Seriously M

Finally out of abracadabra, the cynical fool (later abbreviated as cf for in this era of quickies where you take it out, shove it in, puke inside and rush to the assembly line, time and space both are at a premium) wanted to be serious in life. And he stepped into something which was called as the ‘real world’ (which was also supposedly more serious than abracadabra) by certain very ‘smart people’. The cf wanted to call that world fantasmagoristan or at least the ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’. I corrected or egged him to call it automatonistan. (Long ago, if his memory served right the cf had heard of a country called hindostan).

Now it was the first day of the cf at what very serious people call a job. Cf tried killing time by engaging in verbal intercourse with fellow automatons. Later the fellow automatons wanted to satisfy one of their animal instincts (eat). The big M was just down there. Not the big mama silly but the one responsible for pigging (euphemistically called fattening and mind you I do not mean any offence to people challenged by weighing scales) populations across planets. The big M had originated from the darling planet of serious people, a land beset by the heaviest. Euphemistically many called it as the Planet of States. Now leaving the verbiage aside, let us turn to the actual scene.

The big M was filled to the brim with automatons, automatons of all sexes (I hate bifurcating automatons just on the basis of what shows up inside their pants), automatons of many classes (strictly not all), automatons of all age groups (now do not ask me if I included infants). There were automatons who thought themselves to be sophisticated and as a proof strangled their necks with a piece of clothing resembling what many virile among the automatons refer to as the weapon, though a little longer (as if one was out fighting a war with their partner but oxymoronically called it making love). Among the sophisticated ones many were garbed in sweaty suits as well. And they thought themselves as super intelligent.

And then there were those referred to as the fairer sex who were trying to act dainty. (They were not even able to use their hands properly. It seemed they thought themselves to be sparrows and thus were pecking at their foods). And there were those whom summer had given the excuse to reveal more than they could hide. Cf did not want to give a damn even if they chose to forget covering what again some serious people referred to as assets. He particularly disliked the furniture at the big M and when they spread their bottoms on those chairs, the sight seemed ghastly to cf’s idea of aesthetics. Reams were consigned to print discussing the rear of somebody by the name of Pippa Middleton. Cf thought he would get to appreciate or write paeans on the rear view but it was an aesthetic disaster.

And there were overblown kid automatons as well. And these kinds were there with their guardian automatons. But I think my heart definitely sank when I saw two little kids being fed burgers for lunch by their seemingly nouve middle class parents. They did not seem to be rich, just what again the serious people call as the middle class. Cf thought (even he could think) how would their taste buds develop if they are being pigged on a diet served by the big M.

It seemed the big M was losing its plot in the country of its origin and wanted to explore new markets. (by the way markets was a much over-used term in abracadabra and stuff like market access were used profusely but rarely appreciated what it meant for the population in those areas). And automatonistan with its new found confidence of being a superpower (one of the greatest fibs doing the rounds in automatonistan and used in the many of analyses in abracadabras across the planet and jargonized as 'PEST') seemed a perfect place. These pumpkins had been ruled by the inhabitants of an island who would have drowned in the piss of those they oppressed.

Across the glass of the big M, lay a tree. A woman was sleeping. And her children seemed to looks for little crumbs from those stuffing themselves at big M. And Cf seemed dangerously close to practicing what somebody had called champagne socialism. So after spitting some verbiage, he just sat there observing rather nonchalantly. He considered himself fortunate to isolate his own self in the automaton crowd and not to be rubbed by notions of decency and airiness.

And thus the day ended after killing some more time. It was Don Rigoberto all in the head though the fantasies lacked his imaginative depth. Llossa must have laughed himself hoarse.

एक तमन्ना

ये पत्तियां कब हरी होगी

मेज़ पर रखा गुलदस्ता मुरझा सा गया है

गुलदस्ते में कुछ फूल रखे हैं

पहले दिन खिले थे अब मुरझा गएँ हैं

उनकी कुम्हलाहट मेरी मासूमियत की तरह कहीं खो गयी है

उनको छूकर मैं देखता हूँ

बातें करता हूँ बदहवास सा बौखलाया हुआ

अपनी तन्हाई मिटाता हूँ

मन को शांत करने की असफल कोशिश करता हूँ

आज एक अजीब सा सन्नाटा छाया है

अट्रियम की छत से धूप छन कर आ रही थी

कम्प्यूटर के पीछे हरी हरी बत्तियां टिमटिमा रही थी

उस लम्बे इंतज़ार के बाद पैरों में हल्का दर्द सा महसूस हो रहा था

पर क्या इस दर्द की कोई अहमियत थी

इस दुनिया में जहाँ प्रतिस्पर्धा ही एकमात्र सत्य है

प्रतिस्पर्धा जो इन्सान को कुत्ता बनाने पर अड़ गया है

एक ऐसी भूख जगा रहा जो सब कुछ खाने पर विवश कर रहा है

संकीर्णता की चारदीवारी में कैद कर रहा है

अब फूल नहीं मुस्कुराएँगें

बसंत भी सो जायेगा हमेशा के लिए

शिशिर का मौसम ही चलता रहेगा

लेकिन नहीं अभी उम्मीद की किरण बची है

एक ऐसे इन्सान की कल्पना

जो प्रतिस्पर्धा नहीं प्रेम का गीत गायेगा

प्रस्फुटित फूल की तरह अपनी खुशबू बिखेरेगा

इन्सान की भूख को वश में कर उसे प्रेम करना सिखाएगा

और तब बसंत फिर आएगा

अपनी कोमल सी चादर बिछाएगा

और इन्सान छोटे बच्चों की तरह उसमे सो जाएगा

फूल खिलेंगे दिल झूम उठेंगे मन गा उठेंगे

और तब मैं भी खो जाऊंगा उस बहार में

मुस्कुराते हुए

abracadabra

It was the end of the day. The big amphitheater was empty in most parts. Only a few natives of abracadabra could be seen here and there. Most were stuck to a device relaying messages to their someone. The place was getting cleaned up as the bouts had finished. The gladiators were already crowned. It had been a big day in abracadabra. Much frantic activity had preceded the D-day. And now the day was behind the backs of its inhabitants. That evil bastard called time had crossed to the other side leaving indelible memories. Cruel for some but definitely kind for many.

And now there was this narcissistic bastard. Time had stopped for him. And he seemed to be frozen. But why was this bastard smiling. Hey! look properly. This bastard was laughing loudly. Bloody has no shame, I guess. Some people were trying to lift up the spirits. Some asking strange questions but he seemed to be somewhat heart-broken when people did not even care to take a few chocolates from him. Must have thought that without anything to support him, he would run a debt and leave the scene.

Even after the world has collapsed right under his eyes, look at the airs he put on. This bastard was a freak of sorts. He believed in something called as methodology. He believed that circumstances could be controlled by the natives of abracadabra or any other planet. He believed that if you plan everything then things would fall in place. He believed that he could control destiny.

And now he had lost the battle with time. He was particularly afraid of one thing now. On planet earth, it was referred to as a placard. And now even the very mention of that word gave him goose bumps. He was disgusted to see them. An eerie sense of discomfort would spread around whenever he saw one now.

And now what? It is pay-time. Death was certain. Someone must die. But who? Should the idea die or the person? And how? And it was a pertinent question. Even now this bastard does not stop asking questions.

Everyone thought that the world had changed and the narcissist was still caught in a time warp. And thus came the verdict, “Both must die”. One for preaching a corrupt idea and the corrupt idea itself. They were lined up and hanged till death. Or so everyone thought. They all rejoiced that night; the inhabitants of abracadabra celebrated the deaths with merrymaking on a grand scale. Deaths and celebration, deathly celebration. And for them, thus came the demise of a self. Demise of a certain anachronistic school of thought. Disintegration, decay, destruction, demise, drama and placard and placard and placard and placard. And then appears the ultimate sweetener: death and finality.

The narcissist when in the throes of death though feeling immeasurable pain, laughed and laughed and laughed even when he was crying profusely from inside. But he believed he would rise again like a phoenix, somewhere someday, but nobody may know. Nobody would care, for the world would have had moved on.

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…..