him.

My mother and father got embarrassed seeing me in the wrestling mode with a person whom they revered. My mother slapped me hard and it halted my anger streak. I started crying, thinking that nobody acknowledged my concern for my mother, not even my mother. The doctor, remained unfazed, and when my mother apologized for my strange action, he again started scolding her harshly, this time saying that she shouldn't have slapped me and I was right in my action. I felt bad for my mother once again, but my hate for the doctor faded, since he appreciated my concern for my mother.

Dr. B.N.Gupta, of Patna, remained our family pediatrician from 1989 to 2000, when in January, he passed away because of a heart attack. My parents still miss him whenever any pediatric-related concern arise in our family, my mother especially misses his reprimands while I miss the old-figure who was the first person to appreciate my impulsive reaction against rancour towards my family, otherwise I would have been a timid and unconcerned human being. In the course of the last 20 years, my violent nature completely faded but the value of respect in my life continues to remain my basic nature.

Written for indiblogger's contest for Kissan 100% Real juice.

Way back home...

1 Dec. 2008

With two guitars and a heavy bag, I began my journey back home. Dressed as stylishly as possible, with a sweat shirt speaking IIT Delhi in front as well as back, I stepped on the platform. One guitar was on my back like a bag, another one in my left hand and with my right hand dragging the luggage bag on its rollers along the way to my rail-coach, I went on. It wasn't the first time that I was going home, but it was the first time that I was carrying two guitars with me, being the centre of attraction for the 'Delhi janta'. Children, elders and 'girls' while passing beside me didn't forget to turn their heads around to have that one glimpse of me.

It has always been a pleasure travelling - with guitar as my luggage and IITian as my introduction. The aunties and their contemporaries find in me their ideal son-in-laws. Why shouldn't they - I am smart, talented and most importantly for them a person with a secure future.

Full of pomp and attitude, I got into the train - Rajdhani Express - often considered as India's best train. People around me got their curiosity doubled seeing an IITian, as evident from my sweat-shirt, and seemingly a guitar stud. I made myself comfortable on my seat with my newly purchased twelve strings resting on my seat and my old dilapidated six-strings down the berth while I crouched myself in the corner. In the relatively cold atmosphere of Delhi, I was sweating - being tired after doing the work of porter for about 15 minutes.

The train started and I just watched the people around me. There was a family with two children in the age-group of 8-10 and there was a dark south-indian guy with an American accent, who had trouble conversing in Hindi.

Generally, as it happened in my earlier train journeys, people seeing me with a guitar used to ask me what I did and when they got to know that I am from IIT, they would be awed and some envied. I waited for the family-man to start the conversation, since he had been observing me for quite sometime. As expected, he did start a conversation with me.

"Are you an IITian?" He asked after observing the obvious from my apparel.

"Yes." I replied, with humility.

"Which branch?" He enquired.

"B.tech in Nanotechnology," came my impromptu reply.

Actually, my branch is called Engineering Physics, it's a B.tech branch dealing with stuff like quantum optics and nanotechnology. But, as goes my experience, people often misinterpreted my branch as being a M.Sc course in theoretical physics, which was just the opposite of what we study. So, I began to give the introduction of my stream as B.tech in nanoscience. Nano, being an emerging field in itself, influences people and even when they don't have the briefest idea of it they say, "Oh, nano. It has great scope in future."

As expected, the gentleman replied, "Oh nano, it's the future of science!"

Flattered, feeling like the most blessed person on this planet, I looked around the place. The south-Indian guy was sitting and hearing our talks with a great interest, though he didn't speak a word. The elderly gentleman was busy looking at my guitar bag for quite some time. I knew that the moment that I had been waiting for had finally arrived.

He did not take quite a long time to bump me with my favorite question, "You play guitar. Can you play something for us?"

Elated, I did not waste a minute. I replied back, "Sure. It would be my pleasure!"

I got my chance to entertain the whole compartment and be the rockstar amongst my compartment-mates. I unzipped my bag and played some popular bollywood numbers. I played for about 15 minutes and people(including two good-looking girls!) from the adjacent compartment got close-by to hear me play. After my every single performance, they applauded making me realize that I really entertained them. The south-Indian guy was also sitting and quite relishing the harmony.

After 15 minutes of my show, I ended it with the latest Yuvvraaj theme music - the tune of the song 'Tu meri dost hai'! As I began playing the tune, a sudden smile popped up in the South-Indian guy. I could not decipher the cause but it didn't go until I finished the last song.

After I finished my solo-show, I asked that guy, "Did you like the tune?"

He said in his articulate US accent, "I loved it. Rahman sir did a wonderful job in composing that tune."

I could not get that! Has he seen the hindi movie - Yuvvraaj - when he did not know hindi at all! And why was he calling the maestro A.R.Rahman 'sir'? Was it out of respect or what?

Curious, I asked him, "Do you know Mr.Rahman?"

"Yes, I do. I occasionally play in his orchestra", he replied making me bewildered. I was trying to become a rockstar in front of an adroit musician, considering my 3 years of guitaring experience with his 20 years. His word occasionally meant he did something else too.

He asked for my guitar - the new Ibanez twelve-strings - and played Mexican and Spanish tunes and gathered almost the whole of the compartment. His fingers moved at the speed of rocket across my twelve-strings - I was awed, mesmerized and completely green with envy that he stole my crown of the rockstar of the boggy and gathered almost whole of the compartment at our place. People came and gathered all around - even in front of me - and restricted my view. They were fighting and shouldering each other to catch one glimpse of his guitaring. Even I could not get space to see him playing my own guitar. His show ended in about 10 minutes, with the popular acoustic melody 'Hotel California' as his last number.

The crowd was overjoyed hearing a free-show by a friend of the maestro himself. The train was going to reach his station, and so he handed me over my guitar complementing, "It's a really beautiful guitar, very sweet sound. You are good at it, just work harder!"

I said a faintly audible, "Thanks". He stood up, I saw the back of his jacket. It said, "Harvard School of Music!" and thus, I got the answer to his word 'occasionally'. My face flushed in embarrassment on my earlier pomp.

"It was a pleasure meeting you. I suppose you are the guitarist in Rahman sir's orchestra?" I asked the obvious question just for the sake of borrowing his way of addressing the maestro.

"No, I am the flautist!" he smiled as he gathered his luggages, bid me a "bye" and went to descend at the next station.

I did not even dare to look at my guitar for the rest of the journey.

Written for indiblogger's contest for Expedia.

The Bad Ending

Characters: He, She and he, the other guy.

What would you say to a 27 year old woman who was in love with a Man for the last seven and half years and decides to fall for another man? That she loved to get angry at every small thing, drink vodka and smoke cigarettes despite the fact that He didn’t like it. That He loved her dearly and she knew that He was going mad at the recent separation. That she decided that He was not the one who would get a chance to heal her tortured soul that night. That very night.

I’m that woman. I knew that I was going to cheat on Him. I was going to avenge for every time He had hurt me. I knew that He would be waiting for my call. I knew that He would never like what I was going to do. And still I did that. Without letting Him know, I asked 'him' to come and take me to his home.

We drank vodka. A moment later, I kissed him. On his lips. Soft, pink and wet lips. I acted drunk but I wasn’t. At all. It lasted for two minutes. I won’t call it passionate. It was comforting. As if someone came and sublimated all my pains in his cosy embrace. I hugged him tightly. Thought about Him did strike my mind until I felt powerful enough to suppress them, bury them deep within along with the the dead passions that had been once ignited in me. I felt liberated. I felt relaxed. I felt at ease. I felt that the tension, the bad times was finally going to be over. I was with him. I was fond of him. Unlike Him, he was gentle, less forceful and much more sensitive. 

But he didn’t love me. I didn’t care as long as he was my pain-killer. While he made love to me, I never really craved for Him; he was better, softer and tender. It was sheer bliss. 

I never felt sad or remorseful until I talked to Him that day. I felt as if He would take revenge from him, whom I had started loving after the previous night. I couldn’t tolerate His voice, I said an indistinct sorry, which I was not and began worrying about him, who He should not hurt at all. I made sure of that by making all the fake promises that I could. He promised me that he would not hurt him. I felt good about cheating on Him, of letting Him know that He didn’t deserve me at all. That he was better than Him. 

But now, I am astounded. What am I seeing? How come He is here? And where is he? What has happened to him? I’m alone. Stuck with Him. Unable to find him, I'm scared.

'What did you do to him?'
'Nothing. Nothing at all. I kept my promise.' He says.
'Where are we?' I ask.
'In hell, which is better than the hell that I were a moment ago.'

He killed me. And Himself.  And unfortunately or not, we’re together for the rest of our death, while he, my new love, alive, is waiting for me back on Earth. He indeed kept His promise.

The Race - A Love Story

Eric first met Linda in the London underground. They were travelling on the same train at 11 PM and the entire compartment was empty. They were sitting far apart.

When Linda first looked at Eric, she presumed him to be a mechanical workaholic who was returning home after 14 hours of work. She hated such guys. The fact that her father always put his work before her had always been a cause of hurt and bitterness during her childhood.

Feeling her gaze on himself, Eric looked upans saw her staring. Linda quickly turned sideways when their eyes crossed for the first time. She didn't want him to think that she was interested. Eric found her phoney and opined that she was the kind of girl that he did not like. After a while, he  smiled to himself and returned to his thoughts.

When the train screeched to a halt at the Victoria station, they both deboarded through the same door and walked towards the same escalator. Linda rushed for two reasons : one, she inwardly wanted to let him notice her and second, she wanted to beat him in the race to the exit. It seemed like a race for superiority to her. She reached the exit, she was baffled. She couldn't find the metro card. She had misplaced it. 

London Tube is a very busy place. There are so many lines, so many stations and most of the times, so many people. Linda searched through her purse for overfive minutes but alas, she couldn't find it anywhere. It was lost. She was completely annoyed. Having to return to the starting point leaving the finishing line's glory for the rival to enjoy was totally not what she could digest. She didn't like losing to some random guy who worked 14 hours a day at a petty job. 

She had an idea. An idea that could make her win.

She turned back. She could see him advancing towards her. She spoke first. Her first words being, 'Hey, I lost my card. Could you please come along with me to the platform, I think I dropped it near the elevator.'

He didn't say a word, trudged ahead.Exited. Linda was stunned. How could someone be so rude to a girl?  More disappointing was the realization that she had lost her subconscious race to that machine. Fuming with anger, she kept looking at Eric until he disappeared from her sight. She started walking back towards the platform, dragging her sagging body, as if burdened by the recent loss.

'Hey,' a voice reached Linda's ears from behind. It was a deep baritone, similar to her Dad. She turned around. It was the same rude guy, now waving her metro card with a wide grin.

'Here it is.' He said.

She rushed back, in a huff. She collected the card with a wince. And didn't look at Eric at all.

'You didn't drop it here. You dropped it at the Piccadily Circus station. The moment you entered, trying to beat that teenaged chap in the race to the enter the station.' He said plainly. She was dumbfounded. She felt as if she was being stalked.

'By the way, this time, I won.' His serious face broke into a wide grin. She was beaten at her own game.

She had a choice to make. To smile, or to smirk. After a tough battle of thought, she chose the prior. And she came out through the exit grabbing her card from the gentleman. 

'Hi, I'm Linda.' 

'Eric.' They shook hands. Warmth at 11 PM. Pleasing.

'Cya, Linda.' Eric waved and took out his metro card to enter the station premises. She found it abrupt.

'I had to descend at the last station. I came up till here just to win this race.' He said and winked. His bleary eyes transformed the wink into a blink.

'I was a loser once. I won't allow it to happen twice.' She said and entered the station before him. 

They spent their night alongside Thames. Chatting. Dreaming. Laughing. And racing! And after that time, she never lost (to) him.

P.S. Love is about being different yet similar. :)

पड़ाव

खुश तो हूँ, पर ख़ामोश हूँ
मन करता है कि कुछ लिखूं, कुछ कहूँ
बाईस साल हो गए इस ज़िन्दगी को
फिर भी कुछ कमी सी है
अधूरे एहसास अक्सर कुछ बोल पड़ते हैं
जैसे मुझे कुछ बताना चाहें

मैं सुनता नहीं
मैं लोगो को कहता कि मैं खुद की सुनता हूँ
पर खुद को ढूंढ पाया नहीं

ये ज़िन्दगी चलती जाएगी,
एक साल फिर बीत जाएगा
बाईस से तेईस ज्यादा दूर नहीं
और मैं इसी आस में लिखता जाऊंगा
कि कभी ज़िन्दगी से रूबरू हो कर
कुछ लिख पाउँगा |

The Locket

I have this eerie feeling that someone has been living within my mind. Someone who has been watching me. I'm scared of it sometimes. Sometimes, it's the only support. I don't know who it is. It has been living inside me for a very long time.

It's like a silent invisible ghost whose shadows become visible in darkness, in stark silence, at times, when I want them to be farthest. It's difficult to trace it, it's difficult to define it. It's not like the children's story where the ghost turns out to be a friend. It seems to me - an eternal enemy; its dark evil laughter sometimes wakes me up from my sleep to look around, in search of my mother to save me from it. It has a smile, a very evil smile, the smile which shines from the darkness, cruel and barbaric, looking as though it will slice my soul with its razor sharp edge. But it doesn't do anything. The smile smiles at me from a distance, its mind playing with mine when I'm fast asleep. Sometimes, it seems to be a memory from the past life but sometimes it seems to be coming from the future. It's morbid. It's macabre. Though with time, it has become subtle and less effective, but I still tremble in fear, when I remember what I'd once faced. As I blink, the smile still flashes. Fainter though. But enough to make me fear going to the loo, even today.

When I was a child, the fear of encountering it in darkness used to prevent me from going to the loo and most of the times, it used to be my only companion on my wet bed that used to scare me to lull. I never made any noise while it enjoyed its dark play. Only once did I dare to fight it. I started sweating in my sleep. It was torturing me with its appalling laughter. In the sleep, I started calling my mother. She came running, thinking that I'd been attacked by a cat or something. I was profusely perspiring. She got worried, woke me up when I tightly held her waist. She recited Hanuman Chalisa to comfort me when I asked her to sleep beside me, to prevent it from assaulting me. She assured me that she would. I held my golden Hanuman locket, which I had around my neck since god knows when, tied with the sacred red thread that panditjis always used to carry. I thought it would stop it. It indeed did its magic. My nani told me that Hanuman had been the strongest of all Gods. No wonder I thought, as I stretched my imagination to merge with darkness. The darkness was haunted. He was still there, with his haunted smile, his small dot like eyes staring at me like a white dwarf far away in the sky. I was scared. In my sleep, I was conscious enough to wrap my right hand tightly around my mother, while my left hand clung to the golden locket. His smile soon faded in the unassailable darkness.

The morning came. Light came. The night was over. I found my power in my locket. I was happy, as though Lord Hanuman had taken away every bit of darkness haunting me. But still, the thought that even Hanuman's eyes couldn't see in the darkness scared me. I wished why couldn't he be an owl instead of a monkey. But no matter how powerful my wish had been, history never had a reason to hear an intimidated kid. I forgot about the previous night, I forgot that the sun sets every day. I played - played ghar-ghar with my neighbouring kid-friend, my childhood crush whose name I no more remember now, who used to call me Harshu and I used to love it. The evening faded, sun kissed the horizon. It was time. Time to go back home, watch my favorite TV-shows Centurion and Swat Cats on Cartoon Network, disinterestedly finish my homework, enthusiastically play with my globe and atlas and then count my collected money - to ensure that no theft had taken place - and go to sleep. I asked my mother to be near me, to call Hanumanji, if need be. He didn't come that night. I was relieved. My mother strongest!

It forgot to inhabit my darkness for over a month. Times change. My childhood crush stopped talking to me since she saw me accidentally looking at her through the window when she was changing. Okay, it was not accidental but I was a child then. Curiosity is what defines a child. No more ghar-ghar in my life, since I'd shifted to following the man with an MRF bat. Swat Cats still remained the second best pass time and now, since all her windows remained closed, when she was in her room, I had nothing else to fix my mind to. I resorted to studying. I didn't study course-books. I studied Children Knowledge Banks Vol 1-Vol 6, which my brother gifted to me on my birthday; I read Robinson Crusoe and another book known as Tees-Maar-Khan which was the Hindi translation of Oliver Twist and I started drawing birds, in a drawing book. I was happy and I, despite having a bizarre feeling, decided to sleep all alone once again.

The same pillow, the same bed, the same darkness, the same smile. The same torture. Only this time, I had a resolve. I won't be scared. It smiled. I smiled. It looked cruelly at me. I pressed my eyelids tighter to stop seeing it. No effect. It was still there, as visible as before. I had an idea. I spat on it. A moment later, the spit fell on my face. I thought he spat back. I was fighting with it, with all my vigour. He seemed effortless, the dark vicious smile didn't fade at all. I had another idea. It was afraid of light, I would kill it with light. I opened my eyes. It was gone. The darkness outside my eyes wasn't at all dark as compared to what I'd just seen inside my eyes. The pillow was wet, my breathing faster. I went in search of my locket. It was there, intact.

I was nervous. I started mumbling Hanuman Chalisa, broken but still the heard verses in place. Sankat se Hanuman Churave, Mahavir jab naam tu laave. I started trembling. Appalled by the dread of experiencing death, I touched my locket. It sent an electric current down my spine. I was absolutely clueless about where I was going to be the very next moment. Loud villainous laughters struck my ears and I thought the earth was going to end for me. In a moment, the sacred red thread tightened itself around my neck and in what I think lasted for a minute, I was almost asphyxiated to death, when holding the locket, thread by thread I managed to disentangle it and break it apart. Oxygen. It was bliss.

I could have died to take one more breath in. My voice wasn't in a condition to call out my mother. I somehow managed to stand up. Fear, no more. I went on to the loo, peed in darkness, watering all around the target and washed my legs, as I had been taught to be hygienic and came back. The locket was lying on the floor, it was upside down. It resided on the other side of Hanuman. It smiled at me. The cast of Hanuman resembled the dreadful darkness upside down. The same dark vicious smile. Entrapped with fear, I stepped back, trembling. Somebody caught hold of my shoulders. My blood ran cold, I couldn't dare to turn back. The hand moved away from my shoulder and patted on my head, and rebuked, 'Why don't you flush after using the toilet?'

Father. He went back to his room. While I, with the suddenly found inspiration, moved over to the locket and picked it up, despite the dark smile. Spat on it. This time it didn't hit me back. I abided by my father's order. The water was just enough to drown the golden darkness.

Next day, when my mother was not able to find the locket, she got frenzied. I decided not to be the victim of her frenzy and blamed it on the game where MRF bat defined who batted first as the reason why Lord Hanuman decided to get 'flushed' away. She wasn't convinced but she couldn't help it. She brought me another Hanuman after a few days which I boycotted, saying I'll rather have one of Lord Kartikeya - my favorite God, if she could find. Being just 9, I was smart enough to know that Lord Kartikeya was not a big-shot in the Indian God Industry and my mother would never find him. The trick worked; I inwardly thanked Ganeshji for taking all attention away from Kartikeyaji and went back to smash the cosco ball over the roof with my self-decorated bat with stickers of Sachin, Ganguly and Dravid stuck on the opposite side.

I never needed a Hanuman Chalisa after that. And Lord Hanuman got a kilogram of laddoo from me in return, for the disgraceful act that I had to commit. I always argued with him, that it was my father who provoked me to do it, not me. He seemed to be at peace with me now, since my crush, who used to call me Harshu, made a card for me in the coming month and gifted it to me.

When I opened it, to my utter disappointment, it said, 'Happy Rakhi, Harshu.' I forgot to make peace with the dark devil, I guess.

Magicians

'Coffee?' He asked.

'Yes', I replied.

'What after coffee?' He asked.

'Nothing in mind. You say.'

'Let's write.'

'I prefer writing alone. Company distracts me.' I said.

'Okay. I'm going out.' He said and went away. I went to write. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't write anything. Something was missing. He.

I ran after him, couldn't find him though. He went far away. I searched around. He was nowhere to be found. I felt as if I'd lost him.

I came back. I couldn't write a word. He wasn't back. I'd lost him. I waited. Waited desperately for him to return. He didn't return. Days ticked away like seconds.

After three days, I went in search of him, this time determined to catch hold of him and bring him back. I searched for him everywhere. No answer. Disappointed, I started walking back. My thoughts wandered. I was searching him for myself, not because of him. I dragged myself towards my home. He was right there, next to the shimmering light on my door, holding a cup of coffee.

'Where had you been? I've been searching for you all along.' I oppugned.

'I gave you space to write. Let me see what you've written.'

'Oh it's nothing. I couldn't write anything.' I uttered, trying to hide my miserable condition.

'Now stop being modest. I've read it all, what a marvelous piece you've written.' He said.

'Stop mocking me.' I said and snatched the manuscript from his hand. It was complete. Without even me writing it, it was complete. Shell-shocked, I exclaimed, 'How's that possible? Have you written it?'

'No, I am not capable of writing so well. It's you, my friend.'

'I haven't, I know I haven't.' I said.

'Then who wrote it?' He asked.

'Guess, it's our company.' I said.

--------------------

'Coffee?' He asked.

'Yes', I replied.

'What after coffee?' He asked.

'Nothing in mind. You say.'

'Let's write.' He said.

'Why not?' I said.

And we wrote, this.

---------------------

I call him imagination, he calls me experience. Together and happy, we make magic.

Hypocrite

There was a young man. He added many people in his friend-list. He suggested his blog link to everyone. When they joined, he deleted them. And he goes around with an air, thinking that he's so awesome!

He's not awesome, because he's a she.

P.S. Thanks Shruti Vajpayee for relating to me this story.

Entrepreneur

The day my son expressed his desire to become an entrepreneur, I stopped giving him his pocket money. Eight months later, he now earns more than me.

The Moron

There was a writer. He was fond of himself. Once, he was accused of plagiarism. The case had been clearly proven. He negated all the charges, abused all those who blamed him and broke all his friendships with his readers and followers. He still loved himself.

People asked him to apologize, to accept his mistakes. He rebuked them saying they didn't have the right to intrude in his private life. He was too fond of himself to apologize, you know. His readers lost all the admiration for him. He couldn't care less. He still loved himself. He said that he wrote plagiarized for himself, he didn't need readers.

Unruffled, he tried writing once again. He wrote. He was glad that he could write. He read what he wrote. He wasn't satisfied. Not that it was lousy, but that it didn't get him any appreciation. He missed appreciation. He wrote plagiarized for applause. He wrote plagiarized for his readers. He liked when others too got fond of him, much like him. But no-one was there this time.

Now he had no readers. No friends, who would read, who would like what he had to say. He had insulted each one of them, who had questioned his disgraceful act. He never apologized, he couldn't convince himself of surrendering his mighty ego. All the while, he stopped writing. He lacked motivation.

A month later, when there were no apologies from his side, the writers and the readers realized that he didn't need to apologize. They concluded that he was not guilty. It was them who were wrong. They mistook him as a writer, while he wasn't one.

P.S. Inspired from an article that I just came across on Indiblogger.

Forgiven and forgotten

She. Kind and gentle. Forgiving.

I. Irascible and mean. Forgetful.

She desires friendship.
I desire love.

She tries to be just friend.
I get angry. Mean. Cruel.

She forgives.
I forget.

Awaits friendship.
Awaits love.

It doesn't work.
It doesn't work.

Forgiven, not forgotten.
Forgiven and forgotten.

P.S. This ain't a poem. This is a flash fiction story. The writing scheme has been utilised just to elucidate the two sides of the story simultaneously.