envious

There was this guy trying to chat online. Being a late entrant onto the bandwagon of social networking he seemed rather anachronistic of sorts. It was with much trepidation that he pinged anyone. What if they were working on something very serious and he disturbed them. Mostly his business was transactional in nature, concerned with mundane routine projects, assignments or things he liked to classify as professional.

There was this particularly chatty girl. Showing teeth most of the time. The guy thought he could help or at least work with people to improve some of their skill sets. Pretty over-the-top stuff, he later thought to himself. A highly overrated and always over-the-top buffoon by his own standards.

And he was chatting with her.

Now it happened that their chat veered around somebody else. The chatty girl seemed to smell something fishy. This no-emotions-applied guy was showing concern for somebody. Why was this bastard talking so much about that guy to her? Did he have any hidden agenda? After all this bastard had no business being nice to people. If he is trying to be nice to someone or rather think nice about someone, one has got the right to feel suspicious. But then this guy was going all over places. Going from one crazy idea to another in no time. Causing headaches with his stupid buffoonery.

And the chatty girl dropped a bombshell. She typed on her chat window, “Are you envious?” It seemed a guillotine had just dismembered him. Or rather he had been thrown into a cauldron smoldering in the fire of human blood. He was heavy with emotion. He seemed to be writhing in pain. If anyone has seen a man being guillotined, he can appreciate it far better. Or even the scene of a chicken or goat being hallaled would do. In the case of the guillotine, the head lies on the other side of the body and both of these parts tremble for a moment. And then all of a sudden they are numb. In the case of chicken or goat being hallaled, the pain continues for longer but after a while the animal is dead with fear rather than bleeding.

Writhing in immeasurable pain, he continued typing for quite sometime. He tried presenting a decent face to the girl on the other side of the screen. He tried coming up with analogies to mask his pain. But soon it gave way. His strength seemed to fail him. He rambled around a little and shut the chat window. He was definitely genteel even in times of personal calamity.

He could never admit to himself that buds of love did appear in his garden but he never let them bloom into flowers. Perhaps he was fearful of people like the chatty girl. Perhaps he was fearful of the world. Perhaps he was fearful of proprieties. Perhaps he was fearful of his own self. And that bastard saw himself as a revolutionary. Of all the phoney things in the world, this must take the cake.

We meet rather infrequently now though at one time we were literally tied to each other. He was busy with something by the name of placements. Last night we were waiting for Godot and we tried to hang ourselves to the tree nearby. But we could not decide who should take the lead and in the meantime a strong wind came and uprooted the tree itself. To pacify ourselves now we narrated stories to each other. I told him about the moans of Vagina Monologues and he told me his own story. He said that he was terrified of chat windows. He was not sure if he actually hated them. I asked him, “What about pinging people.” He could not even cry.

Soon he was busy removing his shoes. Gogo and Didi laughed. It sounded hollow to the core.

Life is/not Like That

It could have been any day. A Sunday here or a Monday there could not have made any difference to the script. The occasion did not have any special role to play. For the convenience of the story let us take it as a birthday. And the protagonist is the quintessential old curmudgeon of the Christmas Carol fame. Remember Ebenezer Scrooge and Jacob Marley. The audience must have read the story of the old sucker in their textbooks.

A birthday is a wonderful day in the life of a person. The old curmudgeon seemed to have at least some reservations about the format. But certainly he had no problems in people celebrating the birthdays of their dear ones. After all this life had so less to offer even when it appeared to promise so much.

It so happened that the old curmudgeon had a change of heart. He thought he would also celebrate the birthday of someone. But how could he do so. After all, all his life he had carried the image of the old curmudgeon even though at times he masqueraded as a martinet. Now he thought of a plan. He thought that he would wait. When the whole world had finished celebrating her birthday, he would ask her out. And he tried and made a little effort. Or rather he put in a lot of effort. He finally asked her out.

They went together to a small restaurant. He ordered the birthday cake even though numerically the dates had changed. Though the old curmudgeon liked to be seen as an iconoclast, he was rather traditional especially with regards to ceremonies. And birthdays were seen mostly as a type of ceremony. The old curmudgeon though ill at ease at most ceremonies used to take recourse to movies to learn the tricks of conducting oneself at such dignified moments. He would often ramble about that such and such movie depicted such and such behaviour.

The duo engaged in some banter which did not make much sense to either of the two. The old curmudgeon had been far from humour all his life and thus could not appreciate the lighter side of being. But at least the old curmudgeon seemed to be happy. He was happy about so many things. He was happy that someone whom he adored so much was sitting by his side for quite some time now. He was happy that he could see her beautiful face continuously for more than an hour. The oft-masquerading martinet even at that surreal moment could not get away completely from sensing time. He was happy to watch her breathe. He was happy to see her smile. It would be difficult to capture that smile in words. It was such a liberating experience for the old curmudgeon. At times he tried to make sense of that smile. A little twitching of lips sideways. And the smile would spread slowly all over her face. That smile playing on her lips, he remembered it again and again, moment after moment till all moments coalesced into one big whole and he lost all sense of world.

Her eyes would look so pretty during those moments that a sense of fear used to creep inside the old curmudgeon. (The fear seemed to remind him of his fallibility and challenge his idea of possession and free love.) Getting back to her smile, the eyes would seem to centre on something. And there would be a particular kind of glow in her eyes. And that glow would hold still for a moment. It was only a moment but for the old curmudgeon that moment gave him plenty of joy. That meant so much for his battered soul. He could go on and on telling you about her smile but he could not finish. It seemed like an enigma that never revealed itself.

They finished their dinner and were walking on the street. Slowly they were moving towards the park. The lake inside the park provided a perfect setting for them. The reflections of the stars complemented her beauty in no small measure. She seemed to melt in her environs. He held her hand for a moment and brought it closer to himself. He was trying to feel the touch of someone whom he had only felt in imagination. It was a perfect case of movement from metaphysics to physics. He could feel her heaving bosom. It was slow but constant. He wanted to kiss her. She brought her face closer to him. With the softest of movements he placed his vacuous lips on her left cheek. And the vacuousness seemed to disappear. In that very moment everything around them became the part of a continuum. She pressed him to her bosom. He lay there feeling the warmth oozing from her soft breast.

And times did pass.

The old curmudgeon moved from the seemingly clean environs of an institution to the Augean stable called as the corporate world. One day he was in the midst of a flight. He was going to make a presentation to his clients and his company expected him to clinch the deal. On the flight, four seats in front he noticed a familiar figure. He still recognized the little flowing mane even though it had been done up in a bun. He tried to remember that particular night when they had gone out just for a single night. He was looking back at his life. He tried to scratch his memory. He wanted to feel nostalgic. Nostalgic about the past. But suddenly he was taken with surprise and the next moment he was shaking with fear. He was sweating profusely even though the temperature was rather cool. He thought that he was sick. He thought that his own mind was playing tricks with him.

And then he remembered the smile. It was one of the few things which the old curmudgeon had kept hidden in his battered, tattered, schizophrenic bag of memories. And then the pangs of nostalgia really pierced his heart. It was nostalgia alright but it was not real. It was a case of imagined nostalgia. Nostalgia about a past which never did exist in reality. A kind of nostalgia which was never captured by the forces of temporality. A nostalgia which had just been a product of his imagination.

It had so happened that the old curmudgeon had never ever invited her out for that dinner and the birthday and the cake and the smile existed just in his memory. Long ago his mind had conjured up a beautiful story to keep him at peace. But now everything was broken. Broken leaves. Broken dreams. Broken hearts. Broken souls. Dreams which could never be woven. The strands which remained untied forever.

The plane took off. Her beautiful reflection appeared on the window and the old curmudgeon smiled. No Jacob Marley ever appeared to this Ebenezer Scrooge to tell him the relevance of life.

And life moved on.

The Girl in the Yellow Dress

I had been driving on the highway for years. Every week I had to go to the other end of the town to meet my parents. I was a boarder and lived in a hostel.

That night was particularly chilly. It would be around 1. I was getting back alone. Near the sugarcane field my car seemed to give me some trouble. Finally it came to a stop. I was 50 kilometers away from my home. What do I do? I was cursing myself for getting back so late in the night.

I left my car and thought of walking around the area. I prayed. May be some passer-by take pity on me. About 15 minutes later, I saw a yellow car coming towards me. I waved and to my surprise it stopped. I looked inside the car. I thought I had seen this person somewhere. But I was not very sure. I narrated my plight and asked her if she could leave me at the next stop. I was dying of freezing cold outside.

Again to my surprise she acceded to my request. I was overjoyed. Little did I know what was in store for me on this chilly night with a girl. Outside it was pitch dark. The car lights scattered the darkness to pieces.

She was driving at her own pace. I tried to make myself comfortable inside the car. Suddenly my eyes wandered towards the backseat of the car. The familiar crest of our school was emblazoned on the familiar maroon blazer. Was she an alumnus of our school? I got interested. She started talking to me after sometime. I asked her about the school. She replied in affirmative. Yes, she had been a student at the school from 1980 to 1990. A decade had passed since she had left the school.

I wondered why she was travelling at that hour of the night. She smiled and said, “I am going to meet someone special. Well would you like to hear a story for the time being.” “Why not? You have saved me from this chilly night. I will definitely listen to your story,” I replied. She seemed to remember something. She started.

I had joined the school in 1980. But nothing much eventful happened for me during my stay until the year 1989. The last two years had been more than eventful. The school had maintained strict levels of separation between the two sexes. But you cannot turn people into stone even when you supervise them every minute.

I had been meeting a boy from my class secretly for quite sometime. I had become interested in him after talking to him at the school fair, the only time of the year when the boys and girls of senior school could meet each other.

The relationship had begun with letters written on white paper. Only last week I had seen him but now it seemed ages. We twisted rules to meet at the swimming pool which was not visible from the headmaster’s office. Two years passed swiftly. The board exams were over and now it was time to bid good bye to our alma mater. It was also time to bid good bye to him. And where would we meet next? Where would we find our new rendezvous?

I moved with a heavy heart and sat in my father’s car. The boys were supposed to leave the next day. My father was driving the car. When we had reached halfway I was still feeling sad. Papa wanted to cheer me up. After all I was so sad. I told Papa all about him. He smiled and said, “Just this much, my sweetheart is missing someone.” He continued, “Cheer up sweetheart, we will meet him tomorrow. I will see for myself whom does my sweetheart adore so much.” I was a picture of joy and hugged my father.

I could not sleep the entire night. I was feeling the agony of separation for the first time in my life. I called him and told that I would be coming to meet him the next day. He also sounded pretty excited but was a little nervous thinking about his meeting with Papa.

The next day we started. I was wearing my favourite dress, a yellow color top and jeans. He used to call me as the sunlight in his life and I wanted to surprise him with my dress. Papa was driving the car. We had reached quite far from our home.

“Did you notice the last turn?” She asked. I nodded my head. She continued, “Just as we had reached the turn we saw a truck speeding towards us. Papa was driving and teasing me about him. The truck driver lost his balance and rammed into our car.”

The next moment my father was lying in a pool of blood. I seemed to be fine. Just some scratches here and there. Soon people gathered at the spot. The police had also come and were taking my father to an ambulance van. I rushed towards them and asked them to take me as well. But nobody seemed to listen to me. I ran frantically all over the place.

We were about a kilometer away from the school gate and could see from afar a figure waiting for me. May be it was a mirage. I rushed inside the car and tried driving towards the school. The yellow car did not seem to start. I did not seem to possess any strength. And why was nobody listening to me?

The school authorities had come to know of the news. He had also rushed to the stop. He was crying. I rushed to him but he did not seem to have seen me. I followed him. He stopped in front of a figure which was lying down. I also looked at the figure. I was taken aback. It was me. The face was still moist from heat. He was sobbing, “How long you would want me to wait. You were an idiot when we met at the swimming pool and you are still acting like an idiot when we have met now.” We never met after that.

May be we meet today. Her story ended.

We had reached the school gate. The light from the pole seemed to merge with the yellow shine of the car. I looked at the figure in front of me. It was wearing a yellow top with jeans.

I got down from the car. I bid good bye and walked towards my room. In the cupboard I saw an old photograph in the newspaper with the heading ‘Two die in a car accident near St. George’s College’. The year was 1990. The photograph had been muddied by years of dirt and grime but I could not miss the girl in yellow top and jeans.

I looked out of the window. The car had long gone.

The Ganges Diary

As I walked by the Ganges

Your smells filled the waters

Your laughs reverberated in the mountains

Your footsteps shone in the sands

Ah! Those footsteps

So elegant I would die for it

Those beds of shiny white sands

Ah! What sublime beauty, just like you

So serene, so calm, so nourishing

So full of love, so full of rain

Ah! What luck providence

For those endearing sands

The rising rapids were so enchanting

They must have kissed your face

They must have drank from your eyes

The pebbles still remember

The myriad touch of a beautiful maiden

You must have touched them, played with them

As the rapids rose to engulf me in its coolness

I missed the warmth of your welcoming bosom

As I heard of the gentle flow of the Ganges

I missed the succour of your mesmerizing voice

As I saw the meandering path of the jungles

I missed the visual spectacle of your languid walk

Oh dear lady hold me in your bosom

Just as the river holds those rapids

Oh dear lady let me caress your feet

Just as you let those white sands do

Oh dear lady let me kiss your face

Just as you let those rapids kiss you

And then let me sleep forever

In dreams which always cherish you…..

so you shall not pass by my window?

Mornings come and go

Birds chirp around and go

Bees hum around and go

Workmen do their chores and go

But you never pass by my window

The bars of my white painted window

Bear marks of a rusty hand

Looking longingly at the gate

I wait for a glimpse of you

But you never pass by my window

Two standing trees of coconut

Four round shaped lamp posts

A little green patch of grass

Witness this everyday spectacle

But you never pass by my window

Pain my only true companion

Overwhelms me in its bosom

Kisses my wet forehead

Slowly leaves the mise-en-scène

But still you never pass by my window

to ma'am with love

She had packed her bags and was about to leave us all forever. We had heard that she was going to marry. Customary good byes followed. Some were even seen crying. I was not pretty much sure of the news at the beginning. Thought it was just one of the rumours doing the rounds in the dormitory.

When I heard she was leaving I was so numb that I did not go out to see her for the last time. Later I did not regret my decision. That would have prolonged my agony for sure. The feeling of separation, I would not have been able to withstand. I have known that feeling for quite some time. A pain ensues in my throat. I seem to choke. It continues for some time. And then I get acclimatized to it.

It seemed that everything was under my control and suddenly one of the wires snapped. And the drama takes a new turn. A cathartic turn. I am turned speechless. Thoughtless. Rather empty. Perhaps a little of me dies or decays. I am not sure.

She had joined the school only a year ago. I loved her voice. She had gentle mannerism and knew well how to handle grown up kids like us. I did not know when and how I got so deeply interested in her. Today I try to implore myself as to what were those feelings like; I do not get a clear answer. Perhaps it was agape. Perhaps it was eros. Perhaps it was somewhere in between. I did not know these categories then. I was still in junior school.

She had this smile which I can remember still. I am unable to put it into words. But yes it still plays inside my head. And that too quite often. She was not frail. Not even full bodied. But very pleasant looking. She had this particular gait. Quite languorous. I particularly liked to see her walk on those pebbles with a whistle around her neck. She used to be in charge of the kids for the day. Those walks still haunt my memories on days when nostalgia grips me in its arms.

Was she one of my many crushes? I must refuse to use the word crush because it suggests a certain sense of fleeting nature. It suggests that I do not love them now. It suggests that that was just a passing phase. An immature usage I must say.

She was going. Going forever. And I did not know what to do. And I did not do anything.

I could not even tell her how I felt about her. I do not find anything odd in it even today. My feelings for her. I just happen to feel about her that way. That is it.

After all they say love knows no boundaries.

eyes

Eyes Eyes Eyes Eyes

Make me see the sunrise with your eyes

Make me see the sunset with your eyes

My eyes lost their vision long time ago

I only want to see your beautiful face

Will you ever come and show me your face?

I saw a solitary flower lying among bushes

And could feel the vibrations of its petals

And then I heard my own heart beat

Was the flower your reflection?

Did I see you in that flower?

Ah! What tenderness

A bundle of

joy

The Leaves at my Table

There are leaves in front of me. Quite a pile of it. And they are growing in number.

Seeing these leaves fade in colour I shudder at the thought of parting with it someday. Probably I will throw them out of my window one day. Is that fate not similar to mine? The prospect of being thrown out when everything seems to have settled down. Many sunsets, many sunsets. Ah! the analogy of sunsets. The analogy of death. The analogy of decay. Or the truth of it all?

The flower seemed to have gone a little dry. A little weak. I guess it is the sun. The merciless heat will spare none. Neither the beauty nor the beast. The other day the flower looked so good. Those eyes. I tremble at the thought of so much beauty.

And I am still collecting leaves. I am not clear as to why I do it. Perhaps it gives me a reason to cling on to something. Perhaps it reduces the pain. Perhaps it reminds me of something. Marquez talks about the “perverse clarity of nostalgia”. But what about the ‘perverse clarity of an imagined nostalgia’. Is the degree of perverseness not far greater than the in the first case? You feel nostalgic of a past which never existed. It was all a product of imagination.

And I go on collecting leaves even though I know I will throw them one day.

Sunaina

Have you ever seen a person who has a name literally befitting her appearance? Parents rarely make the right choice in naming their kids.

When I had first seen her I thought she could not be called anything but Sunaina. Later I was not much dismayed when somebody called her by that name. Her eyes were beautiful. Poetic eyes. Eyes which would continue to feed my imagination for times to come. I try and avoid adjectives but on seeing her I could not restrain myself in using one for her. I guessed from her demeanor that she did not care much about things such as personal appearances. I have never seen her dressed up especially for an occasion.

I have never talked to her. For the matter of fact she may not be aware that I even existed in this world. But did that seem to matter to me at any point of time? I do not think so. Was I attracted to her? I cannot say a definite “No”. No doubt she had beautiful eyes. My rationalist streak seemed to go for a toss when I saw her. But the idea of possession seemed abhorring to me. When a thing is beautiful the world should get to enjoy it. Why try to be the sole owner? One of the Moses’ commandments says, “Look thy not at neighbour’s wife”. But I ask why not? If she is beautiful why not? Will somebody’s looking at her diminish her charm? Pretty phoney stuff I guess.

So I kept looking at her ignoring Moses. And times passed as they had done always. But yes there was the presence of a certain sense of joy. A sense of joy emanating literally from her eyes.

I do not get to see her now. Good things do not last long.

A Pretty Ordinary Story

The idea of love has always seemed phoney to me. I do not understand the point of thinking about someone incessantly for no reason at all. Pretty boring stuff. And the emotionalism literally kills me.

We had gone on a trip to one of the sea beaches around with a group of friends. I am no travel freak, in fact I hate travelling for long distances. But any ways I had agreed to it. The night had seemed perfectly normal. All the stars were there to welcome us. We had our usual quota of beers. Soon people were dozing off. I tried taking a walk to soothe my nerves. She also got up and joined me. It was a pretty long walk. We had seen each other quite for sometime but had never spoken.

Her fathomless eyes had always enchanted me. She did make faces sometimes. Pretty faces but pretty infantile. If you have seen a cat or rather a kitten trying to ask you a question you will understand better. The rolling of the eyes followed by twitching of lips seemed pretty interesting to me. Just a few fleeting glances were enough to bear the drabness and drudgeries of a business course. Pretty kitten like faces. Her physical form did not excite me much. Only the infantile cameos kept me interested.

The vast expansiveness of the ocean lay in front of us. Our faces seemed to question each other. Why were we walking together? All that cockiness of talking to someone with whom you always wanted to talk had disappeared somewhere. It was silence that prevailed. But in that silence I could hear her soft breath. And that was pretty reassuring. We walked into the waters. I stretched my hands and she obliged. It must be pretty cold but we did not seem to notice. We sat down in the water and let the waves caress our bodies.

“What do you think about those waves?” I seemed to ask. “I do not think much about waves. Not much of a thinker you know.” She replied in a quiet voice. “Can you see the two waves rushing towards each other? Do you think they can ever meet?” I continued. “I do not know. But do they need to meet each other? Why? What is the use? Do they love each other?” She seemed to think now. She continued, “And even if they do, why the idea of meeting should be so important? What if their paths had never crossed?”

She asked, “Have you ever been in love.” “I do not know. Always been pretty much confused”, I replied. Taking a few winks I continued, “But the standard version dominated by melodrama and catharsis has always bored me. What I abhor the most is the strong tendency of domestication. Just as you tie animals to poles you try tying your love to yourself. And that again kills me. ”

“What do you think about love?” I asked. “Not much of a thinker, I already told you that,” came her quick reply.

“Is it not a product of human greed? The greed to possess someone and hate to share it with the world. That is why they say you always fall in love. Probably true. I am not sure.” I just thought to myself.

Words seemed to dry up. But we seemed to carry on the conversation. Pretty interesting to carry on a conversation without using the most significant product of human endeavours called words. Pretty early man stuff.

“Did we like each other?” I was not sure. “What about you?” I asked her. “Pretty much the same.” “But you look fine to me. I do enjoy being with you”, she replied.

“Do we play a game or call it an experiment. Just the two of us. The two guinea pigs. Agreed but no melodrama please and no domestication.” The pact was signed in the presence of the moon and the stars.

She spread her arms. I lay in her bosom feeling the warmth of her soft breast and the cold water splashing over us.

Now we are back from the beaches to the moronic environs of the classroom. We do not talk often. But the kitten faced smile still relieves me from the dreariness of studying in a B- school. And the experiment goes on. No gooey stuff and no domestication. Just a plain and simple game called love. And what a bundle of joy you have been. I will call you my muse.

At the Party

I had been avoiding parties for long. They had seemed drab affairs to me. But thought may be the taste of the pudding was in eating it. May be I should try. I was also trying to write my next story and thought it could potentially translate into one.

Everything seemed to be depressingly boring. But then I remembered I had a purpose.

And it is a surreal feeling being the audience and a participant at the same time. Perhaps in that way you will ignore some of my own foibles. A few shots of alcohol did enhance the surrealist in me. In the beginning I was pretty normal and to my surprise even when I walked out I was only normal.

Dresses seemed to be calling the shots. Various hues were on display. Some dressed like mannequins or dolls and some body-hugging and some free flowing and some simply outrageous. I thought people had overdone the dress part. Normality seemed to be in short supply. At least some stood out. Simple but starkly effective in gravitating attention. Even blacks do look good at times especially when they fit you perfectly and you have a particular tone of skin; or the onlooker’s senses have been numbed by alcohol.

In all this chaotic display of human vanities my eyes seemed to search for someone. I seemed to feel a tinge of pain rush through my veins every time I thought about her. Was this an end to a journey begun only sometimes in the past? There are times you hate to go back to reality. I have always hated reality for sure. The idea of placement seemed creepy to me. Imagine working like a dog for the rest of my life. And now after so much drama, everyone was placed. Not much a case of dream job but rather making concessions with one's calling.

And what a feeling. The MBA was finally behind us. That 3-lettered acronym variously expanded as Master of Business Administration, Master of Business Apocalypse, Me Before Anyone Else or Mediocre But Arrogant was firmly stuck to our backs. We were moving from the world of cases to actually become a part of one.

And now we will be busy with our lives. No time to stand and stare as Davies laments. I remember you Davies. I am too feeling your pain. I particularly brood over your 4-lines.

“No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.”

And what is my lament? Is it that I won’t be able to see her again. Her lovely face. Her soothing eyes. Her calming smile. And what not. But did I care about all these when I should have. Did I

ever try to see her at all? Perhaps I did not get the opportunity. Perhaps I did not want to. Perhaps I do not know what.

With some you can have a connect of mind. And with some of heart. We do have pretty much less control over our hearts than our minds. And for some mind dominates over the heart. They pride themselves as realists or rationalist and their list of self proclaimed jargons continue. And all pretty much fake. Today was the only day when I can convey what I always wanted to. Should I do it? Should I not? The fight over the head and the heart reached a crescendo. It seemed the mind was finally going to falter. I was completely exhausted in this tussle. The need for some fresh air outweighed everything else. In this internal anarchy I had forgotten that she had moved out long ago. My searching eyes took me to the steps of the hall. There she was. In all her glory. Smiling and talking as usual. Can I dare to disturb that state of ecstasy? Perhaps that was the most precious gifts I would ever get in my life. To see a smile lingering on her face. The most beautiful face I had ever dreamt.

I walked out in a drunken stupor and was soon engulfed in infinite stretches of darkness. The story was written.

But I did not pride myself on being rational or methodical any more.