THE STRANGE MAN- Part III (Death of Innocence)

19 August 2012 at 23:14

PublicFriendsOnly MeCustomLaw StudentBilaspur, Chhattīsgarh, India AreaGo Back

 Life had taught her many things in her 30-odd years of existence, but the most important lesson she had learned was to not care.  To care meant to be vulnerable to the whimsical will of “the other”. It had taken her 18 long years to realize that she was enough; “the other” was not needed! But she couldn’t be sure what it was that she was feeling now. Perhaps a sense of déjà-vu, as if an oppressive smell from several years back had filled the air again. It was suffocating! She opened the window and glanced down at the street. Everything was just the same- life in motion, from nowhere to nowhere- mad as always!  Everything seemed unreal; just like a dream! And how could she be sure that she wasn’t in a dream? Maybe she was, and everything was just a figment of her imagination. The only thing she could be sure of was herself. She was the only reality which could be trusted. The existence and nature of everything else was treacherously uncertain and unreliable. She was alone; absolutely alone- in a world of infinite forms and faces; in a universe which stretched from infinity to infinity. And that was her greatest strength. But it hadn’t always been so.
 The thought was so horrifying when she had first realized it as an adolescent girl, she felt weaker than a toddler left alone on the street. With the passing years, she’d learned to live with it, convincing herself it wasn’t true; constantly searching for “the other.” Sometimes in mother; sometimes in Manya; and finally, in whoever cared to listen. “The other”, wasn’t there, it never was! For all its vastness, magnitude, and variety, the world didn’t have it. Her black, white, red, green and yellow were her own, never matching with the world’s. There were times when she felt like the world was one big machine, and she was trapped somewhere within it between so many moving parts- alone and helpless- shouting, crying and flailing her limbs about. But nothing changed; everything moved just the same, only directions of movement changed; and that was even more horrifying. And certainly, there was no release!
She and Manya had the same mother. Still, Manya was rich from the beginning, and she poor. Manya could always buy her share of “the other”- from mother- with her report card; from teachers- with her acceptable ability to memorise; and from the world- with her acceptable features. On the other hand, all that she could offer was –greeting cards for card-hand made!; drawing and sketching for abilities; and a brown skin over an average form for features. And these things were not enough to buy her share of “the other”.  But it wasn’t only the haunting sense of insignificance which nibbled at her being, for back then she had no great ambitions. What she more deeply longed for was her share in the world. And she would have accepted without protest whatever little share came her way. But the world denied her even that!
In higher secondary, when she turned 17, there came a moment when she felt her wait was almost over. A new boy named Vijay had joined the class. Till then only one girl named Ishita sat beside her, though the bench had space for three. But now, Vijay occupied the vacant space and it wasn’t long before she realized that he was not just another boy in the class. He was extraordinarily ordinary! And, for the first time she felt she understood the meaning of the phrase “birds of a feather flock together.”
TO BE CONTD…

"BROTHER" MULLA

It’s been a long time since I posted last; partly because I had nothing interesting in the interim, and partly because I didn’t have the necessary time and patience to post something. But finally, I’m here again, with “something” to share with you. This post is dedicated to Mulla, Bulla’s old crony. He is a different guy. Truly different. No, I really mean it, he is so different, perhaps one in a million. But hold on, I haven’t yet described what sets him apart, so wait a little before forming any image of Mulla. He is different because he can do wonders just like you can click your fingers. He can make you burst into laughter even in your saddest moments. Not because he has a great sense of humour, but because of the queerness of his character and his quirky personality. So you can call him the miraculous Mulla if you like. If I started narrating the stories of his schooldays exploits they would never end. I’ll talk about those one by one, but some other day. As for now, I’ll tell you about the latest one. Mulla related it to me a few days back when I was in Bilaspur for the Republic day. So here it goes…

Guys in general, can be divided into two communities: one with a let-go spirit; the other with a let-come. While the former comprises of the majority, the later is a very small minority. The former is smart enough to ward off glitches and hitches, whereas the latter is foolish enough to invite them. Our Mulla, who essentially belongs to the later has been looking for a job for quite some time. Oh sorry, not just a job, but a decent job where decent means the one which could keep you going with all your profligacy-cum-necessities. Mulla’s necessities? Fuel (for his two-wheeler; bajaj boxer to be precise) and a fag when needed (not needed only when asleep, or may be then too he needs it, in dreams of-course, I am not quite sure). Now finding such a job in a city like Bilaspur is never less then looking for a needle in a haystack, as the cliche goes. But Mulla? He shall overcome, he shall overcome…some day! (Excuse me my misplaced use of “shall”, I guess, at times you can allow me to take that liberty with Hinglish!) Luckily, one day Mulla really overcame. The lady luck smiled on him and he got a job in a prestigious bank; on a probational basis though. It was like what they call a dream come true. So Mulla was happy now, and so were the bunch of fellow appointees. Happy ending eh? Nay!! This is the beginning buddy!! The beginning of the story this post is all about.

In that bunch of appointees, there was a female too; not very pretty, but a dame all the same. So, one girl and so many guys, Oh!! But our heroine was a “sweet sister” type and so, turned into a self-proclaimed sister of all. The sister got along well with every brother, but obviously shared the best rapport with our protagonist, Mulla. Now you don’t know Mulla. He is a kind of guy for whom I must paraphrase Late Mrs. Indira Gandhi’s words for Pranab Mukherjee- “even if you hit him on the head, all that would come out is smoke!!” Yaar truly, he is so sweet, you might have contracted diabetes talking to him, had it been an infectious disease. Coming back to the story, Mulla’s joy knew no bounds when the sister addressed him respectfully, “Bhaiya”. But one thing that dismayed Mulla was the sister’s dressing sense. With her choice of outfits, she could spell disaster. And as you know, boys will be boys, atleast so far as the majority let-goers are concerned. In this respect, our Mulla was an “odd one out” there. He found himself in a strange fix when behind the sister’s back the brothers indulged in cheap boyish talk about her. Mulla could not stop the majority, neither could he say anything to the sister. So what was the fellow to do? He kept mum.

But enough was enough. Mulla could bear it no more when one fine morning the sister appeared in a super-gaudy top, which clearly exposed her cleavage. Naturally, our Mulla was outraged watching whole day the lecherous eyes of the brothers fixed on what, euphemistically, may be called the sister’s forbidden part. But what could he do? Beat the baddies? No friends, Mulla is not a bollywood hero. He is just what he is: simple Mulla. But the feeling of not being able to do anything was literally, killing him from inside. So, next morning, when the sister presented herself in the office in an equally garish and outrageous outfit, Mulla could not help but do something. He wanted to talk to her, but his inhibition-cum-shyness got the better of him. How could he talk to his sister about something so unsavory? “What to do?”, thought Mulla, scratching his head. But having no other way out, he mustered all his courage, and went over to the sister for taking the gallant step. “Sister”, said Mulla. “Yes”, came the reply. “There is a problem”. “What?”, well…well…no other word came out of Mulla’s mouth and he ended-up saying, “nothing”. “No, tell me what?” Mulla’s “nothing” had proved more than enough to arouse sister’s curiosity to the max. Now perhaps we all know how it is to handle the situation, when someone of the fairer-sex is bent on knowing something. In Mulla’s case, she was not bent but hell bent. So after a long introspection, Mulla decided to write his message on a piece of paper and hand it over to the sister. He jotted down possibly the most decent terms he could, “your dress” and handed it to the sister. How do you think would she have responded? “Bhaiya, oh my sweet bhaiya, thank you so much for your concern!!” Oh, did you take it seriously? Hold on, not even Mulla expected such a response. The response that came was something Mulla could not have imagined in his wildest dreams. The sister upon reading the note, turned into “mother”, no not the normal loving caring, affectionate mother that we all have, but “mother Kali”, the Goddess of destruction. Her wrath was of unimaginable proportions and she went on saying to Mulla almost all the unpublishable words that she possibly knew. Poor Mulla remained tongue-tied, not knowing what to do. No, of course that was not the end of the story; the sister-turned-mother thereafter went over to the manager and complained against Mulla in such an acerbic manner that the poor creature was fired immediately.

A few days back Mulla narrated this story to me with his ever-smiling face, in the earnest hope that I would call the sister up and explain to her, how much she had misunderstood him, and that he never intended to hurt or offend her. Despite his financial predicament after losing the job, Mulla’s only qualms were that the sister misunderstood him. Oh, I know u think he must be an idiot, or what you call “an emotional fool”. Well, whatever, but that is what makes him Mulla, one of my two best friends. And I love him for what he is.

OBITUARY

I’d fallen for her the first time I’d touched her. She was perhaps too nice, smooth and delicate for a carelessly uncaring guy like me. Her exquisitely sublime features required care, still, she had surrendered totally in my hands the very first time we had met. I had seen in her a companion of my choice. I knew I wanted her in my life. I needed her. When the opportune moment arrived she came into my life for once and for as long as I would let her remain with me. She became mine.

Days passed by, we lived together; quite happily. We stayed together; in bed, at the dining table, on the road, at work and at times, even in the bathroom. She was an epitome of perfect submission. She would do for me all the things I wanted her to- she would share with me my joys, my sorrows, my pleasures, my pains; she would sing for me when I wanted to listen. When I wanted to speak, she would listen to me patiently, silently, without judgment, and would utter not a word. She would reaffirm every now and then that she was with me, for me, always, except when I’d specifically instructed her to leave me on my own in which case she would obey me without slightest protest. In a short span she had got so close to me that sometimes it seemed as if she understood me, not fully though, but substantially. She was always free from the diseases that afflict all- hatred, ill-will, anger, greed and most of all, jealousy.

I smashed her against the wall with all my might. “Bang”, lethally disfigured, she fell down on the bed. I wasn’t at ease, I didn’t relax. I flung her away with a jerk this time. She hit the floor. Her skeleton replied, the internal parts of her body came out and spattered all over. She had gone into eternal slumber, never to wake up again. Before anyone entered the room, I searched and collected the battery, the sim card and all the other parts scattered in the room and safely kept them all in the suitcase under my bed.

91.1 FM

The evening was soothingly pleasant to the humidity-afflicted souls living in Bombay. The first downpour in the morning had washed the roads, adding an extra charm to the ceaselessly vibrant city immersed in innumerable colors of evening lights. The dark gray roads glistening in streetlights made you want to keep wandering endlessly. I felt a bit hungry, so asked a taxiwala to drop me at some good restaurant.

The ambience of the restaurant was passable, as it looked from outside. So I decided to step in. Well, nothing was worth mentioning till I cast a glance at a corner of the restaurant. The calm on her face belied her lively features. The soft creamy skin which looked as touchable as the peel of a ripe alphonso, contrasted well with the colourful and sumptuous interiors of the restaurant. Her blond hair tied in a ponytail seemed to invite you to untie it and feel its silky touch, her perfectly carved body made you mistake her for a Greek Godess. To sum-up, her exuberantly sharp features were enough to drive a hermit crazy, let alone an ordinary guy. There appeared absolutely no reason for her sitting alone. Her deep brownish eyes were apparently glued to the page of a booklet. God knows what it was.

The dormant impish spirit in me all of a sudden wakes-up and I start toying with the idea of walking up to her to ask if I could sit with her. But my inhibition in the form of commonsense prevents me. "She may be waiting for someone", it says. Not more than 5 minutes later, God knows from where this sanuwabitch walks in and as if with a premeditated thought comes over sraight to her and whispers something in her ear. The guy sporting funky casuals looks cool and handsome at the same time. Was she waiting for him? Now trust me, I wasn't eavesdropping but still overhear, "Hi! is ne one comin over here". No!, she said. Can I take the seat? Yaa sure, she replies.
So, he sits there, right in front of her and starts blabbering, "Which country u from?" France, You? UK. And the conversation goes on... The guy now rolls-up a cigarrette and offers it to her, which she readily accepts. In about 10 min. they both get-up, and walk out together, blowing rings of smoke.
My meal? Well, the waiter comes over to tell me that the stuff I ordered isn't available, so I order something else. My order is placed before me soon. I plug my ears with the earphones and tune in to 91.1 FM. "tu pasand hai kisi aur ki...tujhe chahta koi aur hai!", nice song!

SATURDAY T(RAIN) IN MUMBAI, 7/6/08

PART-II

I reached Kharghar railway station at around 4:30 in the evening. Generally, there is a train for CST (VT) every 20 minutes but today it seemed like something was wrong. The station, unlike other days, was almost empty, with passengers countable on fingers. A good sign though, as far as availability of seats is concerned but it also posed question on the availability of the train considering the heavy downpour of the morning. About 15 minutes later, the station echoed with the announcement-"due to heavy rains in the morning, the tracks between some stations have gone under water, resulting in cancellation of some of the scheduled trips. Some trains are re-scheduled, whereas the transportation is being restored". Now that was pretty confusing since no specific train was named and so the fate of my train was uncertain. While I was stuck between waiting on and getting back to flat, a train apparently coming from CST came trundling on Platform-I. This reinforced my hope of getting a train. So, I decided to wait on. 20 min. later 2 more trains had trundled past platform-I on the downside towards Panwel, while my platform i.e. Platfarm-I was yet to see its first train.

In a state of boredom I looked-up at the electric supply wire that passes from above the train when out of nowhere a strange thought crossed my mind. The wire, despite constant rubbing with that equipment which sticks out from the head of the train never breaks. Why, it is metal after all, it should also wear down. But I chided myself for allowing the stupid thought- "The entire mechanism is designed by experts who would have considered such a silly thing and a million more, a thousand times. So practically its impossible."But what would happen if it broke off? The train was on the platform within the next 5 mins. I boarded the train and forgot the whole idea.

About an hour later...

The train halted abruptly a little ahead of Vadala. What's so peculiar about it? Trains generally do stop in the the middle of nowhere owing to congestion or other technical problems, thanks to the mismanagement of Indian Railways. But there was something peculiar about this halt. Not only the train had stopped, but the engine had died down completely which generally does not happen. People started getting down, whereas I decided to wait and watch until only a few were left inside. Eventually, I got-up and asked someone- "what happened?''. "The electric cable that runs above the train has snapped", the man replied.

SATURDAY T(RAIN) IN MUMBAI 07/6/08

PART-I
It was raining outside when i opened my still sleepy eyes. Saturday being an off day, I could afford the luxury of lying in bed as long as I wanted. Initially the plan was to get-up around 10 in the morning, complete all the essential morning rituals by 11, and then set out for the churchgate bookstall I had spotted yesterday. But the temptation of that cozy feeling in the bed while it was pouring down outside was more than an excuse for a lazy guy like me to push the time of getting-up on and on till a conscious part could bear it no more and stood-up in protest. So, finally when the voice of that conscious part became too loud to let me enjoy my bliss, I extended my hand to reach out for the watch which cast almost a contemptuous look at me with its hands displaying 11:30. Bitter though, it was truth. So finally, I lay my feet on the ground, and guess what? I go straight to...(bathroom? nay!!!) computer, and start chatting with some damsels . While, as usual, nothing materializes, my friends also get up and want to use the computer. So, an annoyed I (after 1 full hour of fruitless effort at chatting) very readily give it.

ABOUT AN HOUR LATER...
My friend was now done with his work on computer and offered it to me again, and i grabbed the opportunity with both hands. I've just sat before the monitor when this (who'z this?) unknown guy sends a message- Hi F##k! Now this was like a spark in the gunpowder. I wait for a while. But the fellow starts bragging- "I dunno y everyone wants to stay wid me", only to annoy me to the extent of losing all sanity. So I reply- "Well, thats coz ur sis is very pretty!" but what's this? Instead of my name, it shows 'Manish' in the bracket. So, I figure out the whole thing instantly and realize my blunder.

Manish, my dear friend and generous host (he's the guy in whose flat i'm putting-up presently) had kept his id open and the message which pissed me off was actually sent by his best friend at college and was meant for him. OOPS!! to set things right, I had to apologetically explain the whole situation and call Manish lest the scene might go out of control. So this is how I began the day!!

SPEECHLESSNESS (II)

When a poet in solitude gazes at the divine splendour of the rising sun, he is filled with a flood of precious thoughts which he translates into poetry. To put it differently, he learns to speak a language which he had never known. Perhaps every artist undergoes this before giving shape to their creativity. But what if it started happening the other way round? leave alone learning some new language the poor fellow might forget even the language that he speaks. What a horrible situation it would be!! Speechless!! He would be totally Speechless, as if dumb. But this is a mere hypothesis. But can it ever happen in reality? Can anyone ever go through any experience so profound, that they go Speechless? Well, I certainly cannot answer it for artists, or anyone else for that matter, but for myself.

What I talked about in the part-I of this topic was when I had experienced speechlessness for the first time. What I am writing now is about my last speechlessness: the one I presently cherish. It is said that history repeats itself; badly so for me. The lad of high-school has grown-up today into a university student. But this time it was not like the last time which happened at the first glance. This time it was gradual. There are and have been many pretty faces around, who are, in common parlance known better as eye-candies. But she has, I feel, a kind of transcendental touch to herself as if living in this world she has remained totally untouched by its filth, reflecting something so ethereally soothing, as if divine. Not a tinge of cheapness(read phonyness). Yes, you might feel I'm now getting a little superfluous but this is my blog and I can go on and on about her. To be honest I can speak about all this because she is nowhere around, otherwise you know I would have gone, as I always go whenever she comes across-Speechless. So, the last time I became speechless was the last time I saw her, that is, a few hours ago; in the morning. But wait.... this speechlessness in not of choicelessness, but of choice!

BEAUTY-
Words are a hindrance,
Speech is futile,
Just feel, experience,
understand, and smile!!

Speechlessness!

There is a great deal to speak about speechlessness, but where do I start? I don't know, but I know I want to speak about it so here it goes...

"Speechless can the people be in two ways- if a person has a lot to say he doesn't have any point to speak (on), first is this. Second is, if a person has nothing to say he is speechless."

(Someone)

Do I remember the last time I was rendered speechless? Perhaps yes, I do. I remember quite a few memorable occassions when I found myself speechless. Now, when I sitdown and nostalgically look back to those moments, I find myself speechless again.

THE PRICE I PAID FOR MY FIRST SPEECHLESSNESS!!
My memory doesn't allow me to go back beyond this incident. I was in high-school then, in 9th standard to be precise. I was not very different from how I am now except in terms of physique and my outlook towards various subjects. I belonged to the cadre of the very few "good boys" of the class who strictly adhered to certain principles or say rules which were then never meant to be broken. The mojority of the boys, however, comprised of those boys who were, atleast to me "bad boys". Now, what were the parameters to decide "good" and "bad" and distinguish, preserve and protect the former from the latter? Very simple!! Certain "topics" were bad topics and were not to be discussed. Talking about females was one of such topics. To make it more clear, If some perverted muddle-headed old man was invited by the school to deliver a lecture on what they called sex-education, being a good boy it would be my primary duty not to pay him any attention and when given a choice of leaving or remaining in the class, walk out without a second thought. And the "bad guys", well they-the shameless fellows would not only remain in the class but discuss each and every aspect with the oldy with utmost interest and enthusiasm. Even normally, the most interesting topic of discussion they preferred would be... what else? girls. So thats how our class was. But one fine morning, I remember it was saturday and I was in white uniform when a lanky guy fell nearly unconscious in the class. The curious class huddled around him to figure-out what had happened. I being the last guy to be in the crowd did not get up. Why get up yaar? The hardest thing for people in general and a crowd in particular is to keep their mouth shut. So why run after the news when its going to follow you wherever you go. But I turned my head towards the scene. And lo!! I was speechless!! Yes, completely speechless. There in the crowd stood-out a girl, who didn't seem to belong to this world. Who was she? Where had she come from? What was her name? And most of all, was she really a girl or an angel? All rules now seemed meaningless. The heart- for the first time I became aware that there was really something like that inside me and it would never listen to the head. It would now always command the head which would like a loyal slave turn to catch a furtive glimpse of that angel. But I the poor good guy screwed-up my studies that whole year. I who hardly missed classes became a truant just to avoid seeing her which would make me go....And who said this was enough? Compounding the situation was the in-going struggle between "good" and "bad" which was born out of the feeling of guilt for having broken the set rules. And there was nobody to talk to, this topic being a taboo. So I kept burning in the fire of guilt that whole year so much so that it paid me very well on the final marksheet and caused me to take the decision of taking admission in another school the next year.