“Say ‘Cheese’!”

I hated antique shops. I hated the concept, the idea, of owning something that was previously someone else’s. Almost as though it was an encroachment on their private lives, and their memories from such a long time ago. Anyway, I’ve never had an eye for antiques, and paying to buy old grimy black things that stand out ostensibly somehow didn’t seem to be for me.

Even so, when Carla told me that she wanted to go to the antique store down the street, I couldn’t refuse. Partly because, in the few weeks that I had spent in America, Carla had been my only friend. And in those few weeks, we had fallen madly in love with each other. I knew going with her to the antique store would make her smile, and so I went with her.

Carla had a way with things like that – old letters, old furniture, old books, old photographs. In her life, memories were the most powerful component, and although I didn’t quite understand the importance those memories had for her, somehow, I knew they were important to her, and made her just the person who she was. She was a romantic, a young passionate woman with a raging and wild imagination, and she loved weaving stories around the little things that she found in her favourite antique stores and flea markets and pawn shops she always seemed to know about. We never really knew if any of her stories were even close to the truth, but it was fun nonetheless. “Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose,” she used to say, and even though it was just a cheesy line from an old TV show, I thought I knew just what she meant.

Now that Carla and I aren’t together, I understand what she meant about memories. It’s also one of the reasons why, out of all the forays into the local antique store, there’s only one that stays persistently on my mind. It was a usual drizzly day, and we hadn’t really planned to go and check out the antique store, at least not for another week or so. Still, there was nothing better to do as we were caught in the drizzle, and somehow the thought of dancing in the rain didn’t quite seem very alluring in that moment. So, Carla dragged me into her favourite little store, and I followed silently.

The shop didn’t really look very different, and as always, I felt like I was in a strict library, not allowed to speak one word. “You’re in the company of memories now,” Carla told me. And then we spent the rest of the evening in silence, lost in the past of the strangers who had left their possessions there, in the company of second-hand memories.

There were a lot of things in the store that day – an old wooden cupboard, grimy chairs with dirty cushions on them, letter holders stuffed full of old letters that the previous owners hadn’t bothered to throw out. I also found an old diary, one that belonged to a 13 year old boy named Brian McWallace. I wondered if I should read through the diary, contemplating the morality of the issue, but it had been taken care of Brian in his boyhood – he’d never written a word in the diary. The first time when I had wanted to be a little like Carla, and wander into the world of imagination, and making up stories befitting the lives of the former owners of the things we held in our hands, Brain McWallace had thwarted that desire, by leaving the diary entirely blank. I threw it back on to the shelf, surprised to find myself so frustrated for something as insignificant as the inability to think up a story. I wasn’t Carla, and I knew I couldn’t make up a story for the fantastic life of Brian McWallace, so I left the diary back on the dusty shelf and went about looking for her amidst the old junk.

I think back then, I was immature to think that there was no value to old violins and old guitars, and was a bit too quick to judge them based on the amount of grime they had acquired over the years. Maybe if I knew everything I know now, I might have been able to see those old things in the dingy shop in a better light. However, I didn’t know anything about the value inanimate things absorb over the years, which can make them seem priceless to some people, even if they seem worthless to others.

But Carla knew. She knew just what every single one of those grimy little artefacts were worth, because she knew how to calculate something’s worth in more than just monetary terms. I found that the slight bit of allure that I had felt a moment back had faded off, and I was bored. I wanted to sit with Carla again, even if it was just to hear one of her little stories. I picked up the first thing that I passed by – an old, faded violin with just one string – and went to Carla looking for a story.

I knew she would tell me all about the violin’s incredible journey, and the applause it had received (maybe at the Carnegie Hall?), but she didn’t. When I found her, in the back of the little shop, she had already found her treasure for the day, and didn’t really seem too interested in the violin I had so painstakingly picked out for her. Instead, she was looking at an old, faded picture.

It was a normal looking picture, something that can be found in any old family. Three people, looking out of a car. Nothing great in that, right? Sure, they looked happy, but then, isn’t that how most people have their pictures taken? Don’t their faces automatically go into the ‘smile, there’s a camera pointed at you!’ mode the moment they know someone’s clicking their picture? I didn’t know why Carla was looking at that picture, and sitting there waiting for her story to come out, I felt a little bored. And a little stupid, too.

But the story didn’t come that day. For some reason, Carla didn’t want to venture into the lives of the people who made up that picture, and she didn’t want to talk about the travels they may have had in the car with the window rolled down. She didn’t want to know the reason why they looked so happy in the photo. She just sat there, silently, staring at the picture in her hand. So, having nothing else to do, I started looking at the picture, too.

And then, a very interesting thing happened in the dark, dingy shop. From looking at the picture, I went to looking at the people instead. I started wondering where these people were, the two women and the young man, all of them so full of life and laughter and happiness. I found myself wondering if the photographer had said “Cheese!” before pressing the button that bottled their moment of happiness forever, capturing them on that little piece of paper that Carla was holding. I wondered what they were so happy about, and if those dreams, those fantasies, they came true. I wondered if they made any memories that day or not, and how long they were together after that picture was taken, to cherish those memories. I wondered why the photograph, the tangible proof of their intangible memories, and their intangible happiness, lay forgotten in this old Missouri antique shop. And I wondered who these people were. Even then, as I sat there with the girl I was so crazy about, holding a photograph that had neither of us in it, I knew I’d always remember this moment.

“We can ask the store manager who these people are, can’t we?” I asked.

“No,” said Carla. “Let’s not do that.”

“Why not? Maybe he knows these people,” I said.

Carla looked strangely thoughtful, and finally said, “Because life – both ours and theirs – deserves a sense of mystery.”

In the end, we bought just the picture of the three strangers sitting in the car with their happy smiles that day. She said she would want me to keep it. She thought maybe it would help to get me started building some memories (second hand though they were), and start living life the way she did for a change. I never thought it would work, but in a strange way, it did.

Carla and I broke up six months later. It wasn’t a pretty break up, and I returned to India soon after that. In the wake of the fights, and our fallout, I had thrown away all of our pictures. It’s been many years since I last saw her, and I’ve sometimes found myself wondering where she is, and what she’s up to these days. In those moments, I take a look at that picture, the one that we stumbled upon all those years ago in her favourite little antique store. And even though I have nothing else to remind me of her, that old picture is all I’ll ever need – even though it doesn’t have Carla or me in it. Because I understand now what she meant when she talked about memories – how they really are a way of holding on to the things that you have loved in the past, the person that you were in the past, and the things you never thought you would lose, in the past.

~

Inspired from Magpie Tales. They asked for a poem, but I’m no great shakes at that… so, I wrote this one instead.

Forever

“Man, I could just listen to that song forever!”

“This place is so beautiful at sunset. I could stay here forever.”

“I love this city; I wish I could stay here forever.”

“College life is so great. I could stay in this stage forever.”

“Travelling is so much fun. I could live on the road forever!”

“This drink is awesome, dude! How I wish it lasts forever.”

And yet, at the end of the day, forever never happens. The song ends, and he moves on to the next song on the playlist; the sun sets, and the place loses that charm, and so he catches the packed evening train and returns home; the vacation ends, and he happily comes back to his familiar setting, the place he grew up at; college life gets over, friends move away, and soon they forget how great it used to be, caught up suddenly in that race to be somebody; the road he’s travelling on comes to an end, at his destination, and the destination suddenly becomes so alluring that the travel is forgotten; the drink in his hand doesn’t last forever, and the bottle slowly empties into his stomach, and forever is lost that night as he hurls into that blue bucket all night long.

Is it a good thing that forever doesn’t last forever?

Schizophrenic Sid

On a typical rainy morning, Schizophrenic Siddharth and his imaginary sidekick Sandesh were having a typical discussion, on one of the typical topics that they cooked up between the two of them.

“Here we are, standing in the bloody rain, early in the morning, all according to the whims of someone else. What’s the damn meaning of all this?”

“Sandesh, we’re going to work!”

“I hate it! You’re the one who wants this job, and I have to tag along with you every day. You don’t even let me talk when you’re in office.”

“Of course I don’t, you idiot! That’s where I work; it’s not a place where I want to have conversations with you.”

“But, you know there are so many things that I want to talk to you about, Sid.”

After many failed attempts at hailing a rickshaw, Sid was finally able to wave one down. The rain was falling steadily, and in his desperate bid to be in office on time, Sid had asked another desperate man like him if they could share a rickshaw together. Now, with the rickshaw waiting obediently in front of them, trailing a bluish white cloud of engine smoke behind it, the three of them got inside. The man told Sid where he wanted to get off, and that was the end of the conversation between them. The rickshaw started off, and Sid’s attention went back to Sandesh and his extreme desire to talk to Sid.

“I miss Li’l Al,” said Sandesh suddenly; Sid hadn’t seen it coming at all, and so that sudden mention of his long gone friend made him lose focus of the beautiful Audi that was stuck right in front of them in the early morning traffic jam.

“Why, suddenly, Sandesh?” asked Sid. “How come you suddenly miss him this much?”

“I’ve been thinking about stuff, recently, and been thinking about the whole death thing.”

“What death thing?”

“You know, how people are born, and then they do stuff all their lives, and then they just die?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been thinking, what’s the meaning of it all?”

“The point? We’re alive, we’re here! We’re doing everything we’re doing just so we can live, and that itself is a miracle.”

“But the purpose of it all? I mean, what’s the purpose of life, ultimately?”

“To live it.”

“Is it really that simple?”

“Well, it can be that simple, but you really have to want it to be that simple. You get it?”

“Not entirely. I mean, here we are sitting in the auto early in the morning, doing something that you

think you want to do. Still, how’s it impacting things?”

“I’m going to work. It’s what I do. I earn money this way, and that’s how I live.”

“Yes, but that’s for the time being, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s forever.”

“Not forever. For as long as you live, right?”

“I think I know what you mean there, but even so. This is what I do.”

“Ok, but do you leave an impact in the world?”

“Well, kind of. I mean, I’ve got my whole family who’s proud of me at this very moment, and they all feel that I’m doing a wonderful job here.”

“And then, one by one, they all die. Then you too die, someday.”

“Yes; just so you know, you’re scaring me a little bit here, but that is true. I know I will die someday.”

“Exactly. One day, you’ll die, and when that day comes, what would be the meaning of all of this?”

“I don’t think I understand what you mean exactly, Sandesh.”

“Well, you remember Li’l Al, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“You remember all the things that he used to do? The things he used to say to us when we were growing up?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well, what I’m trying to say has two sides to it, so it might take a little bit of time. Firstly, when Al lived amongst us, and when he told us all those things, it was all so real, right?”

“Yeah, it was.”

“So, in that moment, we knew he existed. There was so much he told us, about how we should live, and that’s the way we remember him, right?”

“Yes, Sandesh. What’s your point?”

“Well, my point here is somewhat linked to the second point that I’m trying to raise here. In a way, Al existed because we remember what all he did, how he lived his life, and everything that he told us during his life. We used to do that while Al was alive as well, didn’t we?”

“You mean, think about everything that he said? Yes, of course we used to.”

“Even poetically, many people have said that even after death, people can live on as memories. What if that’s actually true? Not in the physical sense perhaps, but what if right now, I’m alive because of the fact that people still remember me? What if, there’s a part of me that’s going to stay alive even after my death, because people still remember who I was, and what I said, and how I lived my life, and they can predict almost perfectly what my life would have been like, had I been alive?”

“That makes sense, in a very screwed up way. I don’t have the answer to it, but it does make sense; a whole lot of it.”

“I know what you mean. Even I don’t have the answer to that, it’s still all a mystery to me. And the weirdest bit about the whole thing is the second point that I was trying to raise here. Imagine that Li’l Al lives somewhere far away, and there’s no way that we can contact him. Now, how do we know that he existed? How do we know that he’s not with us anymore? How do we know that he’s dead?”

“That’s because we saw Al die, Sandesh. We were there at his funeral, remember?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I’m talking about a hypothetical question. Imagine that he didn’t die, he just moved away; really far away. In that kind of a situation, how would you know if he’s alive or dead? More importantly, how would you know that he existed in the first place, if you can’t contact him ever again?”

Sid stopped talking, and sat up in the auto thinking. Sid was a big guy, and the auto was a little small for him; his shoulder kept banging against the stranger who sat beside him, and Sandesh didn’t really like this part of the morning ever. Thankfully, on that day however, Sandesh seemed to have other things on his mind than Sid’s shoulder banging against those of strangers in the auto as they met up with every pothole of the city.

“You know what I’m talking about now?” asked Sandesh, as Sid tried to adjust a little better in the cramped environment. “How do we know whether someone existed, beyond what we remember of them?”

“Ok, now I’m starting to get confused, even though everything you’ve said here makes almost perfect sense.”

“With an example, then. We know that Li’l Al existed because we remember him – but what if Al existed only in our minds? What if the reason he seems so real to us is because of the fact that our memories are so vivid, and so clear? Maybe he wasn’t there, maybe we just imagined him all up, and then somehow forgot the fact that we had conjured him up in the mind. Maybe, that’s why, even though he was fiction, he seemed so real.”

“What have you got against Li’l Al, Sandesh? Why are you so hell bent on making him imaginary, when you very well know that he was just as real as you are!”

“I know that, Sid. I was just talking about a hypothetical situation.”

“Well, if you must insist on making people imaginary, then you might as well do that with people I don’t know, or people I’m not that close to.”

“Like that guy who was sitting beside you, until a little while ago?”

Sid looked beside him, and saw that the auto was empty. Somewhere along the way, the man had reached his destination, put his part of the fare silently into Sid’s hands, and disappeared in the world outside the little auto. Now, with Sandesh laughing silently in his head, the silent stranger existed only in his memories; like Li’l Al, like the many nameless faces Sid saw every morning, and even though he’d never admit it, like Sandesh himself.

Delhi – Places and Faces

The Last Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mumbai that I saw

Although it’s been quite a few days since my trip to Mumbai, I haven’t really had the chance to know the real city. A city is a living, breathing, emotional being in itself, and it would be too naïve to claim to know a city as alive as Mumbai from within the confines of an air-conditioned car, or a comfortable home, housed within a multistoried residential complex. To know a city, one has to walk the very streets that make it what it is. So, I did.

From my experiences on my solo trips across the city, Mumbai is a vast web of not just people but thoughts, and ideas, and dreams, pouring in from all sides. Every man, woman and child in Mumbai knows the importance of time, and the city keeps up with that time in perfect rhythm – like a graceful dancer, whose every move is in perfect rhythm with all things around her. The rhythm, although beautiful and (almost) perfect, is ruthless at the same time. The city cannot wait, even for those who trip and fall during that daily dance. They must have what it takes to pick themselves up, brush the dust off their clothes, and start off that dance exactly where they left off.

The local train network of Mumbai is called the lifeline of the city and for good reason too. The vast network connects almost every part of Mumbai, running everywhere the flow of humans needs to trickle to; but this lifeline running right through Mumbai is a brutal place as well, and it doesn’t forgive mistakes easily – or wimps, for that matter.

Getting on a crowded train at peak hours of the morning or evening is not for the faint hearted. Only a perfect combination of a cool mind, a strong heart, and an agile body with strong hands can get you in. I didn’t know I possessed any of these until I managed to push my way into one of those overflowing trains. Still, I think I was lucky enough to have clambered on. Mumbaikar readers might be able to appreciate what I mean by overflowing, but for the others I’ll try to paint a picture. Imagine a bus stop (Delhi folks, imagine Dhaula Kuan), jam packed to the brim. An even more overcrowded bus comes along, and all (yes, ALL) the people on that overcrowded bus stop run along trying to catch that bus as if there’s no tomorrow. Now that you have that picture in your mind, multiply the crowd by 9 or 12 (depending on the number coaches you want on that imaginary train of yours) and you’ll probably come near to the typical scene on a typical day at a typical Railway Station of Mumbai. Really puts the abuses, derisive comments, and (sometimes) the jibes flying around in perspective.

A local train at night, however, is a completely different story altogether. With trains running from as early as four in the morning to as late as 12:15 in the night, it is one of the most dependable modes of transport in Mumbai. At night, with trains running almost empty, the rush-hour madness is replaced by a strange, tranquil environment. A midnight ride standing at the gate of the compartment, while well lit, albeit empty stations rush past the train; the rhythmic rumble of the train rolling on the tracks; the cold air rushing past, fast (dried up my clothes from an earlier experience that night, but that’s a different story); the tangy air floating in from the Thane creek that we crossed in the night; it all presented an entirely different viewpoint from what I experienced local trains to be earlier.

Although I travelled on the locals a few more times, my focus shifted from inside the train to the world outside. We passed slums, high rise buildings, crowds of people, and lazy buffaloes cooling off in marshy waters. We could see wave after wave of humans crossing the roads, even during the late hours of the night. The city never sleeps, and the Mumbai local train network, being the lifeline, can’t afford to sleep either.

Mumbai’s nightlife has always been talked about a lot, but that too is something you have to experience firsthand to understand what it’s all about. It’s somewhat different from the usual connotations that accompany the word Nightlife. It’s not all about late night parties and clubbing all night long. It’s a little more literal than what it means at other cities – the time of the night when the city comes alive, again. It is this nightlife which makes marketplaces at 12:30 in the night seem like 8:00 in the evening – with people still looking for a nice place to hang out, and some hawkers still out on the streets selling their wares.

A friend told me how the night had fooled him too, just as it had fooled us. Juhu beach with friends, chatting after a long hard day at work, seemed like a perfect idea to unwind their minds. So, they hit the beach around 8ish in the evening, with plans of getting out by 10:00, have dinner and go back home. The next day was, after all, a working day for them. By the time they wrapped up their relaxing chats and finalized their plans for dinner (they decided the time as 10:00), it was 12:15 in the night. Even at that hour, people were pouring in at the beach, keen faces hoping to have a little bit of fun. Such is the spirit of this tireless city.

Walking through the town area (as it is fondly called by many), we came across numerous old buildings. All constructed during the British Raj, every step that echoed through these stone walkways had a unique, Victorian touch to it. Although the place reminded me a lot of Connaught Place of Delhi, these walkways seemed to have a lot more history, a past that had been left almost untouched by the present, something still as pure as it was the first day it came into existence.

It was in one of these very walkways that we found a cozy little shop selling musical instruments. Polished guitars with twinkling strings winked at us, and it was impossible not to go in and spend a few moments with those precious instruments. So, in we walked, and spent a good hour or so there. During that hour, I felt as if I was back home, with my wonderful wooden buddies and their music, content and happy with life, even if for a brief moment of time.

The ocean was just a little while away from the town area, and although I had seen it a few times since I arrived, the first time I came really close to it was the same night I got lost at Bandra. Getting bored alone at the Bandra station was definitely not for me, and so when my friend called and said he would be late by about an hour, I walked out of the station and on the road again. Evening was upon the city, and all around me the lights were coming up. The shops, the streetlamps, even the dancing lights from the trains passing by every few minutes; they all lit up Mumbai to a brilliant, multicolored hue. Wandering through these markets, the sounds and the smells and the sights chasing me, I went up and down Hill Road, roamed around S. V. Road, and I think also touched Linking Road (although I’m not too sure of that), all without even the faintest idea where I was. Eventually, I reached Bandstand, and that’s when I heard the gurgle of the waves on the rocks. It was too dark to see anything clearly, and since I had been lugging my bags around for quite some time, I sat down at the Barista nearby.

The ocean air at Bandstand had a subtle salty tinge to it – the perfect amount that makes up a wonderful blend. The cool breeze from the sea can surely pep-up anyone, and although I knew the baggage I would have to carry was heavy, and soon all the things that were troubling me would return, during the time that I saw there, sipping my coffee and waiting, the troubles and the heavy baggage were all pushed away gently. All that remained then was the wonderful, fresh feeling that only the ocean can give to you.

My next (and last) date with the ocean happened the afternoon I left Mumbai. Since I had a few hours to spare before I left for the airport, my friend took me to Juhu beach. The fine sand of the beach, the small waves during low tide, the sunlight bouncing on the ripples of the water, and the crowd – each one of these seemed to have a life of its own. Walking barefoot along the wet sand, I couldn’t help but look back at the footsteps, at the fragility of those footsteps. One flowing wave from the depths of the mighty ocean was all it took to wash them away, leaving the sand just as it was a few minutes back. It surely was a humbling thought, the realization of the awe inspiring power that the ocean holds within itself, and how tiny and insignificant we are in front of the sea.

The sun was slowly sinking down towards the sea, spreading a red light in the sky as it went. We sat down on the beach, blissfully ignorant of the time, as we watched the waves chasing each other on the beach, crashing one after the other. We watched the ocean catching fire, as the red fireball slowly sank deeper and deeper into the water, until finally the ocean swallowed up the sun, and all that was left was the red hue in the sky. The sun had set, and it was time for me to come back home.

Our flight back took off some 15 minutes before schedule, so I had to say goodbye to this wonderful city those many minutes earlier; and although I was coming back home, to the city I love the most, it was still a bittersweet moment. I don’t know when I’ll be going back, but I know that one day, I’d like to return and witness once again, the daily dance of this graceful place; Mumbai – the city that dances on, always.