Mr. Ragpicker

His day had begun quite a while back, so that when his body started to feel the need for a little bit of rest, the early morning October mist still hung in the air. The aroma of the typical spiced tea – rich and creamy and strong, with the hint of ginger and cardamom infused in it – buzzed around the roadside tea stall. Judging by his composure, I figured that this was all part of his regular routine. Picking up crumpled bottled cola bottles thrown carelessly from the flashy cars, early in the morning, and when the time came, a nice steaming miniature cup of tea from the tea-stall. Life, even at its harshest of times, seemed to have acquired a sense of rhythm to it; especially for him.

It was at the tea stall that I met him, and when I looked into his face, found that there was something amiss. The eyes didn’t seem to fit those of a rag-picker. The eyes were intelligent, and looked like they were still looking for a way to fulfil some half-forgotten dream from a long time ago. Or, maybe I was looking too much into them – maybe he was just yearning for his morning cup of tea. Still, there was only one way to find out; by talking to him. I didn’t know how to start a conversation with him, but there was no other choice. So I started talking to him in the lamest way possible.

“Nice weather, isn’t it?” I said to him when he sat down with the tiny cup next to me.

Now, the weather might have been cool, and it might have been nice, but it was nowhere near worthy of a comment – especially between two strangers. The look on his face clearly suggested that he was torn between being amused and confused, and so he made a compromise and gave me a confused smile before putting the cup of tea back to his lips. I was embarrassed myself, so gave him a sheepish smile too before sipping on my tea.

“Yes, it is nice,” he said a moment later. “It always is around this time of the year. October mornings are wonderful in Delhi.”

“You’re from Delhi?” I asked.

“No, but I’ve lived here for a long time. I’m originally from UP, near Meerut. Not far from here, but it’s not Delhi is it?” he asked. I grinned, and he continued, “I grew up there, in Meerut. I came here in my youth, after I’d finished with my studies. I was an engineering student, not too bad with grades and all. Once that was done, I came to Delhi looking for a job.”

“Where did you work in Delhi?”

“I worked at a number of places – engineering companies, mostly. But none of those stints lasted long. I wasn’t really happy about life, not even content. Life was just – moving on.” He drained the last of his tea from the cup, and I expected that he would walk away right after that. But he stayed put, while I wondered a lot about him. At first glance, I might have dismissed this old, fragile man. Now, however, I found it hard to not be interested in him – and although a part of me hated it, I was downright curious to know more about him.

I didn’t want to sound rude, though, so I didn’t ask him anything outright. I just waited for him to feel comfortable and open up (I think I might be too much of an optimist sometimes), while he sat there with his black bag with the discarded trash of the day slung on his shoulders. Some of my curiosity must have been reflected on my face, however, because he asked in a little while, “Why should I tell you more?”

“Because you can trust me,” I said on impulse.

He looked slightly taken aback by my answer, but then asked me, a little more sternly this time, “Why should I trust you?”

“Because I’m a stranger,” I said.

He looked strangely at me, and suddenly the discomfort melted away from his face. He laughed – he had quite a heavy, booming laugh for a man of his stature – and for some reason (and even though I didn’t expect it at all), he bought what I said.

I bought another round of tea for the both of us, and sat down for his story.

“So, like I was telling you, I was working at various engineering companies in and around the city. I never really stuck to one job for long – it got monotonous for me. In fact, this was one of the main reasons why I joined up for the railways; so that I could travel. But what I really wanted to do, of course, was get into the air force or the navy. I know I didn’t qualify on medical grounds, but it’s a dream that I nurtured for a long time. Life does that to you sometimes. That’s why I always tell everyone I talk to (which isn’t much, mind you) to do whatever it is that they want to while they still can.

“But, I digress. Where was I? Oh, yes; the engineering companies. The work was tedious, repetitious and boring, and I quickly got bored from it. I moved from company to company in quick succession. Every move came with a hike, and a promotion, so before I knew it I was quite well off. I moved to a bigger house since I was able to afford one. I bought a car, and when I had acquired all these things, I found that I still wasn’t satisfied with life. My parents were trying hard to get me to settle down (a colloquial way of saying that it was time for me to get married), and that’s when I left the endless line of engineering companies and joined the railways. I got married, we were settled in Delhi, but the constant travelling kept me away from home when I really wanted to. I was content with life, but the monotony kept on; I still wasn’t happy. In addition, my wife constantly complained about our comparatively lower income than my friends and neighbours, most of who were still working at the places I had left – the big private firms. She pressurised me, finally, to give up the railway job and get back to my old job that paid much more. I tried to get away from that, but I couldn’t. I was back where I had started; to the same old hollow lifestyle, comparing sizes of houses and lengths of cars as if it all meant something. But now, at least my wife had stopped complaining so much, and even the new line of jobs kept me busy most of the time. I hardly stayed at home.”

“What about kids?” I asked.

“There was never time, to be honest. Like I said, I was hardly ever home, and I didn’t want to raise kids in that environment when I couldn’t be around to watch them grow up. Now, when I think about it, I feel it was selfish of me. Back then, though, not having children felt like the right thing to do.

“I started reading a lot more than I did previously, but there was something that was always nagging in the back of my head. In all aspects of life, I was content but never happy. I had a good family life – a good wife, great relations with all of my extended family. I had a decent job, one that paid all the bills for us. I tried a lot of ways to get back the happiness that I used to feel during my college days – books, music, films. I read more than ever during that time of my life, and watched more films than ever. I revived my interest in music once more; I used to play guitar in the college band, and although we knew we weren’t any good, we were passionate about music. I started frequenting small rock shows, and would be the only guy in formal attire – complete with tie – amidst the crowd of youngsters in their black t-shirts, head-banging with them while they looked a little alarmed with my exuberance. I stopped going soon after though – there are just so many strange stares that you can take. But books stayed on with me, and so did the music, confined in my own little room, my private little world.

“And in spite of it all, I still wasn’t happy the way others seemed to be. Life seemed so much simpler for them; my neighbours would get their happiness from buying a pair of ugly, branded shoes, while I felt nothing from the same experience. Even my wife seemed happy after buying things like that, something that I never understood. I envied her for it too – for having that simplistic bent of mind, to be happy with nothing more than a piece of leather shaped into a shoe.

“I started drinking the way my wife had started shopping. The louder she got, the more I had to drink to dull her voice in my head. Her friends, our neighbours, they became even louder, and for a while it seemed as though it was a contest of who was the loudest of them all. The glitterier my world became, the more I had to drown myself in alcohol to survive it. There had to come a time, however, when no amount of alcohol would have been sufficient, and when that time came, my wife filed for divorce. She hired a lawyer (with my own money) and proved that I was an alcoholic in court. The lawyer sucked out a major chunk of the money we had, and whatever was left, my wife took that. The house, the fancy cars (note that that’s plural; and I hadn’t even wanted one car to begin with!), and the money that was left after the lengthy divorce trial – it all went to her. I was left a tiny sliver to sustain myself, and the court justified it by saying that I had a job. What the court didn’t realise was that after I was proven to be an alcoholic, the company wasn’t too keen to see me around either. I was put on a sabbatical (without pay, of course), and eventually I was fired. By this time, I had moved twice to progressively smaller homes, and had rid myself of all the things that had tainted me since I had ‘settled down’. I was finally a free man.

“I travelled a lot, mostly on foot, since I couldn’t afford luxurious means of travel anymore. What I found, however, was that I was happier doing that than travelling in air-tight cars where you can’t even smell the air of a new village you pass through. I stopped often, and met a whole lot of people. I did small odd jobs – repairing phones, radios, TVs etc. at that time, to sustain myself, and every time I had enough money to get around again, I’d move on. I started writing as well, and carried at least one book with me at all times. It’s a good thing that you can still barter books, or buy them second hand for cheap, if you know how to find the right places. I was finally happy with my life.

“I don’t linger on anywhere for long – especially in the big cities. I’m not stopping here, I’m just passing through here. Truth is, nobody wants me to fix their radios or their phones in big cities like this; they would rather take them to the bigger shops and pay good money to get minor fixes to those things. Not that I mind though – it just gives me an excuse to get out of the bigger cities sooner.”

“So, you’re not a full time rag-picker?” I asked him before I could stop myself.

“No, no,” he said, laughing. “I’m not a full time rag picker. I don’t stay here often; I’m just passing through the city. The only reason I stopped was because October is my favourite time in Delhi, but that’s not reason enough to keep me here.”

“You said you write a lot now. What do you write about?”

“People I meet, mostly; their stories.”

“I do that too, from time to time. Do you mind if, someday, I write something about you?”

“Why should I mind? I don’t even know where I would be when you’ve written that. Chances are that I won’t even get to read it! Go ahead, write whatever you want about me,” he said, the smile still not leaving his face.

“How do you manage to write so much if you don’t stay put at one place for long?” I asked. I was wondering where he kept his written work, but he misunderstood the question.

“Pens and notebooks aren’t hard to come by these days. They’re not so expensive either – so I can afford to buy them when I have to.”

I tried to clarify the question. “And where do you keep the notebooks once they’re full? If you write a lot, you must have a whole lot of notebooks filled by now.”

“I generally barter them for books to read. I give them away to the small, second hand book-sellers, and they generally lower the book prices for that. The only thing I ask them, however, is that once they’re done with the stories, they pass them on as well – barter them again in exchange of books. That way, maybe, my stories keep going round and round. Who knows, if you haunt dusty book stores often, you might find one of my notebooks there as well!”

“Why don’t you get your stories published? You would find a much bigger audience that way, and more people would be able to read your stories.”

“I don’t think I would be able to handle the fame or success, if any of that comes my way. Also, I would have to use a pen-name for that purpose, and I’m bad at coming up with names of characters.” He finished the last gulp of his tea, crumpled up the plastic cup and threw it in the trash bin.

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I have trouble coming up with names for my characters as well.”

His story finished, he got up to leave and get back to his day of rag-picking. Break time was over, and like all of us, his face suggested that he wished it had lingered on for a little while longer as well. Just as he was leaving, I realised something and called him back.

“Wait, you didn’t tell me your name.”

He smiled his smile, the one that I had become so used to in that little span of time, and said, “If I told you that, we wouldn’t be strangers anymore.”

~

Whatsername

Her hair had highlights. I hate highlights. But then, that was the only thing that I could hate about her.

No, wait; for the first time in my life, I found that I couldn’t hate highlights, no matter how hard I tried.

So, her hair had highlights, but I couldn’t hate them for the first time in my life.

And her eyes were like two blue orbs bulging from her sockets; and if that sounds rude, I admit that I am exaggerating.

She was made up, but there wasn’t much that she needed to hide. Or maybe, there wasn’t much that she wanted to hide.

It was a subtle difference that I understood. She took the hint, and smiled back at me. That smile told me that she had wanted me to understand that subtle difference.

She was wearing all black, and the highlights of her hair (damned highlights that I couldn’t keep my eyes off!) shone amber under the streetlamp.

Twinkling winking blinking at me. Much like her eyes, the blue almond shaped (and not too bulging) eyes.

The eyes were looking at me. They were talking to me, in the way that only beautiful eyes can talk.

That look was seductive.

That look was suggestive.

So, I did what I had to… I stepped on the pedal and raced away.

I fled the scene, as fast as I could.

I know what you’re thinking, but don’t judge me too fast.

I mean, I was scared. And she…

Well, she was a ‘working girl’…

~

For Hire at 2 AM

First time for Mudita and Sunandini at TGIF on a chilly Friday night, and they were in love with the place. The ambience, the entire feel of the place, plus the warmth of it – they just wanted to run back inside, hoping the party would still be on.

Mudita was visiting her cousin after a very long time; 12 years had passed since they had last met. Sunandini did not even remember the last time. She had been a little pigtailed girl, unsure of herself at that time. Now, both Mudita and Sunandini had grown up, and acquired that confidence that comes with adolescence. Both had "experienced", somewhat, the effects of the teenage years, and lived through them. They had matured over the years, and left those childhood days behind for good.

The night had been filled with loud music, lots of dancing, and a lot of vodka. Both girls were buzzing slightly, and very giggly. Much of it was due to their excitement at the fact that they had enjoyed so much at the party, but if you ask them, they'd be sure to tell you it was the vodka. Mudita was acting tipsy, and she had been doing that even during the party. Sunandini wasn't sure if she was drunk herself, nor was she very sure of Mudita's drunkenness.

"Mudita, calm down!" said Sunandini. "You'll wake someone up from that giggling!"

Sunandini was giggling herself, but she couldn't understand just how loud they were. At 2 AM in the night, even the slightest of sounds seem a lot louder than they are really.

"I'm not being loud, you are!" said Mudita, nudging Sunandini. "I'm just having fun; night time rocks! Woohoo!"

"Mudita, seriously! You have got to calm down!" Sunandini was getting a little worried about her little cousin. "The cops will be after us, Mudita!"

But Mudita didn't care. She was a grown-up now, and there was nothing anyone could stop her from doing. No one could stop her from drinking vodka anytime that she wants; and no one could stop her from kissing cute guys she just met in a party. So what if she was half drunk, or if she couldn't remember his name?

"Harshal! Hah, that's what his name was!" screamed Mudita triumphantly all of a sudden. "His name was Harshal! See, I remember!"

"Alright, Mudita," said Sunandini. The cab they had called for was finally here, and Sunandini was mighty glad for it too. "Here's the cab. Let's get inside now, it's too cold. You'll feel a lot better back at Maasi's place in that warm bed of yours. How does that sound to you, Mudita?"

"Great!" said Mudita. "Can you call Harshal over as well, pwease?"

The cab stopped right in front of them, and the driver got out. It had been a busy night for him; lots of people had somehow chosen this particular Friday night to get drunk. The fact that it was slightly warmer than it had been the past few days seemed a good idea for all the rich folks to party like mad into the wee hours of the night. Still, the business was good tonight, so the cab drivers didn't really mind.

On coming closer to the girls, though, the driver could see that one of the girls was in much better shape than the other. She looked as though she could walk into the cab without assistance, which was good. The night was still cold, and his hands didn't want to leave his pocket.

"Madam, you can manage to climb in?" he asked, just in case.

Sunandini looked the cab driver up and down with an accusatory look, and replied coldly, "Yes, I'm pretty sure I can manage it. Thanks a lot!"

'Boy, he must be at least thirty years elder to me, but he's still trying to hit on me! The audacity of these cab drivers these days, honestly!' Sunandini thought, as she helped a swaying Mudita into the cab.

The cab driver dutifully touched his hat at Sunandini, and said, "Good evening, madam. Myself Jagdish. Where to, madam?"

'Oh, so now you're pretending to be all nice and polished, are you?' thought Sunandini. 'Don't think I can't see right through you!'

"First to Vasant Kunj. We'll drop off my cousin, and then over to Greater Kailash 2," said Sunandini. "And hurry up, please. I don't want to be too late." The little backlit alarm clock in the taxi chimed once; it was 2:30 in the night.

"Yes, madam," said Jagdish, and with another touch to his hat, they were off.

"Sunanidi," said a garbled voice next to Sunandini. Mudita's speech was intensely garbled, and it took Sunandini a little while to realize that Mudita was saying her name. "Sunanidi," Mudita repeated. "Theesh cab drivers, not shafe. This time of night, you hear all shtories. No, not shafe at all!"

"Nonsense, Mudita!" said Sunandini. "Don't worry, we can manage just fine."

They had reached Mudita's house. The cab stopped right in front of her apartment, and Sunandini saw Mudita walk unsteadily up the stairs. "Wait here for a while," said Sunandini to Jagdish. "Wait till she's inside her house."

Mudita groped around with the keys for a while, but got the door open alright. The stairway was lit, and Sunandini could see Mudita's fur coat.

"Bye, Sunanidi," called Mudita from the stairway. "Be careful! Cabs, not shafe… oops!" Mudita had almost tipped over. Without another word, Mudita slammed the door, and the lights were out. Sunandini heaved a sigh of relief, knowing that Mudita was safe at home.

She turned her eyes back to Jagdish, and found him looking at her. Maybe she was imagining things, especially after what Mudita said, but she did not like the look in Jagdish's eyes. Was she just drunk and paranoid? She thought about all the stories she had heard about life in Delhi; of what happened to girls who were out alone at night. The vodka quickly evaporated from her system, and she was left clutching her seat thinking what might happen to the two girls.

'He might be a killer. Or a rapist! Or both! Oh, my god! Why didn't I ask one of the boys to come with me? How am I ever going to survive this cab ride?'

"Greater Kailash now, madam?" asked Jagdish, still looking at her from over his shoulder.

Sunandini found that her voice was choked. It took her considerable effort to unclog her throat and mutter, "Yes, please."

She sat petrified on the seat. Every passing second scared her more and more; she thought soon, she would burst with fear or anxiety or whatever the hell it was that was beginning to possess her so. She tried looking outside at the road to relax; it didn't work. She tried opening the window a little bit, let the wind play on her face for a while; the air outside was so cold, she felt worse off than she was before she had tried opening up that window.

"Madam, winter night very cold here in Delhi. Keep window closed, you catch fever otherwise," said Jagdish to Sunandini. She turned to look at Jagdish, and saw that he was smiling and waiting for her to close the window.

'Look at him, leering at me like that! Bloody, good for nothing loafer! I can see it in his eyes; he can easily be a rapist. Sunandini, what have you gotten yourself into?'

She slowly closed the window, and the stuffy cab air attempted to nauseate her again. She forced herself to focus; knowing that passing out in this situation would not be the best thing to do.

"First time in Delhi, Madam?" asked Jagdish. "You have seen the city yet?"

"It's not my first time here," said Sunandini. "I was born and raised in this place. I know Delhi inside out."

For a fraction of a second, Jagdish's eyebrows shot up. "Really, Madam?" he asked. "You know Delhi inside out? Very good. Delhi, beautiful city. So much history, so many kings and queens stay here."

'Great, now he's going back in time. Where are the sane people in this city these days?'

"Today, I go to Chawri Bazaar. Old Delhi side, behind Jama Masjid," said Jagdish. Somehow, he knew this girl sitting in the back seat thought she knew the real city, but she didn't. She couldn't; she lived in another Delhi. The Newer Delhi, as Jagdish used to think of it. So, he continued.

"That side, very old. Old houses, old roads. Cows and buffaloes walking with the men. Crowded place, very old. Beautiful place, many colors. Tasty food too. You go there sometime, I think you like it. Red Fort, very near. You've gone to Red Fort? Very nice place. Beautiful fort; Mughal kings lived there. Delhi is old, very old. You should see. Jama Masjid, Old Fort, Chandni Chowk, Chawri Bazaar, Shahjanabad. You like history?"

'Aah, this old man's giving me the creeps. I wonder when he's going to shut up! Should I humor him, and answer his questions? No, I shouldn't do that. Maybe he would think I'm interested in his stupid stories. I'd just pretend to be not interested at all; maybe that would get him to shut up.'

Thinking so, Sunandini turned to look at Jagdish, and defiantly said, "No. I hate history."

Jagdish's face fell, and Sunandini was satisfied to see that. 'That shut up the old bugger!' she thought triumphantly. For all she was concerned, she had to keep herself safe. For that, the minimal interaction she had with the driver, the better it would be for her.

They zoomed across the empty Delhi roads in the night. The sight was slightly eerie for Sunandini; where she saw snarling traffic jams every day, now the roads were empty and barren. Not a soul could be seen at this hour on the streets, and a thin layer of fog lay on the city roads. The streetlights shone bright, the rays piercing through the fog. Sunandini could see the fog rolling down the streets, and she felt as though she was flying through the clouds. For a while, she forgot where she was, forgot that it was so late in the night, and that she was in a cab, alone.

"Funny time, the night," said Jagdish. "Funny people at this time, too. Strange people, most of them. Like the gentleman before you, Madam. Funny man. Not bad man, Madam. Just, strange."

Sunandini was still floating in the clouds, and the words of the driver came slowly floating by to her. She was curious, in spite of knowing the potential dangers of asking anything to the driver, but she couldn't resist. She was too curious, so she just went ahead and asked, "Strange, how?"

"This gentleman, who come right before you," continued Jagdish. "He coming from a party. Quite drunk, couldn't recognize anything. Couldn't walk straight. Said wanted to go home, could not remember right address. Said it's in his bedroom; tell me to take him there. His friend, stand outside the car. He tell me address, then his friend walked away. I started to drive, and the gentleman thought I was friend, kept telling me about wife. Then he start talking about his friend's wife. When reached address, told me to come inside. Wife waiting for us, she cook dinner. Took me fifteen minutes to tell him the fare. Then, gentleman started crying, sitting in front of open door. Wife screaming from behind, gentleman still crying. Wife had to pay fare, and I think gentleman had to hear lot of screaming too. Yes, people very strange this time of night."

"That's an interesting story," said Sunandini, a bout of laughter threatening to burst through. "You meet a lot of people like this?"

"Yes," said Jagdish. "Part of life as taxi driver, Madam. Must go out at night, when customer calls. Must be able to drive him to destination."

'Seems like he's got an interesting life, this guy. I wonder what it's like, to be a taxi driver,' thought Sunandini. After hearing the story, she wanted to hear a little more about the life of a taxi driver. So, she thought of asking him a little more about his life.

"What other sorts of people do you meet? I mean, it must be a completely different side of life that you see at night, isn't it?"

"Yes, Madam. Very different people at night. Daytime, no problem. Night time, have to be careful. Some people, not very nice. They come at night."

Sunandini was starting to relax a bit now, even though she didn't see it coming. The night, although a bit too quiet to her liking, was very calm and peaceful. 'It's strange to see Delhi so calm. It's so hard to imagine that just a few hours from now; there would be a hundred cars with a hundred people screaming at each other at this very spot! The driver was right; Delhi really is a beautiful place. I wonder why it took me such a long time to notice that.'

"Delhi is a strange place, isn't it?" Sunandini asked the driver.

"Yes, Madam. Very strange place. So many people come and go in taxi. Some strange stories these people tell, too, Madam. Delhi a city of strangers, yes!" Jagdish said, with a small chuckle, apparently surprised at his own wit. "A city of strangers. All strangers walking around here. Day and night. But when they come into this taxi, Madam, those people not strangers anymore. They feel good inside taxi. I feel good inside taxi, too. Not my first taxi this one, Madam. Driving taxi in Delhi for thirty two years, I've seen Delhi well. No strangers for me, Madam. At least, not while they're inside the taxi."

They took a right turn, under a flyover. The lights were still twinkling, and Sunandini saw that she was almost home.

"What about when the people reach their destinations?" she asked.

"Then, they get lost amongst the strangers again; and my taxi becomes empty. I look for another stranger to make friends with, for a little while again. But, in the end, the city swallows all the strangers back again."

"You make friends with your passengers? How can you make friends so fast?"

Jagdish didn't say anything; he smiled, and took the turn towards Sunandini's house. Jagdish's words were still ringing in her ears, and she was wondering what Jagdish would be telling her future passengers about her. 'Good thing, he didn't get to know that I thought he was a murdering rapist! That would have been some story,' she thought to herself.

The taxi stopped, and she saw they had reached. Jagdish got out of the car and opened the door for Sunandini. She got out of the car, and found that she didn't feel remotely drunk anymore. All the alcohol in her system had evaporated after that cab ride, and she felt much better now that she was standing in front of her house.

"Here's the fare," she said to Jagdish, handing him the money. "I guess that makes us strangers again, no?"

Jagdish smiled, and said, "Yes, Madam. It was a pleasure to have been driving with you. Goodnight, madam."

"Goodnight…" said Sunandini, but she couldn't remember his name. She stopped herself before it became obvious.

Jagdish got into the car again, and the engine throbbed to life. From inside the car, Sunandini could hear a raucous voice singing loudly, "Chalo ik baar phir se, ajnabee ban jaaye hum dono…"

The cab drove away, and the song faded into the night. They were strangers again.

Humming the song quietly to herself, she walked into her house. She closed the door, gently, and the night went all quiet again.

***

This story has been greatly inspired by Jim Jarmusch's Night On Earth. I wanted to acknowledge that film, and the filmmaker, somewhere in the story itself. However, I couldn't do that, because I knew Sunandini or Mudita would never watch that film, and Jagdish would have a lot of language problems if he wanted to see it.

Also, I would be highly obliged if somebody could translate the lines of that song for me. Roughly translated, the line means "let's become strangers again," but somehow that does absolutely no justice to the original line; and my translation skills are horrible. Thanks in anticipation…

***

Update: For a wonderful translation of the last line, take a look at Ice Maiden's comment. It includes a translation of the entire song, from which the two lines were borrowed. Thanks, Ice Maiden.

The Last Night

Having had enough of India, Nishinath decided it was time for him to go back home. It had been just over ten months since he had come back to India, all the way from New York. Delhi had held a lot of promises for him, before he had arrived. He had been sure of having a good time here, but the last ten months had taken a lot out of him. Now, tired and alone, he wanted to go back home.

Nishinath was born in New York. Before Delhi, he hadn't seen anything of the world. New York had been his world, till the day he found out all about his parents town. Delhi – the name itself had seemed romantic. His parents told him all about the city, and how seeped in history it was. His father told him how every lane of Delhi had a story to go with. Some stories, of course, were older than the others, but every single one of those stories was older than any living man he had met. The place went back a long time, and that was one of the main attributes of this mysterious city that drew Nishinath towards it.

So, after working for two years, and having saved up enough, he decided it was time for him to spread his wings and fly to Delhi. He was somehow sure that for him, the city would be no stranger, and that the city would accept him exactly the way he was.

Ten months later, he was sitting outside his little rented apartment, waiting for the taxi to pick him up for the airport. The taxi was late; he was getting worried that he might miss his flight. One of his friends was dead. Another had disappeared. The love of his life didn't want to see him again; although, since she was blind, he didn't think it would be very hard to fulfill that requirement.

He couldn't bear to think of her right now, but every few minutes, he caught himself hoping longingly that she would give him a call. Everything about her had been perfect. In these last few moments, before he left her town, he allowed himself to think about her.

Netravati – the name itself had enticed her. He tasted that name one more time on his lips: Netravati. She was beautiful, and he was sure she had no idea just how beautiful. He had tried describing it to her, the way she looked, but she hadn't let him. She hadn't wanted to know, and so Nishinath had shut up and kissed her instead.

It was because of Mrityunjay that he had met Netravati in the first place. Mrityunjay, his friend; the first person he had truly known in this crazy city. Mrityunjay; the man who had put a roof above his head when he had no place to go, and had no one he knew. Now Mrityunjay was dead, and it was his fault.

"Don't think that!" he told himself. "It's bad enough that Margi thinks that. It's 'coz of that, she left. He's dead, and she's gone, and there ain't nothin' I can do to make it alright. Netravati won't see me, she won't come near me no more. Goddamn, I ain't got no light either! Fuck!"

The unlit cigarette was taking the brunt of all his feelings. The crumpled paper reminded him of a dented metal pipe that had been used to crack someone's head open. Of course, things like this happened back in New York, but Nishinath somehow found it easier to deal with things like that than the unfair insanity that surrounded him here. The tobacco from the cigarette was dropping out, and he still didn't have a light. There was no one out in the world at the time; everyone preferred to be indoors after dark in this city, so asking someone else for a light was also out of the question.

He wished Mrityunjay was here. He was sure to have a light, even if he didn't smoke himself. The need for a smoke was killing him here, although he didn't smoke that much back in New York. Before coming here, he'd thought Delhi would be more of a home than New York ever had been. Now, however, he was glad he was leaving this place. He was so glad to be going back home.

A light suddenly appeared in front of his face. A hand, holding a cigarette lighter; he finally lit the cigarette, without even looking at the man, and muttered "Thanks."

The man sat down next to Nishinath, and said "You're welcome." A deep, rumbling voice, that Nishinath thought he could recognize, but couldn't exactly pinpoint. It seemed to be a voice that he had heard a long, long time ago, but had half forgotten. This didn't exactly make sense, since he had never been out of New York, and this man didn't seem the type who had gotten out of Delhi either.

Nishinath turned around, and looked at the man sitting next to him. He was wearing a black overcoat, which Nishinath knew must have been for the cold. Still, it looked slightly out of place on the man; the night wasn't that cold. He was wearing a black hat that covered his head, and his face was covered with a thick black beard. Underneath the black overcoat, Nishinath could make out that the man was wearing a black suit. He took a look at the man's hands, and could see that he was wearing black leather gloves. Black shoes, black socks; Nishinath couldn't understand why this man was covered from head to toe in black, when he found a pair of glittering black eyes staring back at him.

"Say, buddy," Nishinath began as the man continued looking at him with those unblinking eyes, "do I know you from someplace? 'Coz man, your voice sounds real familiar. We met before?"

"No, we haven't met before," said the man. "At least, not like this."

"Wazzat mean?" asked Nishinath, "and what's your name, anyway?"

The strange man looked around with a smile, and said, "I am the night. I've known you for quite some time now; you've always held a strange fascination for me, haven't you?"

The man looked away, and said after a while, "You've always preferred the night, haven't you, Nishinath? You've always trusted me; somehow all your worries and your secrets have come out of you so much easier at this time.

"Well, my friend," continued the man; a smile lighting up his eyes as he looked back into Nishinath's eyes, "I sensed that you were troubled. I sensed you were alone. So many times, in the past, while you were at home in New York City, you have come to me. You have trusted me, so many times. So, I thought maybe, this time too, I could meet and make things better for you. Plus, I saw that you needed a light there."

"Shit! Are you telling me that you, the man sitting right in front of me, is The Night?" asked Nishinath, bewildered. "Goddamn, man! I can't believe this. You real, or you wacko?"

"No, Nishinath. I'm not 'wacko'," said the man, that patient, happy smile still lighting up his dark features. "I'm real; and I'm your friend. I know a lot about you."

"Bullshit," said Nishinath. "C'mon man, if you know me so damn well, why don't you go right ahead and prove it, eh?"

"Alright," said the man. "If that's what it will take for you to trust me in this form, so be it. Nishinath Bhardwaj, born 2^nd October, 1985. Father, Nitin Bhardwaj, general contractor. Mother, Swati Bhardwaj, housewife, although she does teach some children after school hours. Younger sister, Disha Bhardwaj. Died when she was three years old; that's also the first time you came and talked to me, if you remember. You had a pet dog, by the name of Rocky. Why you kept that name, you have no idea; especially since you hated that name for him.

"First time you got drunk was when you were seven years old. Ashley's drunkard father thought it might be a good idea to let you taste your first whisky while you were at her place, and you got high. Ashley's father laughed a lot, while Ashley screamed a lot at him. You never went back to her place again, even though you and Ashley dated some years later. She was the first girl you kissed, and the first girl you thought you were in love with. You weren't sure if you were in love with her or not, though.

"You ended things with Ashley pretty soon, though. Still, it did break your heart, even if for one day. You cried, the one and only time, for a girl. She remained your friend after that too, for quite a few days; until she moved away. By that time, of course, you had moved on. You don't remember her much these days. Things had become very different for you, as you grew up.

"New York was becoming claustrophobic. There were far too many people, cramped in that city. You didn't have space to breathe, or think, or feel anything. You told your parents that you wanted to see Delhi, for you were fascinated by it; you told them that you wanted to know the place where they came from, the place that you truly belong to. The real reason you came here was that you wanted to escape from New York. You wanted to run away, as you didn't know what else could remove that intense loneliness you felt in that city. So, you ran away, as far as you could. You ran to Delhi, to your past."

The man turned his eyes back to Nishinath. He could see that Nishinath couldn't believe anything he had heard, and looked quite incapable of saying anything after hearing everything the man had said. He smiled kindly at Nishinath, and said, "I don't really know what's been going on with you ever since you came to Delhi. You haven't talked to me that way since, but tonight you seemed real upset. That's why I came here tonight, Nishinath; to talk"

Nishinath still couldn't say anything. The man waited for him to speak, then put his arms around Nishinath's shoulder and said in a very gentle voice, "Finish that cigarette. Take all the time in the world. You'll feel like talking the moment you finish that cigarette."

*

Nishinath could feel the drags of the cigarette he was taking in. It was a weird night for him, but he felt a lot calmer now. The man sitting next to him did seem to be an old friend, however absurd his story might sound like. As Nishinath steadily proceeded towards the last drag of the cigarette, he started feeling an irresistible urge to start talking to the man. He could not explain why, but he wanted to tell the man everything that had happened to him in the last ten months, and he knew it wouldn't matter if it was in order or not. He just had to talk, and the man sitting next to him would understand.

"I reached Delhi on a fine sunny day," began Nishinath, "at 'bout the beginnin' of spring. Fine day it was, a li'l windy though. I remember, the wind caught hold of my hat that day, and blew it away. I'd laughed that time, as I chased the hat through the streets. The people were laughin' too, and when I finally caught the damn thing, there was a lot of cheers that came my way as well. That's the first memory of this goddamn place I got – chasin' my fuckin' hat all over the streets!

"I came to the city by train. Caught the train from Bombay, took me more than a day to get here. From the outside, I remember thinking 'trains here sure do suck, man!' but when I got inside one of those cramped compartments, and had been ripped off nice by the son-of-a-bitch porter that got my luggage for me, I found it wasn't all that bad. There were all sorts of people sittin' there with me, and I got to talkin' and shit with them. Never expected it, but that train ride sure ended up bein' fun; in its own fucked up way though.

"I didn't know nobody when I reached here. All I had that time was the name of this guy I was supposed to meet up. Mrityunjay – that was his name. I mean, who the fuck has a name like that? Took me a whole damn day to learn how to say that name right. Anyway, I had his number, so I gave him a buzz. Told me to come down to his place, so I caught a cab and went over.

"He wasn't what I'd thought he'd be. He sounded cool over the phone and all, but he looked like a total geek up front! Weird ass glasses that were constantly slippin' down from his nose, teeth too fuckin' large for his mouth so they're hangin' half out, a big blob for a nose. Still, I didn't have no choice, so I said hello and moved in with him.

"He took me over to meet a friend of his that night. Now, I don't get why parents have to fuck up their kids' lives here so much by givin' them goofy names. Mrityunjay's friend was called Margi. I don't even know what the heck that means, sounds like some sorta herb or somethin'. Anyway, so we met Margi the other day, and she was kinda cool too. We got to talkin' and stuff, and that's when I realized that these guys weren't dorks. They were nice folks, although they looked a bit funny.

"I met Netravati the next day. She's a friend of Margi, and she's blind. Even so, she had to be the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen! Damn, she was so pretty, I couldn't stop lookin' at her. She had to be the best girl I'd seen all my life. I mean, they don't even make them like that in The States. I dunno what it was about her, but the more I spent time with her, the crazier I went for her.

"I asked Netravati out soon, and we were havin' a great time. Margi was, somehow, not really happy about the situation though. See, Margi and Netravati are real good friends, and Margi's always been somewhat protective so far Netravati went. I guess Margi never really trusted me enough, but I knew that this time, I was really fallin' in love with this girl.

"Netravati's damn focused on her life as well. I mean, she'd do anythin' to make sure that becomes somethin'. She started spendin' a ton of her time at the office, and that started to piss me off. I mean, I was missin' her! So, I told her, and that's when me and her had our first big fight. That was fine too, but what pissed me off was the fact that Margi interfered in the whole thing. She told me that I ain't good enough for Netravati, and that she deserves better than me. 'Course, I couldn't take Margi sayin' all that shit to me. Hell, I wouldn't have taken nobody sayin' that shit to me. So I told her to go fuck herself, and that I'm in love with Netravati.

"When Netravati heard about all that, she told me that she ain't got no time for love. She said she's too damn busy in her own life, and that she didn't like the fact that I screamed at Margi the way I did. Man, she was fuckin' pissed that night. I tried to calm her down, but nothin' worked. She told me to get lost from her apartment, so I left that night. I went to the local pub, and I got drunk, bad. Then, I dunno why the fuck, I gave Netravati a call.

"She told me a lot of things, that she liked me and stuff, but she wasn't in love with me. She said shit like 'there's no future to this' and 'I'm too tied up in my job'. I slammed the phone down and swore I wouldn't talk to her again. Still, I needed a friend with me, so I gave Mrityunjay a call, told him to come down. I shouldn't have done that, 'coz that night as he was drivin' over to the pub to make sure I was fine, a drunk motherfucker slammed into his car. He was killed on the spot." A single tear leaked out from Nishinath's eyes. "On the fuckin' spot."

Nishinath fell silent. He couldn't tell the man sitting next to him how he felt when he saw Mrityunjay's twisted body within the steel cage that used to be his car. He couldn't go on about just how red the trickle of blood on his forehead had been that night. He couldn't tell the man how sorry he was that his friend was dead.

Margi had called him up the next day, to tell him that she was leaving. She told him that she couldn't take any of the things that had happened in the last few days, and that she was leaving town just to get away from Nishinath. Nishinath asked her about Netravati, but he got no answer. Netravati never called him again.

In a new, foreign city, a place he had hoped would become his home, Nishinath was a stranger again. He was worse off than his first day here, for now even his friend Mrityunjay wasn't there. He was alone in this strange city, away from home. His friends, all of them, were gone. One of his friends was dead. Another had disappeared. The love of his life didn't want to see him again; and Nishinath was tired.

It was quite a few moments that the two of them sat quietly there – Nishinath, and The Night. Like old friends, they sat, no words needed between them. The darkness seemed to press on around them, as they waited in silence for the taxi to come by.

A long time went by, and then finally in the distance, a pinprick of light pierced the darkness. The pinprick became two, and finally they could be recognized as the headlights of a taxi. It was time for Nishinath to leave this wretched city.

He turned to look at the man. He knew he wouldn't be able to say anything, but he also knew that no words were necessary. "Don't forget to talk to me now, Nishinath. You never know when you might need that," said the man. "I have to go now; I'm not really fond of the light. Quite understandable, isn't it?"

"Yeah, reckon so," said Nishinath. "See ya when I get back home, man."

The man turned around and walked away. For a while, Nishinath could see his back, but as the taxi grew closer and the light grew brighter, it became harder for him to focus on the man. He turned and signaled for the taxi to stop. His heart lighter than before, he started thinking longingly about home and his parents, and all his friends he knew were waiting for him there – at New York City.

That Damned Shortcut: Part 2

This post is the second chapter in the story of how a shortcut affected the peace of mind of five college kids. In case you haven't read the first part, Click Here. Cheers...

~~~~~

While Siddharth got busy making sure she was not hurt, Ira, Amit and Parul looked around to see what had caused her to faint.

Amit was the first one to notice what was a bobbing lantern coming at them through the banana trees. Scared to death, he merely pointed his finger towards it.

From among the banana trees, out came the bobbing lantern. It was held by the most ancient arm that anyone from that group had seen in all their lives. The five of them sat petrified in the car, while the figure moved slowly towards them. Although they couldn’t see the face, they could feel the unseen eyes of the black figure on them. A few feet away, the figure stopped, and they got a glimpse. It looked like a man, wrapped in a black blanket, a hood hiding his head from view. The lantern, swinging from his hand, cast deep shadows on whatever bit of face they could see of him. His face was wrinkled to the extent that it seemed pieces of it would be falling off. All this however was left unnoticed, once they spotted the moon shaped scar on his left cheek, and the two sunken circles where they knew the watchful eyes rested.

“Do all of you see a man there, who’s easily 200 years old?” whispered Amit into the silence. Ira shushed him without looking at him. Parul, who was trying to revive Minisha, left her on the floor of the car and sat petrified at the appearance of this man.

“We have to get out of here. Amit, start the damn car!” said Siddharth in the palpable silence.

“Sid, the car’s not starting. You think I’d be here if I could help it?” said Amit in the bravest voice he could summon.

“Be quiet you two, no need to attract attention,” whispered Ira.

“Ira, look around!  There’s no one else here, I think we’ve got all the attention possible,” said Amit.

“What if he wants to harm us?” asked Ira, a strangled whisper being all that she could come up with.

“Ghosts don’t want to hurt anyone, unless they’ve done the ghosts some harm. I read it somewhere,” Sid spoke from the backseat.

“Shut Up!” said Ira and Amit together, turning back at Siddharth, half angry, half scared witless.

They never thought that there would come a day when they would start believing in ghosts.

The man moved forward. Slowly, he came towards the car, the lantern still bobbing eerily in his hand. They waited with bated breath, wondering what would happen. He stopped right in front of Amit’s window, his cold breath fogging the window, even though the weather outside hadn’t been that cold. The man stood there for a full minute, then a long bony finger emerged from beneath the depths of the black blanket. He rapped the window thrice, and pointed back along the road. Again, he rapped the window, and again he pointed back the way they had come.

 The moon decided to show up for the night, and threw light upon the true terror that had spread in that little car. Amit turned the ignition, and this time there was a feeble lurch in the car, and a faint gurgling sound came from the engine. One more time the blanketed man rapped the window, and pointed.

“Come on, don’t give up on me now. I don’t wanna die here, not tonight, not in a stupid Banana Plantation!” Amit almost screamed at the car.

And voila! The engine suddenly throbbed to life. Sweet relief shone on Amit’s face, as he put the car in reverse to get out of there. The figure, seeing that they were fleeing the scene, followed them with outstretched arms.

“Get the hell outta here Amit! Pedal to the metal!” screamed Siddharth from the back seat.  The tyres screamed, but Amit relentlessly pushed the car to its limit, till the road from where they had started was visible again. They turned on to the busy street, stopped the car under one of the many burning streetlamps, the wonderful light washing over their white, scared faces.

“What. Was. That?” Asked Ira in the stunned silence.

“What the heck was that dark thing moving towards us in the darkness? Was I dreaming?” asked Minisha, having finally come back to her senses. Parul still couldn’t talk, while Amit had beads of sweat sticking to his head.

“Never again, am I going to take that sort of a shortcut. I’ve had enough of Ghosts for this lifetime!” vowed Amit, and they headed down the well lit road back home.

***

The man on the road finally removed the blanket that he had put on to scare the kids. He had a smile on his face, as he remembered how as kids, his gang of friends used to scare innocent travelers back at home.

“Felt good to do that after such a long time. I’ve still got it,” said the old man to himself, and walked back home, laughing as he thought about the scared faces of the poor kids.

~~~~~

This is a story that has been co-authored by Isha Chawla, and the first part of the story can be found on her blog... although I'm assuming that you came out here from her blog itself!

The Sacrifice

That morning, she woke up, without having the slightest idea what awaited her. The time by the clock was 5:30 AM, and it was time for her to start her day. Her son would be at home, and she knew by experience that he wouldn't be up before 8:30. "Plenty of time," she thought to herself, and rolled out of bed. Following the same everyday routine, breakfast was ready by 7:30. That was when she got the call, from a friend. A concert was scheduled at her old school during the day, by her favourite artistes, and she really wanted to go listen to them. She woke up her son, since she didn't know how to drive.
Grumpily, he got up, groggy after a hard night's work. He got ready, and had his breakfast, all the while thinking why his mother didn't learn how to drive. She, however, was feeling excited at the prospect of going back to her school, to those familiar corridors, that seemed to belong to her at one phase of her life. She hoped that her son would hurry up, but her son missed the sense of urgency reflected on her face.
Finally they left, and drove down the roads that had carried her for the best twelve years of her life. She was beginning to feel like a little kid again, on her first day of school after the summer vacations, wondering how much her friends had changed and grown over the summer. Finally the car shaped school bus halted at the stop in front of the big, intimidating, grey school gate.
"I'll be back in the evening, around 5. Have fun," he said to her, before he sped away in the opposite direction. She was left there, at the gates of her school, feeling oddly out of place without her uniform and her school bag slung over her shoulder. She took a few tentative steps towards the gate, and found that every step was a thrill, taking her deeper and deeper into her childhood days. She wanted to run like she used to, from the drop off point of the bus till her class, but she couldn't run with her saree. So she walked briskly, towards the old building where her classes used to take place. The concert, her favourite artists performing – all that had gone into the background of her head. Right now, she just wanted to take in the memories that were coming at her from all sides.
Her first classroom – how tiny it looked now. She remembered how big it had seemed to her the first day that she had entered there, and how she had to sit in the first seat. How terrified she had been the first time when the huge, bulky teacher had walked into the room. It made her laugh now, thinking about her silly little insecurities of the past.
Walking down another familiar corridor, she stumbled upon the music room, the heart and soul of the school for her. Right from the start, she had known that she wanted to be a singer. There was something about that room that made her heart skip. She couldn't help but hum one of her tunes, and soon, found that the words of that first song she learnt in this room were all coming back to her. And so, she started singing that song, her voice rolling over the notes effortlessly, just like it did all those years ago.
"Veena, is that you? Wow, your voice hasn't changed at all, even after all these years", said Rittika, her best friend from a long, long time ago.
"I think it's just the song that makes it seem that way Rittika," said Veena with a smile, "How have you been? It's been so long since we met."
"I'm fine. I heard about the concert happening, but ever since I've come here, I've not been able to leave the building. All those memories, remember our music classes here? You were the favourite of Mansi Ma'am."
"I wasn't! I never had the dedication and the discipline!"
"Still, she used to always believe that you would make it big in the music world some day. What are doing these days?"
"I teach music," said Veena, realizing for the first time how near, yet how far she was, from what she had really wanted to do in life.
Rittika didn't say anything, seeing the look on her face. She wondered why Veena was sad; she was more in touch with music than Rittika had ever been.
Veena walked slowly to the auditorium where the concert was happening, her heart heavy. She was thinking about all that she had sacrificed in her life for her family, for the security that she had now – a family life, a secure job, a regular paycheck at the end of the month. A family that was hers, that loved her so much, and she loved them in return. However, she couldn't help but wonder what her life could have been like, had she continued with her love for music. She couldn't have had the family she had now, but she thought she would have been happy nonetheless. She would be surrounded by the one thing that was most important to her – her music.
She couldn't focus throughout the performance. All she could think was that if only, she hadn't left her music the way she had, she would have been happy, and with the thing that was, at one point of life, the most important thing in the world for her.
At 5, her son came to pick her up from her school. While she was walking towards the car, she had the feeling that she was leaving her heart in the corridors of her school, in the music room, among those notes she used to play with as a child, and as an adult. She didn't want to leave that world… somehow…
She opened the car door, and saw that her whole family was waiting for her there – her daughter smiling at her, and her grandson trying his best to clamber onto her arms with a gleeful smile. She got into the car, and found that it was here, more than anywhere else, that her heart belonged. Her son looked over at her with a smile too. "Surprise!" he said.
But he saw that there were traces of tears in her eyes when she got into the car. He didn't understand at that point of time why.
Thirty years passed before her son completely understood why, on that special day, his mother's eyes had been moist.
~~~~~~~~~~
Dedicated to Ma, for all the sacrifices – big and small – that you've made through your life, to make our lives the way they are now.

Four Feathers...

Once upon a time, in the hustle bustle of a city, stood an ancient mosque. On a bright sunny morning, the tip of the dome of the mosque became the stage for a drama unfolding. The Dome became a battlefield between a pair of hawks and a pair of crows. Each was fighting the other to gain control for that position, and were ready to slaughter the other for the sake of victory... yet life for the humans below remained the same, the chaos of a busy marketplace, people walking about supremely unconcerned about the four birds fighting for their lives and their pride up in the freshly laundered blue sky...