Albatross Fables

The Time Machine

2011-04-03T00:00:00.001+05:30

“We travel through time at the speed of light.” – Abhijit Chanda

“Houston, ten seconds to launch…”
We’re floating on a speck of dust
We’re circling a ball of gas
And now, we’re moving away
“…nine…”
Pitch black above us
Grey smoke below us
We travel through time
And space
At the speed of light
“…eight…”
Infinity ahead of us
And infinity behind us
While we’re here in limbo
Oscillating between the two
“…seven…”
We pierce the velvety sky
We tear through the fabric of time
And back again
Into our reality
Waiting for that right moment
“…six…”
We envision the world
On the brink of discovery
As we wait
As we hold our breath
And the world waits with us
And holds its breath with us
“…five…”
There’s a new world beyond the veil
There’s a fresh start for us
A fresh start to us
A chance for redemption
“…four…”
Hands trembling, we march
To right the wrongs
Of the past
“…three…”
In the name of science
We hammer the laws
“…two…”
In the name of science
In the face of a breakthrough
We shut our eyes tight
“…one…”
In the name of science
We tame Time
“…ignition!”
We shudder
The machine sputters
We tremble
As the machine shakes
And then, the silence
The deafening silence
It binds us tighter
Than the belts that protect us
And many eons of silence later
We hear a lonely voice, once more
“Houston, ten seconds to launch…”

~~~~~

Inspired under strange and very sleep-deprived conditions from a friend’s Facebook status updates, and Ozzy Osbourne’s voice singing ‘Planet Caravan.’ Give the song a listen below.

“Don’t you watch Cricket?” “No, not really. I mean, I’m not that interes–“

2011-03-27T00:00:00.000+05:30

For many years now, at whichever part of the country I might be, there is a question that has been posed to me at numerous occasions. The question seemed even more persistent at some of those special days, when the entire country focussed their passion for a game onto an oval ground, with a grassless patch in the centre of the field. I would chance a few glances at the TV that was sure to be carrying the game, but I tried to be as unobtrusive about it as possible. Eventually, someone would always turn to me and ask, “Don’t you watch Cricket?” to which I would gently shrug my shoulders, mumble something about not being interested, and go back to whatever it was that I was doing at that point of time.

India is a country where not following Cricket is considered a sin (something that I have been reminded of, on numerous occasions), and every time I was asked the question and I looked away from the TV set, I was judged. India is a nation that is passionate about this game in a way that they are not for any other game. India is a country where Cricketers are made demigods. India is a country where a cricket match can stop beating hearts, stop strangers walking on roads and crowd around a single TV set in a dilapidated shop. India is a country where even this phenomenon itself was spotted by the Media and immediately cashed in on, with the launch of the latest advertisement for Airtel featuring Shah Rukh Khan posing the perennial question that plagues all Indian minds during a match day – “Score kya hua hai?”

India is passionate about Cricket. Yet, in that overwhelming passion they feel for the game, they forget a few critical aspects. Passion flows both ways – while it makes you love the game and the players with enthusiasm, at the same time it makes you hate the same players with equal vehemence. In that passion that every Indian gets lost, they forget the fine subtleties of the game itself. They get blinded by the adoration for the Indian team, to the extent that they are ready to diss all opposition at every opportunity they get. In that passion to see an Indian victory, they forget the display of skill, the obvious evidence of hard work that goes into a well struck shot over the fence, or into the swift unexpected turn of the ball that gets a wicket, irrespective of which team delivers it. Indians, choked up by that passion, are unable to appreciate that display of skill if it is directed against them.

The recent victory of India over Australia was proof enough for this. Mere minutes after the Indian victory, Facebook was flooded with taunts, retorts and obviously photoshopped images, all of them derogatory in nature, directed against the Australian side. More than anything, it proved that Indian fans are arrogant winners as well as sour losers. But, even if you spare half a minute in an effort to understand it, you’ll find that these derogatory statements and images make sense. They take no effort to understand them, you don’t have to have any knowledge of the game in order to get the joke, and the Indian ego is, of course, entirely satisfied as well.

This is probably the only platform where I would go as far as voicing my opinion regarding the ongoing world cup. As an Indian fan myself, nothing would please me more than seeing an Indian victory in the world cup. However, from the objective point of view, to think that an Indian victory in the world cup would feed the already bloated ego of every Indian fan, the question changes – do the Indian fans really deserve an Indian victory? Judging from the flood of messages, images and polls rampant on Facebook, fans are not charged up by the fact that their team won as much as they are about the fact that their opposition lost. There is a subtle difference between the two, and it’s one of those things that if you understand, only then do you deserve to know it.

Much of the messages and images after the recent Quarter Final victory did not applaud the Indian victory, but were targeted at the loss of the Australian side. Even more specifically, there were a number of images and status updates that were directed at Ricky Ponting, the same man who had, mere hours earlier, played a brilliant knock of 104, and was probably the best batsman in the entire match – any attempt to disagree there or to demean his effort is an insult to the very game of cricket. And yet, mere hours later, all over India, viewers and fans forgot all about his knock. They ridiculed him, they joked about him, and even booed him during the presentation ceremony. They forgot just what an emotional moment it was for him. The typical Indian fan got lost yet again in that passion for winning the cup rather than passion for the game. Is this sportsmanship? Is this how much the real Cricket fan in this country understands the game? Is this how petty we are, that we are unable to acknowledge and appreciate skill, dedication and hard work, irrespective of which side shows it? Is this how the game has become for us now, that only a few numbers at the end of a hard day’s game become of prime importance, rather than the amazing showmanship brought out on to the field by both sides?

To be honest, I don’t want to answer those questions – and in all honesty, neither do the fans of the game. However, in my heart, I know the answer and it chills me. It makes me lose faith in the fans alongside whom I used to watch matches as well once, and cherish the game at its best. It makes me want to hide the fact that inside, I am just as interested in this game as everyone else claims to be. More than anything else, it makes me shy away from the TV set and pretend to get lost in work once more, whenever anyone asks me the question, “Don’t you watch cricket?”

Remember Us

2011-03-20T00:00:00.000+05:30

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.

Woody’s Visit

2011-03-13T00:00:00.000+05:30

An unexpected visit from a Woodpecker couple brightened the day for all of us at home.

Tabby in the sun

2011-03-06T12:43:00.000+05:30

A Grand Relationship

2011-02-27T17:32:00.005+05:30

Butterfly Flutter By

2011-02-07T14:01:00.002+05:30

The butterfly has flown away
And now the memories remain
The colours of her wings
Still etched in his mind's eye
The butterfly has flown away
Fluttering with the wind
Flapping her wings, hard
Leaving behind a sad smile
Yet, she remembers
That time she sat on his fingertip
Yet, she remembers
That fleeting moment when she stayed still
Then the gust of wind came
Her wings caught that drift
And she was blown away
She flew away
Leaving behind tiny vortices of wingtip powder
Falling gently on that fingertip
That still stayed still
Till the memories settled down
And he held on to that wingtip powder
Remembering the memories of that fleeting moment

Written for two of my favourite people in the world.

The Hospital

2011-02-02T19:57:00.004+05:30

This is a hospital.
Where men sit waiting, not on the benches but on each other's feet.
This is a hospital.
Where the sick don't find a place to sit, as all the seats are broken or taken.
This is a hospital.
Where doctors are two hours late, and that's considered "OK."
This is a hospital.
Where patients with the slightest display of "Do you know who I am?" are given first preference.
This is a hospital.
Where children lay scattered on the floor, sleeping or weeping, while their mothers console them with empty promises.
This is a hospital.
Where people sidestep the children and move on, without looking down at the pain of the innocents.
This is a hospital.
Where a tired and hungry child cries for milk.
This is a hospital.
Where the famished mouth presses gratefully and suckles happily on it's mother's life-giving teat.
This is a hospital.
Where a young man wearing a suit and tie chances glances at the supple breast of the young mother, leering at the sight.
This is a hospital.
Where the suit-and-tie man cares nothing about the patients or sickness, but on imaginary sales figures that promises to convert into money, but always wants just a little bit more.
This is a hospital.
Where Medical Representatives don't need to take appointments or talk to anyone, but patients are thrown out forcibly right through the door.
This is a hospital.
Where words like 'ethics' and 'morals' and 'duties' are nothing more than words plastered on placards, or painted on white walls turning grey, fading slowly to nothingness over time.
This is a hospital.
Which has been left at the hands of competent doctors and incompetent administrators, as nobody wants to do the societal clean up.
This is a hospital.
Which has seen so many sharp minds get lured away by that financial temptress.
This is not just a hospital.
It is a chilling representation of what our world has become.
Where selfish people look outside their comfortable sedans, tut-tut twice at the deplorable conditions, then roll up their windows and get lost in that momentary glitter that they have mistaken to be real life.
This is real life.

The Verb Song (without the music)

2011-01-30T19:29:00.003+05:30

Be born.
Learn to crawl.
Learn to walk.
Break stuff.
Get screamed at.
Cry, because you’ve been screamed at.
Cry, because you feel like it.
Cry, just to get a hug.
Smile, when you get that hug.
Grow up.
Or not.
Learn to run.
Fall down.
Learn to fall down.
Learn to get back up.
Ride a tricycle.
Break a tricycle.
Get a bike.
Learn to ride a bike.
Scrape your knees.
See the scars heal.
Trample a few weeds.
Ride over grass.
Race your buddies.
Win some races.
Lose the others.
Celebrate the races.
Won or lost, doesn’t matter.
Drink some cola.
Feel the fizz in your nose.
Then, drink some more cola.
Outgrow the bike.
See it gather rust.
Feel the twinge seeing it gather rust.
Feel the twinge when it’s thrown out.
Or when it’s kept in the gloomy garage.
Let go of the twinge, and move on.
Eat ice cream with your friends.
Get a brain-freeze.
Eat more ice cream with your friends.
Get another brain-freeze.
Grow into the teen years.
Get your first zit.
And your first crush.
Worry about how you look.
Worry about carbs.
But sometimes, binge anyway.
Get your heart broken.
Mend your broken heart.
Learn about the world.
Learn about yourself.
Believe you can change the world.
Waste a lot of hours playing video games.
Stay up nights to study for tests.
Fall asleep half way through the test.
Get bored half way through the test.
Leave the test hall early, just to get rid of it.
Go to college.
Choose a degree.
Study something you want to.
Or something that you got through at.
Either way, it doesn’t matter.
Your whole life is still ahead of you.
Take an interest in Art.
Make an effort to understand expression.
Make more friends.
Learn to drive.
Bang your car.
Worry about it at that time.
Laugh about it later.
Get a girlfriend… or a boyfriend.
Fall in love, slowly.
Fall out of love, suddenly.
Break up, be lonely.
Then, fall in love again.
Know about Politics.
Pretend to know about Politics.
Read more than you ever have.
Write more than you ever have.
Think more than you ever have.
You won’t get another chance sometime soon.
Have a booze party.
Drink till you throw up.
Throw up till you’re empty.
Drink till you pass out.
Graduate.
Throw the cap as high as you can.
Then walk away as far away as you have to.
Get a job.
Go to the job every day.
Get bored of the routine life.
Change jobs every few years.
Grow some roots.
Stay where you are.
Grow a pair of wings.
Try to fly away from it all.
Get a pet.
Take care of it.
Feed it.
Play with friendly cats.
Play with friendly dogs.
Take long walks on the beach.
Go for long hikes on mountains.
Holiday with friends.
Take a break with your family.
Get away, sometimes, just on your own.
Ride the bus.
Ride the train.
Play with children.
Play with your friends.
Bug your buddies.
Tell them to fuck off when they bug you.
Do it in a friendly way, though.
Find your soul mate.
Get married.
Make beautiful children.
Make a wonderful, loving home.
Watch your kids grow up.
Invite your childhood friends for Friday Night Dinners.
Watch them age with you.
Watch your kids make friends with theirs.
Watch sports on weekends.
Watch movies with your spouse, once the kids are asleep.
Go to the school when your kid gets in trouble.
Be proud of what he’s done, on the inside.
Watch him grow up.
Watch yourself grow old.
Enjoy watching the years fly by.
Smile at your receding hairline.
Laugh at your bald head.
Retire, and rest up.
Get lost in the memories.
Say Goodbye with a smile.
But, only when you want to.

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

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

The Revolt

2011-01-27T14:56:00.001+05:30

Life is a revolt.

Happiness is a revolt.

For almost all of our lives, we have been told to 'not do' things.

Not to sleep too late, not to sleep till late. Not to ignore the important things in life, as had been defined by the rule makers. Not to question the definitions of those rule makers.

From an early age, we have been taught that these rules are rigid, unmalleable.

And these rules, they become like barbed wires
Or the white picket fences, gleaming in the summer sunlight

Forever present, forever on their quest
To keep within their confines what grows within their boundaries

But life is wild
Biology in untamable
And so, they prune
They mow the grass that grows too wild
And they cut the branches that dare to go beyond

And in their quest to make it pretty
They forget Life
Life is adventure
Life is unbridled exploration

Like the plant growing indoors
That stretches its branches, a millimetre a day
Or perhaps even less
Towards that window, and the gleaming sunlight beyond
Patiently waiting for that day

Like the many rats that find their way into your home
Through the sewers and the the cracks in the walls
Or the cracks under the doors
Theirs is a life too, revolting against the man-made illusion of security

In our haste to prune and to protect
We often miss the beady black eyes that stare at us for a while
Before they disappear, whisking away into the darkness
We miss the stubbornness of the weeds
Which grow in spite of being hacked away
As though they would never learn
Or choose to never learn

We fail to realize that little by little, life strangles the metal bars
It drills the picket fences hollow, it brings down walls with nothing more than creepers
And we fight, we resist, we cut away, hoping and wishing and praying
That in this fight, we win
The metal bars hold on, the fences stay white and strong
And the walls keep standing, sturdy
But life can't be contained by walls or bars or fences
Life moves on, life breaks the rules
And if a few bars bend, if a few fences decay
If a few walls crumble down, so be it.

The World

2011-01-26T11:26:00.000+05:30

The world is the most beautiful
At its ugliest of times
The child's sweet eyes, full of sorrow
As it searches hungrily for it's mother
The jelly covered teeth of the toddler
That smiles and turns away
The beautiful thunderstorm
That brings life giving water
And the sad eyes of the puppy, cold and scared
Caught out in the cold, harsh rain
The dandelions in bloom, they sway
To and fro, in that autumn afternoon breeze
Blanketing the landmines just below them
Waiting for years, for one wrong footstep
The beautiful world, at its ugliest of times
Makes us want to shy away
From that ill, homeless woman
Old and helpless
And you look for change to throw into her bucket
Covering your eyes in shame
And guilt
And pain
There's green grass in the field
Grass that's running wild now
All the children that ran around
Played games and wrestled in the grass
Green knee-ed and dirt patched
They've left the playgrounds a long time ago
Moved away with the world
The asphalt tramples the green grass underfoot
In it's black, shiny glory
Making the world a little more beautiful
At its ugliest of times
Young life fights to live
And lose it's innocence to the outside world
But not a chance is she given
And the coursing blood
It stops in her veins
And in that stillness
That lifeless nothingness
Sitting heavily in those burnt out eyes
Her innocence intact in them
Never to be let outside
In that beautiful, beautiful world
Which in that moment
Is at it's ugliest of times

Go ahead and Jump!

2011-01-13T19:28:00.002+05:30

Go ahead and Jump!
Don't let them tell you that you can't
Put on those shoes and Jump!
The sky is never that far
Go outside, breathe in the air
Don't forget to Jump!
Remember the childhood days
Those big open schoolyards
The long stone slides
And how it all began
With a tiny jump
Or a friendly bump
And you lived a lifetime
In those ten seconds of freefall
Go ahead and Jump!
Pretend that the world isn't watching
Climb that tree, as high as you can
Then jump, and fall
Into that soft pile of red leaves
Then again, and again
Till that free laughter jumps out
And joins you
Jump, one more time, with that laughter
Till you're smothered by it
Jump while you sing
Or while you dance
Jump in front of the mirror, alone
Jump hand in hand with a friend
Or with your loved one
Follow the train track, disappearing into the distance
Balancing one foot in front of the other
And hear the shrill whistle behind you
Jump off the tracks, and stare in wonder
As the giant, chugging train rolls by
Jump, till you feel the blood gushing through
Jump, till you feel the air inside you
Live a little, breathe a lot
And remember,
Don't forget to Jump!

This is a part of ‘Theme Thursday’ at http://themethursday.blogspot.com/.

Nightmares

2011-01-12T00:08:00.001+05:30

This had been discussed in vague terms
Over the past few years
Through dauntless nights we wondered
Our eyes brimming with warm tears
Memories of those lost souls chase us still
And in our minds, sad, lonely and scared
We march on towards the void, our lifeless end

Countering Writers Block, or whatever the hell this is that I’m going through right now, I stumbled across this little exercise. Grab the 7th book from your bookshelf. Open it up to page 7. Pinpoint the 7th sentence on the page. Begin a poem that begins with that sentence and limit it in length to 7 lines.

Dear Thamma

2011-01-04T18:47:00.001+05:30

I looked into the familiar face today, yet again. She smiled, and as I gently adjusted her hearing aid, I knew that toothless, childlike smile was one of gratitude. The constant whistle died down within her ears, and after many years she heard our soft voices all over again. She could hear the gurgle of the aquarium filter, as it spewed out bubbles for the fishes to play with. She could listen to the strumming of the guitar that had fascinated her for so long now, and her joy knew no bounds.

Her beautiful face, lined and etched with many years worth of wrinkles make it even more beautiful, and as my fingers ran over her cheeks to ensure that the hearing aid fits well, I could feel the soft wrinkled skin beneath my fingertips, and they told me so many stories of so many winters just like this, sitting in the sunlight hearing those vicious stories in Thamma’s soothing voice, knowing that in the end, it will be alright.

The days of storytelling are long gone, but that passion still lingers on. The way her eyes light up every time she picks up one of her books – be it the new Salman Rushdie, or yet another re-read of Harry Potter – she devours page after page of book after book, maybe hoping to find someone who would listen to those stories, the way we did in the warm winter sunshine on lazy afternoons.

I have seen Dadu being snatched away unexpectedly, and now I’m seeing Thamma withering away in front of my eyes; but there is beauty in old age. There is strength in this fragility. There is wisdom in those deep eyes, and they’re just looking for someone to listen. There is warmth in that voice, and you can feel it in spite of the cold winter chill.

For her sake, I want to be a writer. Someday, hopefully someday soon, I hope to be able to tell her one of my stories, to let her know that her little grandson, the one who used to listen with rapt attention to those stories in the sunlight, has grown up; that for a change, he’s got some stories to tell as well.

I better get going, and get to work; there are so many stories that I need to tell her.

The Man ahead of Time

2010-12-15T21:18:00.000+05:30

“There is one single pink rose in my garden that looks desolate and has seemed to have lost its charm.” – Ishani Das

Raju Bhai heard in colours, and he also played the violin in colours. Yet, hardly anyone knew him for the grand painter he was. No one associated Raju Bhai the Violinist to the other name as a painter he went by. Yet, for him, Music was as transient as light, and colours, just as concrete and real. He loved the music that he painted, and the colours that he played on his violin. In this vibrant, colourful, musical world, Raju Bhai the colourful violinist was all alone.

For Raju Bhai, this show was a wonderful opportunity waiting, and yet, the artist’s loneliness haunted him. They called him “ahead of his time”; yet, for him, it was just a fancy way of saying “We don’t understand you yet, but you’re good!” Try as he might, he found that somehow he could never care too much for that. Once he sat down on the stage, nothing but the beautiful world that surrounded him existed. When the quivering bow touched the still, silent strings, and the vibrations reverberated beyond the air, and into his heart, and his soul, then, nothing mattered – his loneliness, the crowd that surrounded him, the daily struggle of human life, the many compromises that he had had to make through the many facets of his life. He painted what he saw in front of him – beyond the crowd, and beyond the stage, the lake stood, stoic and silent. The little ripples on the water caught the last few rays of the sun as they fell on the grateful earth, and the shadows waited patiently for their moment.

An artist freezes time, stops the world from turning, and on the canvas, trapped in those colours, the wonderful moment stays on forever. Music, like that canvas, takes you back to the time where the vibrations were bottled in those notes. Like the colours on the canvas, the notes of the song linger on with the time when they were created magically, by the simple touch of that bow to the strings, or the light touch of the brush on the empty canvas. In a moment that lasts a lifetime, that blank nothingness gets transformed into a living, breathing moment, captured perfectly for all eternity.

Beyond the stage, Raju Bhai could feel the twilight, hear the colours that surrounded him. He saw the vivid orange that the sky was, and the soot black, gnarled branches that looked as though they thrived on that warm, soft fire that fed them through the day. He watched as the setting sun set the water on fire, and the little waves on the surface of the otherwise quiet lake danced as the sun slid slowly beyond the other side, so near yet so far out of reach.

A few final notes, a few more strokes of the brush, and a few wispy stray residual rays were all that was left of the strong, life giving sun. The brush strokes came to a stop, and the quivering bow went motionless. The loneliness returned, and Raju Bhai was back in the world in which he was too ahead of his time.

He suddenly saw the crowd in front of him, in a mad frenzy, applauding him. They loved him, but he just wanted to disappear, now that the art was done, and the music had stopped. The applause was deafening, and he could see his manager coming forth on to the stage. A few brisk steps, and the grand suit-and-tie man grasped his hand and wrung his hand for a full minute in that eager handshake. He waved to the crowd, egging them on to continue with that loud, deafening applause. Now that the music was over, no one cared about the man Raju Bhai was, or his eager loneliness. They wanted to see him, especially because they termed him “ahead of his time.” Meanwhile, Raju Bhai just wanted to slip by unnoticed, never caring much about anything but the beauty that he could see and hear, which went unnoticed by most people, most of whom were too busy making the deafening noise that beat Raju Bhai’s eardrums.

“Can I go home now?” asked Raju Bhai to his suited manager, but over the cries of “Encore!” from the crowd, his little plea went unnoticed.

Forever

2010-11-23T21:12:00.000+05:30

“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: Quicksand

2010-10-31T23:41:00.011+05:30

“Wow, look. Baby waves!” exclaimed Sandesh inside Schizophrenic Siddharth’s head.

“Sandesh, please don’t say things like that. It embarrasses me sometimes!” said Siddharth.

“Well, I can’t help it, can I? I’m excited to see the ocean. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it quite this way, you know. Have you ever seen waves this small?”

“Yes, Sandesh, I have. It’s the most natural thing ever; happens every time there’s a low tide. Didn’t you study anything in school?”

“You obviously don’t remember my school days, do you, Sid?” asked Sandesh with a chuckle.

The waves were unnaturally small that day, owing to, as Siddharth said, the low tide at the time. Strangely, Siddharth was happy to see the low tide – at that moment, he was looking for some calm, and the little waves that gently pushed the salty water and the rough sand smoothly between his toes was what he wanted more than anything else.

“This beach is different, isn’t it?” said Sandesh, as they stood in the receding sunlight, while the sun shone in bits and pieces behind the blue-grey clouds that hung annoyingly in the sky. Siddharth was looking at the sunset, having missed it many times during his stay in the city, and although this was the best sunset he had witnessed yet, he wished the clouds would disappear.

“Yeah, this beach is a lot different; less people, less glamour, less make up, and so much more honest serenity, and clear water, and clean, pure mud beneath your feet. I didn’t know something like this existed in this city at all!”

“Neither did I” said Sandesh.

The sun was hanging just a little above the ocean, and the orange rays bounced off the calm water. The little waves brought the reflected ball of light to life, and the light danced with the waves, the daily dance of light and water.

The faint lights from a ship on the horizon could be seen, from a great distance. Perhaps a merchant ship, or a tanker of some sort, thought Sandesh. It was nice to see the ship from such a distance, knowing that it wasn’t arrogantly nearer at the moment. Sandesh was glad to see that at least on this particular beach, human arrogance had not prevailed, and they hadn’t tried to control the soft mud where the feet sank freely and merrily, or the constantly shifting sand beneath the clear water that made standing at one spot tough for too long.

Sandesh had seen, through Sid’s own eyes, the marvels that were hailed as epitomes of human intelligence and ingenuity; the bridges that jutted out into the open ocean, strictly ferrying only one species from one part of the city to another. It was human arrogance that wanted to control all things around them, and was naïve enough to believe that they can do so as well.

“And yet,” said Sid, “in spite of all the safety measures that we put here to make the beach a little safer from the daily dance of the ocean, and the sun, and the moon, the truth is that we can never make much of a difference. No matter how many ships we sail, no matter how many bridges we build, the ocean will never comply with us the way it does to the moon. Humans will always be insignificant in front of that daily tidal dance of the sea and the moon. Meanwhile, arrogant humans as we are, we will toy with the ridiculous idea of coercing the ocean to behave, to act civilised, to flow where we want to, and when we want to – and all the while, the ocean dances on, and laughs at us, and sweeps us off our feet, drowning away our insignificance into inexistence.”

“Boy, we must be crazy!” said Sandesh. “How can we believe all of that? Do we really think that we are the sole reason the universe exists?”

“Is there a reason why the universe exists in the first place?”

“Well, there has to be a reason. Everything happens for a reason.”

“What if that’s an elaborate fabrication stemmed from human arrogance as well? To think about it, about the enormity of the universe, and to see it in the mind from a really far off place, the universe would be nothing more than a humongous dust ball.”

They watched as the tide slowly washed ashore, surrounding parts of the beach, drowning the dents and pockets that were made on the beach first. Soon, where the beach had been there an hour ago, a few sandy islands dotted the sea. The sun had set a long time ago, and the twilight was shifting steadily towards darker night. The footsteps in the sand had all been washed away, while the ocean still danced on, oblivious to the people still around watching her.

“Do you think we can walk through the water there, on to the other side? It doesn’t look that deep; looks wade-able,” said Sandesh with an adventurous grin on his face.

“I’ve heard that people drown here, get pulled under the water. I’ve heard that they get washed up ashore, on the other side of the city, on another beach,” said Siddharth, thinking rationally. As he looked on, a little dog came running towards the water and went splashing through. The water was swirling around her ankles, but she didn’t stop. Step by step, she waded through the water, and soon the water came up to her belly. She stopped and looked around good humouredly at Siddharth and Sandesh, knowing that her instincts were right about the water. She trod on ahead, oblivious to the human rational way of thinking, trusting her instincts so forcefully that her instincts alone seemed to push her through, out of the ocean, and on to the other side. A quick strong shake of the coat, and she happily ran along the smooth beach, which the water hadn’t claimed yet, but where no man was instinctive enough to walk on.

The smell of frying eggs wafted through the air, and they wanted to grab a quick bite before heading back home. Before they turned their backs to the ocean, however, Sandesh stopped and looked at the dog, still running free and wild on the beach.

“Lucky bitch,” he said, as the oncoming darkness swallowed her last few bounds, and the gentle waves washed away her soft footprints on the sand.

This is based entirely on an evening spent at Aksa Beach, Mumbai; also, it's inspired directly from the wonderful rendition of the same evening by Ice Maiden, something that can be found here. I hope I've done justice to everything that the beach stands for, in the literal, physical and the abstract sense.

The Calling

2010-10-23T22:09:00.001+05:30

The walls were crumbling
Yet, no one looked up
The cracks, they appeared on the walls
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw
But too scared was he, to stare at them straight
"What would they think?" thought he
There was singing, and dancing, and happy people about
While inside his mind, he was lonelier still
And still that wall went crumbling
The cracks kept deepening
No one noticed
For they knew the wall would be smothered
By love, they said, till the cracks couldn't be seen again
While on the inside, the cracks and fissures ran strong
Beyond the wall, a distant call
He heard it in his heart
Reality was out there, while inside the wall
A fabrication was played out, meticulously
That calling, he heard
Heard as it begged, and it cried
And cajoled at times, to come join them there
"The wall, we would crack
But to break it, stronger hands are needed"
He looked around, the people that smiled at him
And went on their way, those happy people
Within that wall, confined
From the calling, from the world outside the wall
From their own selves that waited beyond
And again, he stared at the wall
"Will it?" he asked
The bricks separated, the wall broke away
A small hole, enough for him to crawl through
A quick glance over his shoulder, and he ran
Towards the wall, towards that hole
Towards his freedom, towards that call
Panting, he reached the wall, and stared
One small step is all it would take
To run away from it all
But that last step was the hardest
As he looked behind him, the happy people
They still held him back
The last step was the hardest, but freedom awaited
Beyond the bricks that lay before him
Beyond the hole that stood before him
Just one step, and the great beyond would be his
"Will it?" he asked, as he took that giant step
That tiny step through that hole

The Flying Peacock

2010-10-09T02:34:00.001+05:30

For forty years, the Peacock had waited. Cell 15A was where he was locked up, but to the Peacock, it was more of a dungeon than a cell. No one knew who he was; no one knew where he came from. The people who had known him were all dead and gone, and all anyone knew about him now was the name Peacock.

The Peacock was kept in solitary confinement, and that’s how he had known life to be. He was a young man when he came in, for something he didn’t remember anymore. If anyone asked him if he was innocent or guilty, he would simply shrug his shoulders and look away. Truth was, he himself wasn’t quite so sure of it now after all these years, having heard so many versions of his life from so many people.

The Peacock was known as the Peacock as he always kept a peacock feather with him. How he got it, no one knew. The feather had been with him for as long as anyone could remember. He could not have got it with him when he came in, as the custom in the prison was to strip search every prisoner who comes in. Hidden drugs, blades, even strange bits of paper were found from the strangest of places, but nothing of the sort was found on the Peacock. A year into his sentence, however, on the anniversary of his incarceration, it was decided that he would be taken outside to the courtyard for a stroll and a bit of fresh air, under heavy guard. As the door was unlocked, they found the Peacock sitting there calmly, cradling a bright colourful peacock feather in his hand. They didn’t know where he got it from, but the name stuck. Soon, they forgot his real name, and he became the Peacock for the rest of his life.

His life had been in the prison. His youth, his best years, they were spent alone, in the company of the four walls that held him, and his beautiful peacock feather. Most of his days were spent looking through the high window at the ceiling outside; after a while, he began to notice the different hues of the sky every day. His nights were spent in the darkness, wondering about life, about the purpose of it. He used to think of the many people outside of those four walls, and how they had reasons or purposes in life. Did he have a purpose in life?

In the eyes of the guards, he was just another prisoner. If you asked them, they would probably tell you that the Peacock did not have any reason for existence in life. It was close to the truth, but while everyone else stopped thinking at that point, the Peacock didn’t stop. He kept thinking about his reason for existence – one driving force for his life, something that justified his existence. He wondered for many initial months about that, and found that there was only one thing he wanted. It did not matter if he was right or wrong, guilty or innocent. Freedom was all he craved for, and since that day, that freedom, both in the abstract and the tangible form, became the driving force of his life.

Over the span of forty years, the Peacock hardly ever spoke. As the days passed by, and the guards got changed, one by one, his voice was lost. Soon, there was no one who remembered what the Peacock’s voice had been like – another small addition to that mystery of his being. There were those who wondered why he didn’t speak, and what it was that he used to keep thinking, but overtime even those people slowly faded away. Soon, he was just another face amongst the many prisoners, the only difference being the bright peacock feather he owned.

The new set of guards came, and the annual trips to the courtyard stopped. Now, the years were lost in the sheer flow of them, and the Peacock aged away, thinking and wondering and fantasising about that tantalising dream that dangled in front of him. That was all that fuelled him for those many years that he spent on that cool stone floor, or the warm, firm mattress on his bunk, cut away from the rest of the world. The only assurance he had about the existence of an external world was the small square of sky that he could look at from his room. Every morning, he would have the sun sliding into the room through that little window, and fall on his face. The warmth of the sun was the first thing he felt every morning, and in spite of being a prisoner, he woke up with a smile on his face.

It was the sun that shone through that little window every night that gave him that ray of hope, the assurance that freedom was just above him. Once or twice, a lone Magpie would fly and sit on the ledge of that window, tapping on the glass. The Peacock wished that the magpie would stay there forever, that it could teach him what freedom meant, and how it felt to be able to fly and dive and swerve under the blue skies, that it would witness the day when that dream finally came true, that the Magpie would one day see the Peacock fly.

There was one little luxury allowed to the Peacock – the luxury of books. The guards had a small library, and the prisoners were allowed one book at a time, and they could take all the time with that one book as they wanted. After all, they were in prison, and they did have all the time in the world while they were in there. So, the Peacock went ahead and used this luxury as much as he could. Over the years, he became a prolific reader, so much so that the guards had to make a new rule of one book per week just for the Peacock. Even so, no other prisoner read as many books during their stay as the Peacock did.

He respected the writers, as they had found that calling in their lives. The books that they had written, the stories they told, the words they said – that was the reason for their existence. The Peacock found a lot in common between him and these writers, and wanted to know them as much as he could. So, he read, one book after the other, and kept hoping that one day, he too would find that calling in his life, that one day, even his purpose of life, his reason for existence, would be fulfilled. Like the writers wrote their books, dreaming of the stories and plotlines, the Peacock thought endlessly about his freedom, the way it would come about. He waited for that moment to come patiently, for he knew that in the moment, when his life would be given reason, the wait would be worth it.

So, he waited, and little by little, in his own ways, he moved forwards towards that thing that he wanted for such a long time. He ate right; he exercised every day, and seldom fell ill. He firmly believed that whatever may happen, his body was the best instrument he would ever get. Minute by minute, hour by hour, fitness regime by fitness regime, book by book and word by word, he went from a helpless trapped soul in a dungeon to being a man focussed on one thing in his life. He had found his calling too, the reason for his existence, over time – freedom. The realization of that purpose didn’t come about as an epiphany. It came about gradually. He didn’t believe in fate in his youth, as most young minds don’t. In his little cell, with one conversation chasing another in his mind, his focus kept growing.

In those years of solitude, he wondered about fate. He started realizing that maybe, this was the reason he was born, that maybe this was the reason that his life had turned out the way it had. There are always an infinite number of possible outcomes of an event in the universe, yet here he was sitting in that little cell. It must have meant that for him to be at that point of time in that particular place, out of all those infinite possibilities, the string of events were such that it decided for him to be here. Fate, somehow, never seemed to stop following his thoughts around – yet he was not as naïve as before. Over the many years that he had spent with himself in that little cell, he had begun to accept fate, and it was because of that thought that he started wondering if it was fate, in a manner of thinking, that had brought him to that place, that had brought that little peacock feather to him, that had made sure that his thirst for freedom could be given the opportunity to manifest itself in such concrete, tangible form.

He looked at the peacock feather in his dark calloused hand, and wondered if that was a part of fate as well; if it was in the plan right from the start that the peacock that wore the feather proud, would one day lose it. He wondered if it was chance or fate that had brought that peacock feather from the peacock’s tail to his hands, whether the peacock that had shed the feather knew just how much it inspired the trapped Peacock

During the first few months that the Magpie had been visiting the Peacock, he envied the Magpie. He would stare hungrily at the way the Magpie could flutter its wings and go right out of the window, but then the Peacock always noticed that come what may, the Magpie always returned. Over time, the Peacock started feeling a slight pity towards the free bird; in spite of being free, it couldn’t really fly away wherever it wanted to. The bond between man and bird had grown to a point where the bird unknowingly was tied down to the man. The bird always had a choice to fly away, and yet it didn’t – it couldn’t. The familiarity of the cell, the comfort of an area well known to the Magpie always drove the Magpie to the little cell. The familiarity was in a big part due to the presence of that familiar smiling face that was always present in the cell, with the big brown hands that never wanted to grab. Once, the Magpie had mustered up the courage to swoop into those hands, and although the hands were soft and warm and gentle, the Magpie’s instincts were too strong. Except that one time, the Magpie’s mind never allowed him to settle on the man’s hand.

It was the Magpie that first noticed the absence of the Peacock that day. Expecting the Peacock to be there, awake and waiting for their late evening tryst, he fluttered into the little cell. The cell was empty, and the Magpie’s little mind was confused. It called out to the man he had befriended over the years, but got no reply. He waited for a while, and then that night, with a heavy heart, went his way.

The Peacock had known that this would have happened, that in some way or the other, the Magpie would be hurt, but mighty fate was stronger than a tender broken heart; and so, sitting free on the roof for the first time in many, many years, he tried to hold back the tears as he heard the Magpie’s lament for a disappeared friend.

The Magpie’s cries that night alerted the guards. They knew the sad song belonged to the Peacock’s bird-friend, and they rushed forwards to the cell to see for themselves what the matter was. The door swung open, and the empty cell greeted them. Instantly, the sad song of the Magpie was replaced by the shrill cries of the guards – there was an escaped prisoner about. The Peacock heard the uproar, and smiled gently to himself; it was time.

The rooftop was at once the safest and the most dangerous place in the prison. Sitting there, the Peacock felt like one of those many birds that he had hoped to become for a long time, and yet he knew that he would be spotted soon. The cries were getting closer and closer, and still, he was a free man, sitting on a rooftop like a carefree bird, cradling that big peacock feather in his hand. The guards spotted him sitting there, and yet he was impervious. The guards yelled, they screamed, but the Peacock was too busy enjoying that freedom which he had been craving for so long. The rifles were loaded, and the shots were fired. Bullets flew all around him, buzzing around him like superhero bees on a mission to catch him dead or alive. That was the Peacock’s cue – he knew sitting there on the rooftop, he was a sitting duck. And so, with the bullets still buzzing around him, he got up and embraced his freedom.

He took a deep breath, a free breath. He felt the outside air, filled his lungs with it, and wished he could reach up and touch the grey night sky. He was ready, he was free, and his destiny was fulfilled. He had pushed his name a little beyond that line which divides the mortal from the immortal, man from superman, human from a wild, free beast. He looked down at the guards, and saw that they were angry – a mere violent human emotion, a needless by product of frustration. He smiled, yet again, and looked at the feather.

“It’s time to fly, my love,” he said to the feather in a low voice. Then, one last time, he looked back to the guards below, shaking their fists at him and firing the bullets that seemed to go anywhere they liked. His white teeth gleamed in the darkness as he smiled yet again, and whispered in that low voice, “See ya suckers! I’m outta here now…”

A stray bullet from many miles below caught him on the back of his head, and he fell from the roof. The peacock feather slipped out of his hand, and the wind caught hold of it. For a while, the feather flew with the wind, then gently floated downwards, and was swallowed by the darkness that waited below.

The Little Lost Shoe

2010-09-02T23:51:00.002+05:30

The ominous black clouds refused to budge from over the city, and the rain fell steadily. The water logged roads looked sinister, hiding many mysteries within the churning, flowing, grey water that flowed where the roads travelled every day. Munni was worried about a lot of things, but she was most worried about the thought of the dirty swirling grey-black water seeping through her pretty pink Ghaghara and leaving it dirty and grey-black and without the beautiful, sweeping swirl that she was so proud of. Munni was especially close to that pink Ghaghara, and the thought of anything happening to it was too much for it. She closed her eyes, lest the tear drops that threatened to overflow poured out and ruined the mask of makeup, the one that Sushila put so much effort into.

Munni knew it would rain heavily during the day, and all through the night, she had begged and pleaded with Sushila, not to send her out in the rain, but Sushila wasn’t the type to listen to the pleadings of a tender heart that belonged to a fifteen year old. There was work to be done, and money to be brought in, and for that, come rain or heat, Munni had to get ready and get moving. Now, with the clock ticking, Munni sat silently with her chin on the cold damp windowsill, waiting for the click of the door announcing Sushila’s arrival, meaning that there would be no choice for Munni but to leave the comfort of the house. Even so, while half of her heart never wanted that click to come, half of it kept hoping that it would happen soon, that one way or another, she would get over it.

In the midst of all her thoughts, the lock clicked softly; a sound that reverberated through the cramped bedroom. The door swung open, and Sushila stood behind her. The red spittle from the betel leaves bordered her maroon lips; the gaudy golden bangles clanged as she raised her heavy hand upwards, gesturing to Munni. In spite of everything, such was her aura and power over the little girl, that a single “Come” in her husky, tobacco layered voice was enough for Munni to lose all her feelings to stand up against her and tell her that she wasn’t going to step out in the rain. Like a meek, shy deer, eyes lowered, she followed the swinging sari out of the room. A quick stop nears the door to put on her favourite shoes, and she was into the rain. The rain had paused, for a little while, but even so, the water was all around.

Having no other choice, with the door closing behind her with a brutal snap, she was left standing in the ankle deep water. With the first touch of the flowing water, the shoes and her Ghaghara were seeped in the dark water. Just a few steps into the water, the flowing water brought with it a tattered and dirty plastic bag, which seemed alive in the water as it wound itself round and round her fragile ankle. Munni was scared, and wet, and miserable standing in the rain. She tried to budge and free her foot from the plastic bag that had wrapped itself around her ankle, but to no avail. She tried to outrun it, but the current was against her, and the more she ran, the tighter the plastic bag wound itself around the shoe. The torn plastic got between her toes, almost tripping her twice, as the little drenched girl ran to free herself from the death grip of the dirty black plastic bag.

Her tiny feet pattered in the fast paced water, as she desperately tried to get away from the life that she had. She couldn’t take it anymore, and she started running away. Her legs flailing about, the plastic bag started to loosen, and it finally began to slide off; in her hasty joy, she failed to notice that along with the plastic bag, her right shoe was coming off as well. The plastic bag fell off finally, but it swallowed her pretty brown shoes with it before sliding off Munni’s foot. Munni didn’t notice, and shook off her shoe. The flow of the water carried it away and deposited it somewhere Munni would never find it again.

Not until she was right in front of her client’s dingy little apartment that she noticed one of her shoes missing. She looked around for them in the vicinity, but her heart told her that she would never be able to find it. Sadly, she took off the other shoe as well and left it outside before walking into the dirty apartment. For the first time in her life, Munni did her dance, her business, knowing that she would never see her beloved pair of brown shoes again.

P.S. 10 points to whoever guesses where the story comes from.

Snow White

2010-08-30T00:11:00.003+05:30

The first rays of the sun fell on the new lanes of the old city. It was a new day, but the old man's life was still the same. The sunlight inched forwards, while the old man raised his sleepy eyes towards them and waited for that warm touch. The white cat purred softly beside him, while the old man looked down at the white cat, waiting for something magical to happen, just like every day. He sat up, and saw the shadows receding; he knew it wouldn't be long before the light would reach them, and the thought gave life to a mad euphoria in his eyes.

Then, the bright shiny light touched the white fur. The sunlight reached into the snow white strands, making the cat glow in the light early morning mist. Even the cat felt something, and mewed softly – but she dared not move, for she wasn't quite sure how to react to this beauty that was both inside and outside her. The old man's smile turned into a jovial laugh, as he stretched his wrinkled, bony fingers and stroked the cat's head softly.

"My dear Phanush, what would the day be without you," said the old man to the cat, while she purred lovingly in answer.

The old man stood up, and thus began his day. The footpath was waiting, as was his tattered rug where his days were spent. The loose change spared by the generous souls of the harsh city was his way to a semi filling breakfast. His stomach rumbling, he hastened to get started with his work day, and took his spot like every day. The tree overhead provided him with a little shade from the sun during the hot days, and a little cover from the water on rainy days.

It was a bright sunny day, and somehow the white cat didn't care too much to stay under the shade of the tree all day long. The day was calling out to him, and her stomach was rumbling too. She needed a bit of food, and so she left her old man behind and ventured across the street. She turned back once, and saw her old man wearing a sad face that seemed to work very effectively on the steady flow of feet, and the change flowed steadily into the little aluminium bowl in his hand. Reassured that the old man was fine for now, she moved further along.

Still early in the morning, the world around her had already begun in full swing. The shops along the street were thrown open, and the people bustling around everywhere would stop at one or the other shop for a quick bite. The myriad of smells that surrounded her made her stop a few times to investigate, but nothing seemed to appeal to the manic hunger of a restrained predator early in the morning. She looked back again, and saw her old man looking at her for a while with a happy gleam in his eyes, before going back to his aluminium bowl. 'A beggar has no business looking happy,' he used to say, and so she turned away from him knowing that it was bad for his business.

She turned back to the street and to the task at hand; finding breakfast. The street was full of the smells of food, but there was something there that she couldn't find. Her nose twitched slightly and led her on, in search of something so wonderful that she didn't even bother to look around at anything else. The smell of that special something had gotten hold of her so completely, so wholly, that nothing else seemed to exist at that point of time for her. She was carried forward by the scent that had caught her nose, and she glided forward effortlessly, dodging deftly between the many feet that pattered away on the busy footpath. She could feel her quarry getting nearer with every step, and the many generations of instinct that flowed through her veins told her to slow down. Her gait became slower, as she cautiously headed forward still. One quick glance behind, and she could see her old man looking at her with half a bewildered look on his face; but the overpowering scent of her prey drove all other thoughts out of his mind in a flash.

The butcher's shop was just a few steps ahead of her, and she had reached the butcher's block. Her senses tingling, she slowed down to a stop just in front of the block. Her muscles were ready to leap and catch the little, bloody sinew dangling near the edge of the beaten and cracked block. Her paws were hanging in mid air, ready to make the swipe if needed. Adrenaline and instincts pumped her heart, coursing through her blood. She stood there, frozen in time, waiting for the perfect moment to snatch that little piece of meat that had been calling out to her for so long. So still was she that nobody noticed her, and the butcher continued to cut up the meat on the block. She took a moment more, and then leaped towards her target.

Just as she was about to snap and free that little piece, the butcher's hand came out of nowhere and swatted at her face. She tried to dodge the hand, but in that midair change of direction, she fell a few feet short of the block. Landing on her feet as lightly as a feather, she could see the butcher raise his knife. Defeated, she streaked away, leaving that little piece of meat with the selfish butcher, while he hurled abuses that she never heard. Still hungry and humiliated, she looked around to see if her old man was still watching her.

She crossed the street and slowly walked back to the old man, who was still wearing a sorry face. He glanced quickly at her as she reached him, and sat down on his old ragged coat. From the look on his face, she could see that he hadn't seen her defeat; the ragged old coat was just as warm as before, and nothing seemed to have changed – but she kept wondering, if the one man who had always been so proud of her, the one man who had so unconditionally loved her through and through, thought lesser of her having seen that humiliating defeat back at the butcher's block.

Schizophrenic Sid

2010-08-28T00:47:00.001+05:30

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.

Haaraano Shornogolok

2010-08-26T22:46:00.001+05:30

স্বপ্ন গুলো গেছিল হারিয়ে

হঠাথ এক স্তব্দ মাঝরাতে

এক চিমটে হলুদ আলোতে

ফিরে পেলাম তাকে

ধুসরিত আমার

ছোট্ট স্বর্ণগোলক

First time using the Google Transliterator, and since my Bangla is really, really rusty, this might not have come out all that well. Do let me know, anyone, in case there are any grammatical errors and/or spelling errors. I'd like to give this type of stuff some more tries...

Bygone Rockstar

2010-07-29T00:05:00.000+05:30

"Hey, Dad! It's raining really hard, and the school's closed today! Can you take the day off too?"

And somehow, that simple little question from his son answered it too. He made a few calls, while the rain drummed away rhythmically on the window pane. He could feel his fingers drumming on the phone as well, along with the rain. He could feel a song coming to him, he could feel his heart forming the words, as the phone rang in his ears and the raindrops drummed on the windowpane. The first rain of the season, it had a special innocence about it – as though, the only thing it wanted to do was to freshen up the world. The dry parched earth had seemed to be looking longingly at the dormant skies till the previous day, missing the rain more than anyone else. Finally, the clouds broke with a shower, and the earth was happy once more that the raindrops were awake again. The ballad kept coming to him, when suddenly the ringing on the other side of the telephone stopped and a male voice answered. He recognized the voice, spoke for a while, laughed for a little while, and hung up quite quickly, and suddenly the day was all his – for him, and his son, and the raindrops pattering on the earth, which danced back in muddy delight.

“Yay! My Dad’s the best! He took the day off, and now we’re gonna have so much fun! Aren’t we, Dad?”

He barely caught a glimpse of a red t-shirt running out of the room in excitement, and he was left behind with a smile on his face and memories in his mind. He remembered the innocent smile of that girl, and how he had fallen in love with her. He remembered the song the smile inspired him to write, and how she had fallen in love with him. Now, as he saw the rain outside, he felt the need to write another song about it all – sweet innocence. As he went about his life, growing up at every step, his trysts with innocence kept reducing. Now, again, he was face to face with the thing that inspired him to write that ballad so many years ago – sweet innocence.

The black box that had been collecting dust for so long stared back at him, and he knew he had to open it and take out the guitar within. It had been a long, long time since he had given that black box a thought; he was a changed man now, so many years later. So many first showers had passed away, without him even noticing them. He remembered how he used to sit beside the window every season, the guitar in his arms, his lady’s arms thrown around his neck. For so many seasons, he wrote a song for every single one of those first showers.

So many years had passed, and he never even realized it. So many first showers had gone by, and he had just let them pass him by. He wondered if he could pick up a tune again, and weave that wonderful song out of it one more time. He wiped the dust from the leather case, and gently opened the velvet lined box. The old guitar looked even more aged after so many years, the strings red from the dust and the rust it had been catching over so many years – and yet, he was sure she remembered every tune, every chord, every note that had ever been played on it. The guitar still seemed to reverberate slightly with the echoes of the songs that had been played so long ago. He gently picked the guitar out of the case. The ebony fret board still seemed warm, even after so many years, and he cradled the guitar in his lap, poised to play it. He gently touched the rusted strings, but the notes didn’t come. He tried again, his fingers dancing on the fret board, but the music didn’t play like before. He could feel his fingers cutting on the rusted strings; barely a minute later, he stopped. The music as he knew it had left him over the years. Suddenly, he felt hollow and alone, devoid of something that he couldn’t define, which made him feel emptier still. The rain still drummed on the window pane outside, urging him to join into the rhythm. He sighed, knowing that he could never join in with the rain the way he used to before. There would be no more ballads written on that guitar, he thought sadly as he gently put the guitar back into the velvet lined case.

“C’mon, Dad! Let’s go outside in the rain. I’m wearing my raincoat, and I got yours too. We can sing songs in the rain, Dad!”

The thunder boomed outside, like the crash of the cymbals right on cue, and his son laughed gleefully and rhythmically to the sounds of the rain. The drumroll on the windowpane continued, and he could feel the laughter building up inside of him too. His son was laughing and jumping as they made their way out into the drenched world outside, singing the new secret song – a song filled with Rhythmic Laughter, and Drumrolls on Windowpanes, and Thundering Cymbals. Many years later, he discovered that honest, innocent ballad, once more.

Raw Coffee

2010-07-10T20:39:00.000+05:30

“I’m telling you, this is the best cafe in the whole of Mumbai,” he exclaimed proudly as he entered the quaint little cafe, the wafting smell of refreshingly fresh roasted coffee rolling over him like gentle waves. “More than the coffee here, it’s the amazing ambience of this place that draws me here, every time.”

The waiter hurried over to take his order, delivered in that impeccable English the patrons were so proud of. The regular order of a double shot espresso followed, and the proud waiter walked back into the kitchen behind him.

The delicious coffee was brewed, the aroma spilling over the cup and filling the air with the luscious tempting taste of coffee, and amidst it all, a crude voice issued, “Do number table ka Dubble Shot Asspresso le ja re!”