Memories in Mortar

 It was on a grey cloudy morning that Dadu decided to revisit the old house. Bhanu, his grandson, was to accompany him that day. The decision to take a look at the house one more time had taken nearly everyone by surprise, especially considering that Dadu wasn’t really known to express his emotions.

The construction project of the town would replace the derelict mansion with new apartments, where new families would move in and start their new lives. So it goes with old stories, they get razed and crushed beneath concrete. Dadu wanted to feel his childhood again, so they went.

The rusty gate creaked in a way that Dadu didn’t remember, and the sound of it was jarring to him. In a swift move too quick for his age, he swung it open lest it make that grinding noise again. The muddy earth was all that remained where once a garden used to be, and Dadu’s leather sandals squelched in the wetness. Carefully, clutching Bhanu’s arm, they made their way to the entrance hall.

The construction workers had been through here, Dadu noted. Pebbles and dirt lay thick on the floor, and as they crunched beneath Dadu’s feet, he remembered the cool, smooth marble that lay beneath. He shuffled through the rooms, one by one, and remembered running from one room to the next with his cousins, playing hide and seek in his boyhood. The hallway was untouched, but there were a few walls which had chunks obscenely hammered out, their jagged edges cutting the air around them. He couldn’t bear to look at those walls, and left them behind as he made his way slowly to the upstairs floors.

His family had lived in this portion of the house. He remembered his parents’ room, the one that he was never allowed to enter. Would he dare? He slowly made his way to the door that lay thrown open. His wrinkled hands ran over the wrinkled walls, the paint peeling off them at his touch. Cautiously, as though any moment his father would yank his ears, Dadu crept into the room and made his way to the balcony. It looked over to the garden they had just passed, and he remembered the voices of his father and uncle, sharing a cigarette as they talked where he stood now.

He turned away hurriedly, even now slightly ashamed, and walked towards the kitchen. It was here that the hungry cousins would sit in a line, joking as they waited for their lunch, the sound of their laughter ringing throughout the house. From the kitchen the smell of cumin and mustard hung heavy in the air around them. As he stood there, memories flooding, Dadu could smell the smells again, and once, hopefully, he flicked out his tongue to see if the taste comes too. But all he could taste was the dust floating through the air, and the salt of his tears.

Of Silent Chairs and Mute Memories

Her name was Chameli. Once the jasmine flower she was named after, she had folded back into the bud that she had been a long time ago. Against the misty morning, in her delicate white dress, she looked radiant. She had been beautiful, and there were those who remembered that. Time had flown, though, and she had been trapped in her memories, and become that delicate flower bud once more. She had laid out the chairs in the field just the way she remembered it. Li’l Jo Singh, Mr Bakra, Mowgli Man, Alice Kumar Chautala, Maikalal Jaikishan, all members of the short-lived A-Team. She had long forgotten their real names, but their strange faces were still as vivid as the quirky names she remembered. That’s what they remembered her for, coming up with strange names. So lost was she in her memories, that she had forgotten her own name as well. She was Champa Chameli, presiding over this morning’s meeting on the dreary, bleak, misty morning.

I had hoped to catch her off her guard, so I moved through the empty chairs as silently as I could. Past experience had shown me that the trick worked – take her a bit by surprise, maybe startle her just a little bit, and she’ll suddenly become a lot more relaxed. Give her the illusion of being in control of me too, at just the right moment, and suddenly I would find myself a part of her little game, her periodic dance with the past that haunted her so much.

I crept closer and closer, and just when she was standing up after straightening an imaginary chair cushion, I leapt forward and whispered ‘Boo’ right into her ears. It didn’t have quite the effect that I had hoped. Instead of being startled, she turned around with a smile and said in her cute, little-girl manner, ‘I knew you were right behind me. You’re not good at trying to be a ninja, Makdee. You’re late for the meeting.’

‘I’m sorry, Chameli,’ I said with a smile. ‘I got caught up…’

‘In a web?’ asked Chameli, but I knew it was a rhetorical question. It was a joke at my expense, something that she found incredibly funny. I had no idea why she came up with the name Makdee, a spider, for me. I wasn’t a member of the imaginary A-Team, so Chameli didn’t really need to give me a name. I could have been me; but I knew she was scared of reality now. She preferred this dream world of nonsensical names and silly, childish games now. Somehow, I had become a part of that as well.

The chairs were laid out in the same way as they had been since I had known her. It had been so long ago that I don’t even recollect how and when I met her for the first time. Maybe it was at one of these meetings. Maybe we saw each other from a distance at a café. Maybe we met over lunch, and shared a meal a long time ago. I didn’t know anymore, and she was too lost in her delusions to care too much about those trivial things.

I had a job to do, though. I had to shake her up a little bit, give it another try. Maybe the infinity-plus-one-eth time would do the trick. I wanted to be tactful about it, I wanted to stall for a while, and I wanted to not tell her the things I knew she didn’t want to hear; but these were things that weren’t in my hands anymore. I existed only for Chameli now, and she had made me up for a reason.

‘Who’s the guest of honour today?’ I asked her as I took my seat next to her.

She giggled shyly, and said, ‘It’s Jaikishan; he finally told me that he loves me. Alice was wrong; didn’t I always tell you that?’

‘Why do you call him Alice? I mean, he’s a guy after all!’

‘You look at him! I’m sure he’s gay; he’s so effeminate after all. Besides, he likes it if I call him Alice,’ she said matter-of-factly, running a hand down her beautiful white dress.

‘Chameli, there’s something you should know,’ I began again, knowing well that it would be a fruitless endeavour. I had done this enough times to know it, but it was my job. It was precisely why Chameli had conjured me in her mind – so I could try, time after time, to snap her out of her hallucinations and back into the real world. ‘Chameli, are you listening?’

‘Yes, yes. I’m listening to you, Makdee,’ said Chameli absently.

‘You’re dreaming again, Chameli. It’s time you woke up and went back to your world. The people in the meeting, they’ve all gone, they’ve left. Don’t you want to know what happened to all those people? Wouldn’t that be good, to know them in real life, instead of inside here, only inside your mind?’

‘Oh, Makdee,’ she said exasperatedly. ‘Why do you come up with the same story every time? Look, Jaikishan will be coming soon; it’s going to be our first date. And Alice told me it would never work out!’

‘Chameli, Alice isn’t real,’ I said, taking another shot at it. ‘Alice lives inside your mind. Jaikishan exists only in your head. They’re not real, not here at least.’

‘Shush, Makdee!’ said Chameli, standing up suddenly. ‘Jaikishan’s here! You stay here, Alice will keep you company. I’ll see you later, ok?’ Another sudden smile and she ran off a little way off the cluster of chairs. I was sitting alone again, surrounded by phantoms just like me. They couldn’t see me, and I couldn’t see them – it was an arrangement that seemed to work just fine. My job, my purpose, my destiny, that wasn’t coming along so well, though. I could see Chameli animatedly holding a conversation with the thin air in front of her, no doubt speaking to Jaikishan. Things were going exactly as I had always known them to be. In a bit, Chameli would be lost, and there wouldn’t be any purpose for me to stay for the day. Would I leave then, though? Would I be able to walk away?

Chameli was taking Jaikishan’s invisible hand now. I knew I shouldn’t be watching this, but I couldn’t help it. She was putting his imaginary arm around herself, and getting lost in his warm embrace. I wondered, as always, if I should stop her or not. I knew I wouldn’t in the end – I never did. That wasn’t a part of my reason for existence.

She melted in his arms, invisible as they were. She crumpled to the floor, and lay down still. It would be over soon, I told myself. This day would end soon, I told myself. Beyond the circle of chairs, I could see Chameli kissing a phantom lover, a ghost-boyfriend from the past. I could see the beads of sweat glowing on her skin, could see her writhing with pleasure in the soft grass underneath her. It would be over soon, I told myself yet again.

But it wasn’t Chameli who had complete control. I knew it would last yet another lifetime; I knew Chameli was lost just a little more, yet again. While I could do nothing but sit and wait, and watch her falling in love yet again with Jaikishan – the imaginary, invisible man Alice had been wrong about.

~

Inspired by Magpie Tales. I looked for the source of the image, and found that it's by Rosie Hardy.

‘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.

Remember Us

During my short stay in Mumbai, I had the good fortune of staying with four friends who knew each other from their college days – they shared a common history. This was a wonderful experience for me, because in those days, when I witnessed their memories, and shared them as though they were my own, it jogged my own memories, back to my college days, the wonderful 2 years of my life. It was on one such night that I had written this poem, which lay hidden for all this while. It took a visit to the very place that had inspired it – my college – to make me remember that poem, and to remember that life, once more.

This goes out to the green, wild fields
To the red brick path that we travelled
Everyday
To the morning grumbles and the evening sighs of relief
Remember us
To the daily struggle to wake up on time
The daily fights for bathroom dominance
And to the ugly, blue bucket that only reminded us of the chills it contained
Remember us
To the nights we swore we’d sleep early
And the nights we stayed up, singing or talking or studying
To the snores that drifted across the hallways every night
Remember us
As we remember, the reports we wrote
The points we so desperately tried to prove
The passion with which we fought and justified
Remember us
As that passion is now but a distant memory
Remember us, as we remember you
As our stomachs rumbled with supressed hunger
As we tried to swallow the bland food
Only to return, later at night, hungry as before
To devour the delicacies of the Tuck Shop
To all the parathas we ate
To all the omelettes we devoured
To all the fried eggs we consumed
And to all those content smiles that came free
Remember us
To the late night bike rides
Across unknown roads
Over uncharted and broken streets
To the bikes that screamed in protest
Or shouted in delight
As they rode on
Rumbling through the night
Remember us
To the twin buildings that sheltered us
To the stairs that became comfortable chairs
To the corridors and classrooms
Where we learnt, studied, discussed, argued
And in those precious, silent moments, we waited
Remember us
To the crowded canteens, and the cackling library
And the many hopes and dreams and fantasies
That were born and died within their boundaries
Remember us
To the friendships we made
To the bonds we cherished
To the memories we created
Remember us
For however far we may go
However old we may grow
We will remember to remember you.