The painter at the Kulkarni Household

When he was a child, Mohandas Kulkarni was expelled from art class.  When his son died unexpectedly, for reasons unknown, he picked up the brush again. It had been a strange choice for him, one that didn’t seem to make much sense to anyone apart from him. His son had played the guitar almost all through his life; there were people who had expected Mohandas to maybe pick up that instrument, as a fitting way to remember his son.

Instead, he got lost behind his canvas, buried beneath layers of paint and dust. The words stopped flowing out of him over time, and he stayed mute for days, eyes glazed over, and thinking about whatever it was that he was painting. It’s easy to let grief out by crying, but Mohandas saved up every last teardrop he had. His wife cried, while Mohandas stayed stoic and silent. When the fire swallowed their son, Reena had been inconsolable. A day later, Reena stood strong, and in spite of it all, her life went on.

A week later, the first easel appeared, followed by the palette. Reena lost her husband to the easel that day. Mohandas lost the words shortly thereafter. The paint settled on the canvas overtime, and the dust settled on Mohandas; and unseen to his eyes, Reena aged long before her time. Two years passed like this, in a flash.

In Mohandas’ little art room, there was a pile of discarded paintings. They were all the same, but he hadn’t been satisfied. He had spent most of his time locked away in this room, looking for something in what he created so carefully, only to strip them down and begin anew. He wasn’t sure what it was that he was looking for all this while, but he was sure he would know when he saw it.

For two years, Reena and Mohandas hadn’t spoken to each other, or seen each other much. Weary and tired, Reena had wanted things to end quietly instead of going on like this. She had considered running away – but how can you run away from someone who isn’t even sure about your presence? She had thought about leaving him, but there was something about Mohandas that stopped her every time. In the way that Mohandas could never identify what he was looking for in the paintings, Reena failed to identify the reason that made her stop in her footsteps and bound her to the man she had lost the day her son died.

On an unremarkable Sunday morning, while the neighbours slept till late, catching up on their lost hours of sleep over the weekend, Mohandas emerged with the canvas and headed straight to the room that he once shared with his beloved wife. She was still in bed, but her eyes were open – almost as if she had been expecting him. He settled it down in front of her, and took his wife’s hands in his own. That morning, on an unremarkable, lazy Sunday, Mohandas broke his silence.

His voice, raspy from lack of use over many years, seemed sudden and cracked, but Reena heard him well; “I love you.”

“It’s beautiful, Mohan,” she said.

“It’s not original. I copied the idea from another painter. I forgot her name a long time ago,” he said.

“It looks just like him, but. How did she do that? Did she know him?”

“No, she didn’t. That’s what I was looking for, all this while. I was searching for him, searching for his face in that painting, hidden beneath the many layers of colour. I’ve found him now.”

Reena looked at the tears that streamed down Mohandas’ face, delayed by over two years while he had been looking for his lost son in another woman’s painting.

She gently put his arms around him, while he rested his wet cheeks on her shoulder. And they lived happily ever after…

~

Inspired by In Tandem.

‘An Eulogy’ or ‘Laughing in the face of Death’

Geoffrey wasn’t a deep guy. Not by a long shot. Maybe it was this that made Brad chuckle when he wondered if it would be better to have buried him in a shallow grave. He stopped himself from chuckling though – he was, after all, at a funeral. ‘I’d probably been hanging out too much with you, Geoff,’ thought Brad to himself, while Geoff’s smiling face twinkled behind the glass of the picture frame. The candles reflected on the glass gave him a holy look, which was ironic when Brad thought about the situation in which the picture had been taken. It had been anything but holy; the thought of it made Brad chuckle again.

‘Stop it, Geoff! You’re killing me – which is weird, considering that you’re dead now! I won’t be able to read out your eulogy if I go on like this,’ thought Brad, as the priest finished with the prayers. It was time for Brad’s last words for his best friend.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming here. Geoff was my best friend, we grew up together, and we knew each other like brothers. There’s a part of me that still has to come to terms with the fact that he’s gone, but right now his memories are still alive and kicking.”

Brad took his eyes away from the piece of paper in front of him, and looked at the crowd sitting in front of him. There was a hint of a smile even now on his face as he said, “It’s probably because of that, because of the fact that I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that he’s gone, really, that I was chuckling sitting back there. Call me crazy, but it still seems that he’s around me somewhere, whispering his endless line of silly jokes in my ears even now!”

The crowd laughed softly, nervously, and Brad went on reading from the little piece of paper.

“Geoff was a clown. He had a slightly sick, and a very weird sense of humour. Unfortunately, I was one of the few who got that sense of humour, which meant that while others were getting revolted or getting offended or getting ready to bash Geoff’s head in, I would be rolling somewhere, clutching my stomach in pain. He got beaten up a lot because of that as well, because I was too busy laughing at his jokes than standing next to him to save his ass.

“I’ve borne the brunt of his sense of humour at a number of places as well. I know neither of us can visit the local sandwich place anymore,” said Brad, and was smothered by a fresh bout of giggles. “That day was funny on so many levels! I don’t want to get into the details of it, and I don’t think any of you would want me to, either. Let’s just say that it had something to do with a BMT Sub, shall we? It was on that day this particular picture was taken, in fact – moments before we were thrown out of the establishment, and asked never to return…”

An uncomfortable silence filled the space while Brad stifled his laughter once more. The people sitting shared disapproving glances with each other. Most of the people knew Geoff as a young man full of potential, on the brink of his bright future. His sudden and unexpected death had reminded them of the fragility of life, and the overpowering stillness and finality of death. And yet, here was a boy, Geoff’s best friend, talking about his memories in such petty terms.

Brad didn’t care, though. He composed himself as best as he could, and went on reading from the little white, slightly crumpled sheet in his hand. “Geoff, you were a swell guy. You knew just how to cheer your friends when they were feeling low. You always knew just what to say in every situation. You always had a witty retort up your sleeve, and tried as we might, we never could figure out how you came up with those. You might have seemed to be a smart-ass, Geoff, but you cared about us. You cared about your friends. You cared enough to make us laugh, and you did that so well! I’ll miss you, my friend, for the rest of my life. I know this is farewell, but it doesn’t feel that way. Maybe that’s because we’ve never had a goodbye. We’ve always shared jokes instead, something that made us laugh through even the toughest days – when I left town, when you went to college, when our little group of friends was scattered all over the country. Those silly, shallow, and sometimes rude jokes were our way to say goodbye, Geoff. I’ve tried to do that here, but I wonder if it’ll work or not. Here goes…”

Brad’s voice choked up as he reached here, and he sniffled loudly. A fat, potent teardrop rolled heavily down his cheeks, followed quickly by another.

“A man walked into a bar…” he began, but the teardrops fell on to the nearly white, slightly crumpled piece of paper, washing away the rest of the joke with it.

~

Inspired by Magpie Tales

Duck-Duck-Treasure

It had been years since I had seen my sister. It had been years since I had played ‘Treasure Hunt’ with her. So, her excitement, as we chased the ‘treasure that she had stumbled upon in the old market’ was quite understandable. To be honest, it was endearing – I had missed my little sister a lot, and I hadn’t even realised it all this while.

“Mother used to bring me here when I was a little girl; I had forgotten all about it,” she said as she led me down the narrow pathways. “It’s funny how you forget a lot about the things that used to be your whole world once upon a time – our village, our home, our family. As kids, that was our whole universe. Now that we’ve grown up, we hardly even think about it anymore.”

A strangely familiar smell was present all around us, right from the time that we had entered the narrow alleys of the market. I couldn’t quite place what it reminded me of, but I vaguely remembered it to be about something from our childhood. All around us, there were small shops frying things or baking things or grinding spices to be used in the tiny kitchens. The smoke from the many cooking stoves hung around heavily above us, mixed with the wondrous aromas of the dishes being prepared to cater to the hungry mouths that would come to the market soon.

“I would surely come here often, now that I know about this place – rather, now that I remember this place once more. After all, this place is just a stone’s throw away from where I live. Look, there,” she cried suddenly, grasping my arm. “You can see our balcony from here. You see?”

I nodded, and we shuffled along once more. There were kids playing amidst the tomatoes being sliced and the potatoes being fried. We pushed past them, resisting the urge to stop and join in their games. An old lady kept looking fondly at the children as they chased each other around a pile of shelled pea pods. She reminded me of someone, but I had trouble placing who she looked like.

“Mother used to get all her spices, vegetables and fish from this market,” said my sister as she led me down past the children. “And the ducks for special occasions.” There was a smile on her face, one that had been triggered by the fond memories of duck cuisine at home, only on days that were deemed fit to be called ‘special occasions.’ I had never been that close with our mother – the only person I felt attached to in the family was my little sister. The thing I missed the most about my family was my mother’s cooking. It was the only thing I remembered now, and as the days went by, I forgot to remember that about home as well.

As the evening crept on, we could feel the crowds swelling. Small plastic tables and chairs were set hastily in shops all around us, and people would sit at one of the shops to snack on the many delicacies that surrounded us on all sides. We didn’t stop, however, in spite of the many mouth-watering treats that were being laid out in front of us on the many tables. My sister kept going forward, tugging me along, with the ever-present promise that the ‘treasure’ we were ‘hunting’ for was “just ahead of us.” We passed stalls with fried chicken and prawns, past shops selling spicy noodles, past woks of steaming soup of different varieties, but we stopped to sample none of these. She led me on and on, till we almost reached the end of the market, and a small establishment with fried ducks hanging outside. This is where she stopped and sat down, the smile still firm and strong on her face.

“Why are we here?” I asked her softly, trying to stay out of earshot from the cooks who were working nearby. I didn’t want to sound rude, but I found that I was even more confused now than I had been while walking down to this restaurant.

“You’ll know in a little while. I’ve ordered the duck noodle soup, I think you’ll like it when you have it. Mother used to get me here when I was little, but we never had a chance to stop. It was always too expensive for us, and that’s why she made the ducks for us on special occasions – so that we, too, could taste the expensive taste of this place.”

There wasn’t anything particularly expensive about the setting – it was quite a dingy shop, and it was hard to figure out the true colours of the plastic seats on which we were sitting, so covered with grime they were. But I could understand what my sister meant when she said it. I had lived through the same tough times that my sister had seen.

All the walking had made me hungry, so when the soup finally came out, I couldn’t wait for common courtesies. The moment the bowl was set in front of us, I made a lunge for it, but my sister stopped me before I could taste any.

“Not like this! You’ll ruin the effect,” she said. “Here, take this spoon and taste it. Taste, don’t gulp it down!” I took the loaded spoon from her and sipped the piping hot soup from it. “Don’t swallow it yet. Close your eyes, and let the soup stay in your mouth for a while. Taste it. Really taste it. Feel the butter and the salt and the pepper, the noodles and the tender duck. Taste the spices, feel it sting your tongue. Chew the meat, feel its texture between your teeth. Savour it, and you’ll know why it’s a treasure worth trudging all this way down here. You feel it?”

My eyes were watering, from the heat and the spices and the pepper. But there was something else as well. Something which made it special, and suddenly it all made sense – my sister’s excitement, the reason why she dragged me down the market where she used to come many years ago, the familiar smell of the market, the kids playing along on the street while the old lady looked on affectionately, and the soup – it all reminded me of home. It reminded me of my childhood. It reminded me of our mother.

“It tastes just like the way she used to cook it, doesn’t it?” asked my sister; but I was too choked up to answer her.

~

Inspired from Magpie Tales.

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.”

~

The Hospital

This is a hospital.

Where men sit waiting, not on the benches but on each other's feet.

This is a hospital.

Where the sick don't find a place to sit, as all the seats are broken or taken.

This is a hospital.

Where doctors are two hours late, and that's considered "OK."

This is a hospital.

Where patients with the slightest display of "Do you know who I am?" are given first preference.

This is a hospital.

Where children lay scattered on the floor, sleeping or weeping, while their mothers console them with empty promises.

This is a hospital.

Where people sidestep the children and move on, without looking down at the pain of the innocents.

This is a hospital.

Where a tired and hungry child cries for milk.

This is a hospital.

Where the famished mouth presses gratefully and suckles happily on it's mother's life-giving teat.

This is a hospital.

Where a young man wearing a suit and tie chances glances at the supple breast of the young mother, leering at the sight.

This is a hospital.

Where the suit-and-tie man cares nothing about the patients or sickness, but on imaginary sales figures that promises to convert into money, but always wants just a little bit more.

This is a hospital.

Where Medical Representatives don't need to take appointments or talk to anyone, but patients are thrown out forcibly right through the door.

This is a hospital.

Where words like 'ethics' and 'morals' and 'duties' are nothing more than words plastered on placards, or painted on white walls turning grey, fading slowly to nothingness over time.

This is a hospital.

Which has been left at the hands of competent doctors and incompetent administrators, as nobody wants to do the societal clean up.

This is a hospital.

Which has seen so many sharp minds get lured away by that financial temptress.

This is not just a hospital.

It is a chilling representation of what our world has become.

Where selfish people look outside their comfortable sedans, tut-tut twice at the deplorable conditions, then roll up their windows and get lost in that momentary glitter that they have mistaken to be real life.

This is real life.

The Verb Song (without the music)

Be born.

Learn to crawl.

Learn to walk.

Break stuff.

Get screamed at.

Cry, because you’ve been screamed at.

Cry, because you feel like it.

Cry, just to get a hug.

Smile, when you get that hug.

Grow up.

Or not.

Learn to run.

Fall down.

Learn to fall down.

Learn to get back up.

Ride a tricycle.

Break a tricycle.

Get a bike.

Learn to ride a bike.

Scrape your knees.

See the scars heal.

Trample a few weeds.

Ride over grass.

Race your buddies.

Win some races.

Lose the others.

Celebrate the races.

Won or lost, doesn’t matter.

Drink some cola.

Feel the fizz in your nose.

Then, drink some more cola.

Outgrow the bike.

See it gather rust.

Feel the twinge seeing it gather rust.

Feel the twinge when it’s thrown out.

Or when it’s kept in the gloomy garage.

Let go of the twinge, and move on.

Eat ice cream with your friends.

Get a brain-freeze.

Eat more ice cream with your friends.

Get another brain-freeze.

Grow into the teen years.

Get your first zit.

And your first crush.

Worry about how you look.

Worry about carbs.

But sometimes, binge anyway.

Get your heart broken.

Mend your broken heart.

Learn about the world.

Learn about yourself.

Believe you can change the world.

Waste a lot of hours playing video games.

Stay up nights to study for tests.

Fall asleep half way through the test.

Get bored half way through the test.

Leave the test hall early, just to get rid of it.

Go to college.

Choose a degree.

Study something you want to.

Or something that you got through at.

Either way, it doesn’t matter.

Your whole life is still ahead of you.

Take an interest in Art.

Make an effort to understand expression.

Make more friends.

Learn to drive.

Bang your car.

Worry about it at that time.

Laugh about it later.

Get a girlfriend… or a boyfriend.

Fall in love, slowly.

Fall out of love, suddenly.

Break up, be lonely.

Then, fall in love again.

Know about Politics.

Pretend to know about Politics.

Read more than you ever have.

Write more than you ever have.

Think more than you ever have.

You won’t get another chance sometime soon.

Have a booze party.

Drink till you throw up.

Throw up till you’re empty.

Drink till you pass out.

Graduate.

Throw the cap as high as you can.

Then walk away as far away as you have to. 

Get a job.

Go to the job every day.

Get bored of the routine life.

Change jobs every few years.

Grow some roots.

Stay where you are.

Grow a pair of wings.

Try to fly away from it all.

Get a pet.

Take care of it.

Feed it.

Play with friendly cats.

Play with friendly dogs.

Take long walks on the beach.

Go for long hikes on mountains.

Holiday with friends.

Take a break with your family.

Get away, sometimes, just on your own.

Ride the bus.

Ride the train.

Play with children.

Play with your friends.

Bug your buddies.

Tell them to fuck off when they bug you.

Do it in a friendly way, though.

Find your soul mate.

Get married.

Make beautiful children.

Make a wonderful, loving home.

Watch your kids grow up.

Invite your childhood friends for Friday Night Dinners.

Watch them age with you.

Watch your kids make friends with theirs.

Watch sports on weekends.

Watch movies with your spouse, once the kids are asleep.

Go to the school when your kid gets in trouble.

Be proud of what he’s done, on the inside.

Watch him grow up.

Watch yourself grow old.

Enjoy watching the years fly by.

Smile at your receding hairline.

Laugh at your bald head.

Retire, and rest up.

Get lost in the memories.

Say Goodbye with a smile.

But, only when you want to.

This one’s inspired by “It’s Kind Of A Funny Story” (the film) by Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck. Haven’t got the book yet, but I somehow want to read it after watching the film.

This isn’t in any specific order. Feel free to jumble it up, or to throw out a few lines altogether.

The Lady and The Rain

Mumbai is a place of great diversity. Diversity; the word sounds so beautiful when you hear it. Here, however, when you see it, the word gets a new raw meaning. It has been quite a while since I've picked up the pen to write a story, and so, I ventured out so I could get a few ideas that I could work upon. I walked around, and looked around, the way I usually do, and got a few ideas to write about as well. I was happy; I thought that maybe, tonight, after a long time, I'd be able to write something, something that's similar to the lines of what I've been writing out for a while now. Three fictional tales chased each other around my head, and with those safely locked up in my brain for the future, I headed back home. The stories, however never came. The raw diversity of the city hit me hard, and I couldn't help but ensure that the story I told was just as raw as what I saw.

The lady on the sidewalk doesn't need a fabricated story. Her tale has to be as honest and brutal as the very truth that she's living. I hadn't looked into her eyes for more than a second, but in that brief moment her sadness and pain and shame touched me. I shivered, as I stopped, looking at her. It was a wet night, what with the incessant rain that had been showering the city since morning, and because of that I had no idea of knowing if her face was wet from the drops of rain, or droplets of her tears. She knew, however, and in that brief moment she looked into my eyes, she told me about it as well.

The warmth from the halogen bulb shining over her head was all the warmth she got that night. Half a moon shone above her, and the yellow light and white light mixed up together somewhere as they fell over her. In that light, the droplets falling from the skies shone like glittering diamonds, and just like jagged diamonds, the cold water from above seemed to pierce through her dark skin. The warm blanket lay soaked and cold, and she was left with nothing but a pillow squelching in the light layer of soft mud to lay her head on. The tree nearby provided a little dry spot, with the occasional fat raindrop making its way through the leaves and down to the earth. The dry spot was where she had tucked in her little son, the one small comfort for her under the cold halogen bulb. Now, there was no place for her, and the long wet night waited for her. Many feet hurried past her, some of them holding umbrellas over their heads to avoid the water from above, the very same water that would get them, one way or another. No one spared a thought or a glance for the lady in the rain, sitting there cold and wet, the shadow of her past still strong in her eyes. The water flowed on steadily past her, rising slowly but surely; the pattering feet jogged past her, and the rain fell softly overhead, and she sat there, silently waiting for the night to get over, so both her son and she could be blessed with another miracle, another day in this city of dreams, Mumbai.

Like everyone else on that road, I tried to focus on getting back home as well. I tried to shake off the thoughts of her, the memory of that look in her dark eyes, but unlike everyone else, I couldn’t do a good job of it. A good few steps later, I turned back, my eyes searching for the lady in the rain. I was some distance away from her, and I could just make out a human figure in a soaked saree sitting near a big tree. I wanted to stop, for another moment, but the jostles from the people pushed me on, and being caught up in the wave of walking men, I kept going. A little ahead, the road bent to the right, and I couldn’t see her anymore.

Mother

Mother, she called to me

Mother, she beckoned me

Mother, she held her arms out

Mother, she held me tight

After many long years

Her face I saw again

For one brief moment

Happiness, she gave to me

In her lap, my first words were spoken

Under her gaze, my first steps were taken

She blessed me with a good life

And said goodbye before I could remember

When I saw her again, after many a year

She held out her hand, and guided me in

My home, my world, my first breath of air

She gave it all back to me

And under her watchful eyes

I took a giant step

I looked back as I went down the new road

Mother, tears in her eyes,

She smiled at me...

A Change of Heart

The death of Mrs. Shyama Chaudhuri had left her husband deeply troubled. Mr. Ranjan Chaudhuri, at 87 years of age, was left all alone in the world. Ranjan Chaudhuri’s best friend at the time of his wife’s death was a man 28 years younger than him. Biplob was 59, on the verge of retirement. “Ready to officially enter the world of the old folks,” he always joked. Ranjan could identify with the humor of that statement so well, that it brought a snicker to his eyes. Every time he heard the joke.

It was Biplob who had introduced Mr. and Mrs. Chaudhuri to the world of computers. Ranjan never knew that he could grasp computers so well, even at that age. Soon after he got his new computer, Ranjan spent hours together playing games with his grandson Tukai. Shyama, however, had been hooked on to social networking sites.

Shyama’s heart attack struck her in the middle of the night, while the elderly couple was sleeping peacefully. Ranjan had known something like this was about to happen, but hadn’t expected the incident to come about so suddenly, silently. The next morning was one of the toughest to deal with for Ranjan. He hardly remembered making the call to Biplob about what had happened during the night. Biplob and his wife had come over, and taken charge of the whole situation for Ranjan.

A few hours later, while leaving the cremation grounds, the reality of the events hit Ranjan. Biplob and Ranjan were walking back to the parking lot, when Ranjan’s footsteps slowed down a miniscule bit. Biplob noticed, but didn’t want to ask anything; couldn’t ask, actually. Ranjan however, spoke up.

“She took another quiz on Facebook last night. Something about what we were in our previous life. The result came out as lovers,” Ranjan smiled a sad smile, “and it confirmed what she always told me for the last 62 years. We’ll still be together in our next life.”

Biplob smiled too, but somehow, he felt that his smile was intruding on something private and pure and guarded between Ranjan and Shyama Chaudhuri. He bowed his head, and walked to the car. It was the first time that they drove together in silence.

*****

Ranjan and Shyama had gotten married when they were both in their 20’s, deeply in love. They were childhood friends, and it was an obvious choice to be made. They were the best of friends, and all through their school days, when Ranjan used to be away, they used to write 40 page letters to each other. Once school was over for Ranjan, and he came back home, it was only a matter of time before the two of them got married.

As Ranjan and Biplob were walking back home after the drive, Ranjan remembered the wonderful life that he had had, all because of the woman who passed away a night ago, lying right next to him. A best friend, a wife, the mother of his children, the strongest woman of his whole family, and she had been lost in just a matter of hours. Just a few hours ago, Ranjan remembered, they were sitting on the edge of the bed having a silly discussion about ice skating. How he missed her…

Biplob left him alone with his thoughts, and went outside to talk to the many relatives who had come over to mourn for Shyama, and Ranjan’s loss.

*****

Ranjan couldn’t get the memories of his wife out of his mind. The constant longing to see Shyama one more time drove him inward, away from the rest of the world. He hardly got out of his room, except for the long walks that he took every day in solitude. The walks became longer and longer as the days went by; whole weeks would soon pass by without him interacting with the rest of his family. Many a times, Ranjan’s son would find Tukai waiting patiently for his gaming partner to accompany him on another mission, but Ranjan wouldn’t be there for Tukai. He kept wondering what had happened to his grandfather, but he somehow got no real answers to all his questions.

Ranjan found a new hobby instead; in place of running to the virtual world, he now escaped into books. Religion, philosophy, history… Ranjan devoured all. He would read into the wee hours of the night, and wake up at the earliest possible hour to run to the library. During his walks, a small notebook would accompany him, and he could be spotted scribbling something in it during the early morning hours. Sitting on a lonely wooden bench in the middle of an overgrown, wild park, he would finally feel content with… something…

****

In reality, Ranjan never forgot how much he missed Shyama. He also didn’t forget the promise that she had made to him before she passed on – that she would be his again, in the next life. Ranjan’s inward drive had brought him to a startling decision; he would end his life, so that once more, he could be with his beloved. In reality, he was trying to search for the justifications of such an act; for he knew that it was a heinous crime to take any life, including your own. In reality, he was looking for a means to escape his life, that he could explain when justice posed the questions – in this life or the next.

So obsessed had he become with that quest, that everything else seemed irrelevant to him. He read scriptures, all of which condemned such an act. He read books on philosophy, which talked about the reasons why a person would commit suicide. Still, his answers, his justifications, they eluded him. He had given up hope of ever finding a solution, and the best that he could come up with was the simple line that his heart always said to him – “I love her, and I miss her.” Nothing else seemed to be important anymore. And so, he went down to the chemist shop and got the seven strips of sleeping pills.

*****

It was just by chance that Biplob was also present in the chemist shop when Ranjan purchased the pills. He didn’t need to see the notebook or the list of books that Ranjan had been reading, to get to know just what was happening. The slight tremble of Ranjan’s hands, as he picked up the small brown pack, was enough for his best friend to know what was happening. A few steps out of the shop, Biplob caught up with Ranjan.

“Hi, Ranjan,” whispered Biplob, right behind him. Ranjan jumped, as he hadn’t expected anyone to be around him.

“What are you doing here?” Ranjan asked, suddenly very defensive.

“You know why I’m here, Ranjan. You know what I’m going to ask from you. You know I’m here to take away that little brown paper pack from you. You know I’m going to throw away the paper packet. You know me well already, Ranjan, enough for me not to have to tell you why I’m here.”

Ranjan didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected this, it wasn’t anywhere in the plans. Even as he heard everything Biplob was saying, one part of him wanted to clutch the little packet and run.

“You don’t get it. I miss her, so much…” Ranjan’s eyes watered up for the first time, as he said these words to someone besides himself.

“I know that. I know just how much you love her, and I know how much you miss her. Still, believe me; you don’t want to do this.”

“What do you mean? You think I’m a coward, that I’d stop myself at this stage?”

“No, Ranjan. All I mean is, you aren’t ready yet,” said Biplob, and the little brown paper bag was gently removed from Ranjan’s hands.

“Come, I’ll walk you home. It’ll be fun – two old folks, walking down the road!”

The smile wasn’t really there on Ranjan’s lips, but his eyes gleamed, as though they were smiling at an old joke that he’d heard a long time back.

*****

Two days later, Biplob came to see Ranjan at home. There was an odd gleam in the old and tired eyes, as though they had found some new energy. Biplob was happy to see his old friend this way.

“Tukai’s waiting for you. He got a new game, for you. That, I think, you’re ready for,” said Biplob.

“I might be. Still, there is a lot more that needs to be done; both for me, and for Tukai. A few things that are much more important than video games or social networking sites or virtual worlds.”

“Like what?” asked Biplob.

Ranjan laced his old boots together, picked up his wooden walking stick, and said, “Like building a few memories, for both of us.”

Silhouette

Maria was happy, as she went down the road. Hopping and skipping, she went over all the new words she had learnt in school that day. Premonition. Rendezvous. And, her personal favorite. Silhouette.

The word had a dreamy feel to it, like a poem for the eyes. Maria was anxious to catch a glimpse of a silhouette in real life, but it’s not easy to catch one in broad daylight, during her school hours. She had raised her hand up to the sun, and although her hand made something of a silhouette, Maria hadn’t been quite satisfied with the effect.

Iqbal’s pastry shop, on the way back home, was open at the time. The tiny shop looked like a birthday cake with lots of candles on it, the lights enhanced greatly by the setting sun. Somehow, she felt the urge for a sweet. Going to the counter, she was greeted by the tempting smell of baking cakes, and the wonderful colors of toffees. She chose an orange toffee, and was soon sucking on it happily as she went back home.

The front door was open, like it always had been. Her mother had been quite careless, right around the time that her father died. Lately, however, she’d become even more careless. Ever since she got a new boyfriend, the guy who would come in a black fast car and whisk her mother away every night.

“Maria, honey, is that you? Gosh, darling, you’re late today,” a voice called from the bedroom as Maria entered. The house seemed to be in disarray, and Maria knew the moment she entered that the cleaning lady hadn’t come. Her mother hadn’t bothered to clean up either, and Maria knew she had to do it.

“Yes, Ma. It’s me. I’m sorry it took me long to reach, I stopped at Iqbal’s for a sweet. I got you one too, do you want it?”

“Oh, sweetheart, I don’t have sweets anymore. Too many carbs, it can’t be too good for me, can it?” called back her mother’s voice, moving from the bedroom to the bathroom.

Maria walked slowly to her little brother’s room. She could hear her mother taking a shower, and somehow knew that she would be going out tonight. It would be Maria and her little brother all alone; but the little tiddler didn’t seem to mind all that much. He gave a big grin and a bigger “agoogoo” on seeing Maria, and she smiled back.

“Maria, I’m ready. Steve’s here, I’m leaving now. I’ll be back late, so don’t stay up for me honey. Take care of Junior for me. Dinner’s ready, you just need to warm it up. Goodnight, honey.”

Maria rushed to the door of Junior’s room, and could see the main door open. Steve’s car was standing right outside, and the lights were shining inside the house. She caught a glimpse of her mother as she left – a silhouette, against the car lights.

“Goodnight, Ma,” said Maria in a tiny voice. The car lights moved away, and she slowly closed the door for the night.

The Obsession

Right from an early age, Sameer had been obsessed with death. Not in a crazy or cruel way. Think of it as an intense curiosity. What happens when life is over? What precise moment does a living being cease to exist? And, most importantly, why do living things die?

His first encounter with death had been with the neighborhood cat. Hit and run, and he was the only one on the scene. He remembered how little the cat looked, lying there in the pool of it’s own blood. He remembered how he used to play with that cat, for such long hours. How all that had actually been so fragile. He hadn’t tried saving the cat, he hadn’t even considered it. Somehow, instinctively, he had known that there was no point. Instinctively, he had known that the cat was dead.

He remembered vividly the time when his grandfather went to the hospital for the first time. He had gone there to meet him. He knew that he could ask the old man anything he wanted; the old man wouldn’t laugh at his thoughts, or be worried.

“Dadai, what’s wrong with you?”

“It’s my heart, kiddo. It keeps throwing tantrums.”

“Has it always been this way? I don’t remember you coming to the hospital before this.”

“It’s been a recent thing. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. What’s the matter? What’s bothering you?”

“Dadai, what happens when you die?”

“Well, I don’t know myself. I mean, I don’t really know where you go after you die. Or if you even go somewhere. There are a lot of people who claim a lot of things about death, but I really don’t know who to believe, and who not to. I personally don’t think you should be worried too much about it at this age, kid. You’ll have a lot of time to think about it,” said Dadai, with a faraway look in his eyes. “A lot of time.”

“Are you going to die too, Dadai?” asked Sameer in a tiny, quivering voice.

Dadai smiled, held him close to him, and said, “Not in a while, kiddo.”

*****

Over the next year, his obsession with death grew. A million questions seemed to be burning up inside of him, and somehow he knew he couldn’t ask Dadai anymore. There was nobody he could turn to with the questions, and so he began looking for the answers himself. Dadai had told him about religion providing many views about death. So, he started reading those books. However, he never seemed to be content with any of the answers those books provided. He knew it had to be time to move on.

Now shunning the books, he forayed into searching for the answers himself. To know the answers to death, he somehow thought he first must find out the answers to life itself. So he found the litter of pups near the park, and took it upon himself to care for the little ones. The mother of the pups soon got used to him being around, and soon he found that she was actually looking forward to his visits. Life and love, it seemed, were not that far apart.

As his questions about life began to be answered, although not too much in depth, his answers to death were still just as murky. Just out of curiosity, he had contemplated suicide as well. The only thing that stopped him there was the fact that he wasn’t sure where he would be once he died, if his consciousness would die with him, and all those questions left unanswered. Still, the idea of suicide was enticing.

Pills. Razor blades. A rope with a noose. Even Dadai’s old service revolver. Sameer seemed to have forgotten all about life, and the beauties of that, in his search for the answers for death. Twice, he came dangerously close to killing himself. Once, the thought of his consciousness dying with him stopped him. Another time, his mother walked in on him, and he was forced to throw the razor blade away.

*****

While his obsession for death continued unchecked, Dadai’s health grew worse rapidly. Sameer noticed that Dadai had gone thinner and paler than before, but he was still his chirpy old self. “Don’t worry about me, kiddo. You stay focused on your studies,” Dadai told him once, a few days into his summer vacations.

“Studies? Dadai, it’s the summer holidays! I’m not going to study now. I’m going to Hyderabad for the summer. No studies there for me. Ha ha!”

“Well, then, in that case, enjoy your holidays. Don’t worry about me, enjoy your life as and when it comes.”

*****

Two weeks into the vacation, his father got a frantic call from home. Dadai wasn’t well. Two days later, they were back home. Dadai was in the hospital, and the house seemed strangely empty. Sameer used to stay at home, while his sister would take care of him. Sameer used to feel very lonely at home, without Dadai; but he didn’t really have anyone he could tell that to. The only person he could tell it to without having to think, was Dadai.

Four days later, Dadai died in the hospital. Left ventricle failure, Sameer learnt those words by heart. He wondered what his reaction to the news would be like; he waited for the tears to come. They didn’t come.

He couldn’t sleep all that night. It was the first time that he spent the night pacing the house, wondering what exactly it was that he was missing. He was sad, but he had no way to show it. He had lost a friend in Dadai, and the fact that he would never see Dadai walk in again through the door, wearing the brown golf cap, and his short walking stick in his hand settled down heavily somewhere on his chest. He didn’t find any of the answers he was looking for, but he finally understood that there’s no point in looking for all those answers. All that matters in the end, is the deep resonating interconnections that exist between life, love, and death.

The next morning, when he woke up, he went outside to the courtyard. Dadai’s chair was there, as usual, but Dadai wasn’t sitting there reading the newspaper like every day. Instead, the unopened newspaper was laid neatly on the cushion.

The tears flowed finally, late by one night.

A Brand New Family

A little over a year into her marriage, and Rupal had exceeded all her expectations towards herself – she had actually become a wonderful cook. The Pulao and the Shahi Paneer were giving out the most mouth watering aroma, and she should have been proud of herself.

Only, she wasn’t. It’s not easy to be proud of yourself, when you’re all alone at home, waiting for a husband who’s late. It was the third successive night that she’d been waiting for Himanshu to turn up, but he said he was held up at work for yet another day. She knew it was for the best, and yet she didn’t like it one bit. The fact that all her efforts at making the exquisite dinner were slowly turning cold was something she didn’t want to come to terms with so easily.

She heard the key turning in the lock. A moment later, Himanshu’s voice boomed in from the corridor, “Honey, I’m home!”

“You’re late again! Why do they have to make you work so hard?” she asked him the moment he came within her line of sight. Her arms were crossed over her tummy, always a bad sign.

“Sweetheart, I told you on the phone. You know the VP, if he wants a meeting, he wants it now! I’m sorry it took so much time,” said Himanshu.

Rupal wasn’t impressed by what she was hearing. Something inside her was not ready to accept the things that Himanshu was saying to her at that moment.

“Is it too much to ask for a husband to be back home at a decent hour, so that we can have a proper meal together at the end of the day? You know how hectic my days are, and you know how much I look forward to the dinners that we share.”

“I know honey, but this was something  I couldn’t avoid. I’m sure you understand…”

“Oh sure! You would always expect me to be the one who’s understanding, right? As if it’s never going to be your job to try to understand what I want, ever!”

Two fat droplets of tears formed at the edge of her eyelids, and she couldn’t stop them from rolling down her cheeks. Himanshu, noticing this, rushed forward and held her tightly in her arms.

“What is it sweetie? What do you want? You know all you have to do is tell me, and I’ll do anything to make sure that you have it.”

He could feel her heart beating against his, could feel her wonderful warmth in his arms. And then she looked up at him, and said, “I just want the three of us to be together, and happy, and to love each other, forever.”

“The three of us?” asked Himanshu, noticing her smile mingled with the two fat tears rolling down her cheeks for the first time.

***

Image Courtesy H Images

Krishnendu

I still remember the chilly dampness that had crept into the station that day. It was like the weather wanted to give that special scary effect to everything that had happened in the little village. My office was in a mess, as usual – only two things on my desk were where they were supposed to be; a cup of coffee that was growing steadily colder, and a name plate that identified who I was.

Detective Tarun Bhattacharjee

I like almost all the things that occupy my desk space. Almost all of them, with the exception of the case file that lay open in front of me that cold day. I had had a lot of experience in homicide, but never had I seen a case like this. The cold precision, and the unashamed open-and-shut nature of the case gave me the chills. It almost made the steady pour of hailstones outside feel warm. I wanted to linger on with the cup of coffee as long as I could. I wanted to delay the interrogation with Krishnendu for as long as possible.

I remembered the cold eyes of Krishnendu, as they had scanned my face from behind the matted hair. I wasn't too keen to meet those eyes in a hurry again.

Finally, the last drop of coffee was gone, and there were no more excuses for me to stay away from the interrogation room. I got up, stretched, and with a few slow steps, was standing in front of the metal door separating me from Krishnendu.

The door opened, and one more time, I saw those cold purposeful eyes of Krishnendu looking at me; almost as though he could see right through me. It was hard to believe that he was twenty six years old. There was something innocently curious and boyish about his face, almost as though everything that he had done, he did just to quench that curiosity.

"Good evening, Krishnendu," I said, as I entered the room. The eyes still followed me, from the door, to the table where he sat watching me.

"Good evening, Sir," he said with a hissing whisper, barely moving his lips. The chill from outside seemed to have found a place in that interrogation room, precisely at the moment he had opened his mouth. He noticed my reaction upon hearing his voice, and the edges of his lips twitched into a smile as he peered inquisitively into my face.

"Cold day this one. I wonder how long that hailstorm's going to last. I like hail, wish I could see it once," he added. "Do you think that's possible, Sir?" he asked me with a sneer.

I couldn't answer somehow. There was not much left for me to do in the interrogation room. He had confessed to everything that he had been accused of, and the preliminary interrogation had revealed that he wasn't lying. What left of me was to go into his mind, and figure out why he did whatever he did.

I took the seat that was waiting for me opposite to those cold cruel eyes; a misfit in that boyish face. The eyes stared at me, a sense of evil power resonating from them. I found that I couldn't look for too long into them.

"4^th August, 2008. Interrogation of Krishnendu Saha, accused for 11 counts of murder. Round 2. Time, 7:42 PM. Presiding officer, Detective Tarun Bhattacharjee."

I paused for a moment, and chanced a look at Krishnendu. His stare had become fixed, but he wasn't looking at me anymore. He seemed to be able to see outside the room, right through the stone walls. I didn't mind really.

"Well, Krishnendu. You've pleaded guilty the murder of Shailendra Saha, and 10 other boys from the village. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

I looked up, searching for a slightest bit of remorse on his face. There was none. I continued with the interrogation.

"It was 1992 when Shailendra was killed, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"That means you were ten at that time."

This time, there was a slight pause before he answered in the affirmative. Something moved in his voice though, something had changed. I wasn't in a position to let my emotions show however, so I asked what needed to be known. We knew the when and how. It's the why we were looking for. It's the why, for which I was sitting in this room.

"Why did you kill him, Krishnendu?" I asked, praying that my voice stayed calm.

Again, he didn't answer immediately. It was some time before he said, with a slightly warmer whisper, "He raped my little sister. She was six at that time; his only niece. When she squirmed, he choked her so she wouldn't make a sound. He didn't release her. By the end of it all, she was dead." Apart from that slightly warmer voice, there was no other display of emotion on his face. No tears stained his face, no lines of anger formed on his un-wrinkled, boyish face.

A few minutes of silence, I had to give him that. I knew this story, his lawyer had gotten it out of him too. However, I had to continue the questioning.

"That was in the year 1992. After that, you waited for 6 years before you committed another murder, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Why did you commit that murder? I don't think there was any need of revenge this time."

No one had bothered to ask him this question. As long as he had pleaded guilty, who cares why he murdered all those people? I, however, couldn't stop myself from asking that question though.

The cold voice was back. "It's addictive."

I felt a cold sweat on the back of my neck. Suddenly, I wished I hadn't asked that question. However, I still had one more thing to ask him, but it wasn't easy anymore. He was looking right at me, with those eyes.

"Your father has been missing since 1993 Where is he, Krishnendu?"

~~~~~

The day was hot, sultry. All he wanted to do was just get a quick dip in the river, but he knew he had to sneak in there, so that he could avoid his father. He came to the river bank, clad only in his towel. Taking it off, he plunged into the cool water. How wonderful it felt, the river flowing slowly, talking to him. The river knew his secrets, almost all of them.

The buffalo was also in the river, but he didn't mind. He had given her a bath many a times, and she knew him quite well. He wasn't scared of her. In fact, he was one of the very few people in the world the buffalo adored. He could get her to come inside the house when no one else could, he could get her to stay in the shed on rainy days. He could get her to calm down on stormy nights. They were quite fond of each other actually.

He hadn't seen his father come from the other side though, but his father had seen his towel lying there on the ground. His father knew that he had sneaked out, and gone into the river, even after he had been explicitly told not to go there. Furious, his father pulled him out of the river.

He got a beating that day, right in front of his buffalo friend, and his river friend. They couldn't do anything about it, except watch him being beaten up. Finally, when his father was satisfied with the punishment he had handed out, he let Krishnendu go.

Krishnendu picked up the moist towel from the ground, and with a whisper said to the River and the Buffalo, "Don't worry about him. I'll be back tomorrow."

***

Image Courtesy egvvnd

The Truth

This story has been inspired by a post written by Shruti. You can find the post here. I hope I've done justice to the situation here, and I hope that things turn out great for that family.

~~~~~

His mother looked into the mirror, and wondered how she would ever tell her son that he wasn't her flesh and blood, that he was adopted. She wondered how she would look into his eyes, and would admit the fact, that she hadn't carried him in her womb for nine months. She loved him, as anyone would love their own child. Still, a splinter in her mind caused her to wonder if that love was enough, if her love would be considered second hand.

She walked into his room, and saw that the little boy was getting ready to go somewhere. She couldn't ask where he was going. She somehow wanted him to stay, wished that he would say something to make the whole matter easier. Something like that silent hug of his, which always made things so much easy for her, without the need of even a single word.

He was having trouble with his shoes. Even at the age of 11, it amused her sometimes that he had trouble with mundane things like this, when he could solve complex math problems in seconds. Standing at the door to his room, she smiled while he tried the shoe on for the umpteenth time, without the slightest sign of impatience or frustration.

She knew she had to tell him something. She knew the time had come. She knew if she hid this from him any longer, there was a chance that he would hear about it from somewhere else. She knew that for him, it could prove to be disastrous. She told herself over and over again, that it was best if it was her who told him the truth.

She wondered how she would bring up the subject. She wondered if he would want to go out, as he was planning to, after he heard the truth a few moments later. Time was running out though, she had to find the right words any moment now; he almost had his shoes on.

He tied the laces, and stood up in front of her, a big smile spreading on his face. "I did it finally!" he said. "I'll be back soon, just going out with a few friends."

"Ashmit…" his mother began.

"Yes, Ma?"

Her courage failed her at the last moment, leaving her at a time she needed it the most. She couldn't look into his eyes,  and as she said to him "Don't be too late," she rushed off to the kitchen, lest he see the tears in her eyes.

***

Image Courtesy carf

Mirror

"See that Blade there?"

"Yeah, that's dad's used blade. What about it?"

"I've always wondered something."

"The reason why the blade is so cool?"

"And so efficiently deadly."

"Yeah. If I had a choice to be an object, I'd be a blade."

"Me, more like anything metallic."

"Like a sword?"

"More like an arrowhead. It's somehow deadlier."

"That's just how you look at it."

"I can talk about the most random things on earth, can't I?"

"Oh yes!"

"Wanna hear something else that's random?"

"The real meaning of Random?"

"Yup. I finally figured it out. It's when there is an equal probability of every topic under the sun to be chosen for discussion."

"So random means that right now, there is an equal probability of me talking about dinosaurs as there is to talking about disco lights."

"Or schizophrenia."

"Yeah." A pregnant pause, and then the conversation continued. "You think the schizophrenia I had is cured?"

From the other side of the door, his mother banged on the door and said, "Dev, stop talking to yourself and come downstairs. Breakfast's getting cold."

~~~~~

Many thanks to Juhi for the Awesome Award, and Phoenix for the Honest Scrap award. I'm really grateful guys, you rock! Cheers to you…

***

Image Courtesy libraryman

The Little Incident at a Big School

He couldn't believe he had done something so wrong. His father, well known for his raging temper, would be furious at him. He just knew it.

Sitting in the school bus, while the bus drove consistently through the traffic jam, he wished that something would happen, and he would never have to go back home. He hoped that he would never have to face his father, after the incident that happened at school.

He could see the homeless children under the flyover, and wondered what it would be like to run away from home and live like that. He noted the exact place of where the children were, so that he would know where to come when he ran away. His mind wandered away, as he thought about the prospect of running away from home – he would never see his parents again, and never see his dog. He would never lie on his bed again, or read the books that he had grown up with. If only he hadn't been that stupid, things would never have come to this state. Thinking all of this brought tears to his eyes, but he didn't want the rest of the kids to notice his tear stained eyes.

However, notice they did. Pretty soon, there was a group of children surrounding him and pointing at the silent tears flowing down his cheeks.

"The Little Baby's crying. Wonder what's up with the Little Bitty Baby today," said one voice.

"Shut up!" he screamed at everyone. The kids laughed, while his face burnt with shame. "I said, shut up!"

"Or else what?" said one of the Big Boys, with a snigger. He wanted to get up and punch the Big Boy in the face, but he felt weak about the prospect of going back home and telling his father what happened at school. He wiped his tears with the back of his hand, and started ignoring the comments of the other children. This wasn't that tough, as he couldn't focus on anything much.

Before he knew it, he was at his stop. He didn't want to get down from the bus, but he knew that he didn't really have much of a choice. He couldn't exactly stay in the bus forever. He took a few tentative steps towards the door of the bus, at the end of the line of the children waiting to get off. The Big Boy was still laughing at the tear marks left on his face, and he again flushed with guilt and shame at what had happened.

He got off, but found that his legs refused to take him back home. What would his father's reaction be like? How much would he scream at him? Would his father hit him for what he had done? All these questions were chasing each other inside his head – when suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Krishna, what are you doing here? Don't you want to go back home?" It was his father. Seeing him materialize so suddenly and unexpectedly, Krishna burst into tears, right there in the middle of the street.

"What happened to you? Why are you crying so much?" his father asked, "Come on, let's walk back home, and we can talk about this on the way back."

Krishna, however, was too scared to say anything. He couldn't stop crying, now that he knew his father had found him. He knew his father would be very disappointed at him, and probably ever forgive him for what he had done at school. All the way back home, his father tried to talk to him, but Krishna couldn't tell him what had happened.

It was only when he got back home, back in the familiar surroundings that Krishna was able to open up and admit what had happened at school that day. "I lost that pencil you got for me yesterday Baba, I didn't mean to. Someone must have stolen it from my pencil box while I was out. I know it was there in the pencil box when I left for the games period, but when I came back it wasn't there. I'm so sorry Baba, I didn't mean to lose it…" Krishna couldn't look at his father's face anymore.

"Are you sure the pencil isn't there in your bag?"

"Yeah, I've looked everywhere in the bag, it's not there," said Krishna, a little surprised at the calm voice with which his father was talking to him. He couldn't help feeling a slight bit of relief at the tone of his voice.

"Well, alright, we'll go and get you another pencil in the evening. How does that sound to you?" said his father, with a straight face and a gentle voice.

Krishna ran into his father's arms. In spite of the straight face that he was trying to keep, a small smile escaped from his father's lips.

And they lived happily ever after.

~~~~~

Had my exams going on, which is why I couldn't write much in the last few days, or read much of the stuff that the other bloggers have been putting up on their blogs for that matter. Noticed quite a steady flow of traffic on the blog in spite of that… thanks for keeping so much in touch with the blog. Also, much thanks to Preetilata for the award, my first Blog Award I might add! :D Cheers to you Preetilata…

***

Image Courtesy dhyanji

The Big C

The two men sat at the bar of the dingy little pub, a beer clutched in each hand. They didn't know each other, but it's said that no one's a stranger in a pub. Soon, they started talking.
Akhilesh had been in the Kargil war, and had survived to live the tale. It had emboldened him in a lot of ways, to the extent that sometimes, he thought himself to be invincible.
Bimal had had a quiet life. Working in a government job most of his life, he hadn't really had the most exciting of lives. He had worked hard most of his life, and it was only during the last few days of his life that he started frequenting the pubs of Delhi.
"Big fan of Foster's I see," said Bimal, as Akhilesh started on his fourth bottle. Akhilesh wasn't all that much in the mood for a chat, so he just smiled gently at the old man sitting next to him, trying to ignore him. "I've somehow been a bit too loyal to the Indian brands; Mohan Meakin's to be more precise," continued Bimal, "hence the taste for Golden Eagle. You've tried it?"
Akhilesh still ignored Bimal. However, there's something about having a drink or two that really makes you not care if someone's listening or not. This was almost the case with Bimal on this particular night. He'd downed seven bottles already, and was on his eighth.
"I've earned the right to live life precariously I think. God himself gave me that sign, by showing me that I don't really have those many days left in my life anymore. I should make the most of whatever little days I have at my disposal." These lines got Akhilesh interested, in spite of his best efforts to ignore this man. Bimal noticed that he had finally gotten the audience he was craving for; he cleared his throat, and told Akhilesh the punch line of his little story.
"I've been diagnosed with the Big C. The Doctors say that I've got a year more to live, maybe a little less."

***

Akhilesh had not been a stranger to death. Being in the army means that you are surrounded by it, and you don't have a choice. Yet, somehow Bimal's story was like an iron fist to the stomach. The fact that winded him more was that he didn't even know this man… and yet he was affected by his illness, in some weird way. That night, Bimal and Akhilesh didn't drink much once they got to talking. Bimal spoke about his life, about all the things that he had wanted to do in life. He told him how he had believed that old bearded man who had told him he would live till at least a hundred and ten. "I've been robbed of thirty years, I should sue!" Bimal joked.
He talked about his many loves – for the woman he had married and shared his life with, for the colors of the world, for the sunrise, and the sunset. He opened Akhilesh's eyes to his love for life itself.
Akhilesh listened to every word that Bimal said, and the talk sobered both of them – so much so that they didn't even sway once while they walked to door, a first for Akhilesh. Akhilesh used to think himself as a selfish man. That night he surprised himself, when he found that his eyes were moist as he walked into his little flat, and he knew that it wasn't for himself.

***

Akhilesh and Bimal started meeting regularly. Since he was starting to get weak, Akhilesh would visit Bimal's house. One day, Akhilesh found Bimal staring at a big blank canvas, a palette of colors in front, and a brush in his hand. The canvas seemed to be begging for the first stroke of the brush, yet Bimal couldn't deliver. "I've already ruined four canvases. I've always wanted to be a painter, yet nothing I make on the canvas makes any sense. Have you done anything of this sort before?"
"I have no idea how to paint. I've never done it, nor have I ever been interested in it. I guess you start by some random strokes, and just go on after that", said Akhilesh
Bimal touched the brush to the canvas for the first stroke, but something was lacking. He couldn't do it, the stroke came out all wobbly, and the next few strokes were the same. In the end, Bimal gave up the idea for the day.
"There's juice in the fridge, in case you want some. I had to get rid of the beers, my system can't take it anymore", Bimal told Akhilesh.

***

Bimal tried his hand at painting a number of times, but there was no success. Soon, he found that the simple act of going outside, standing and attempting to paint was becoming more and more tiresome for him. From then on, whenever Akhilesh came to visit him, the unfinished painting used to be the first one to greet him. Bimal had told Akhilesh that he would move it somewhere else, but Akhilesh insisted on letting the painting be exactly where it was. He convinced Bimal to keep the painting where it was, and also instructed the caretakers not to move the painting – no matter what Bimal said.
Bimal was growing thinner with every passing day. It was evident that he wouldn't last long, but he still looked forward to the time Akhilesh would come over, and talk to him for a few hours. He had a number of visitors, but to him Akhilesh was different. In his presence, Bimal felt different too, almost the same way he did when he had met Akhilesh the first time at that bar of the dingy little pub.
"I wish I had the talent enough to paint the myriad of colors on the sky, on those special days. If only I had heeded what my mother had told me a long time ago, and had gone for those painting classes…"
"Don't think so much. You've done a fairly good job with that canvas outside. We can always tell everyone its modern art", said Akhilesh.
They chuckled at that small joke, and then Bimal went back to looking outside of the window, at the red hue painted over the skies, at the beautiful sunset.

***

It was on a beautiful, cloudless day, that Bimal never woke up in the morning, and missed the sunrise. The funeral was arranged at the place Bimal had chosen, a little bit away from the hustle bustle of the city. A mokshadham in the suburbs was where Bimal had wanted his body to be cremated, be one with the earth and the skies, with that last puff of smoke. There were quite a few visitors, some of whom cried. Akhilesh wondered how many of them knew how much Bimal had wanted to paint, but couldn't do that till the end.
While coming out of the crematorium, Akhilesh chanced a look at the skies. It was exactly the way Bimal had described he wanted it to be – the hue of the skies, the mix of blue with violet, yellow with red, the distinct orange in the sky that made it look unique. He was the only one in the whole crowd who smiled when he saw that scene.
"There's your masterpiece, Bimal. You finally made it", said he.