Broad Brush Paintings – Episode 2

Previous Parts:  Episode 1

“Why do you keep on writing in this same, crime thriller genre?”, V asked Rakesh.

Rakesh is the author of four highly successful crime thrillers. He makes quite a bit through the royalties, and generally spends his time sitting in one cafe or another talking to his friends — when he’s not writing something that is, which is seldom. He doesn’t have to put too much effort in writing, because all his novel have the same blueprint, with details varied. Besides, the accuracy of the details is not important to him. Or to his readers.

“Because it comes naturally to me. I don’t have to take efforts to write that stuff”, Rakesh answered, puffing on his half-burned Marlboro Light. Then, carelessly, he threw it out of the window of the dilapidated Irani cafe.

V looked at the wastage, annoyed, but then it occurred to him that it was better than wasting one’s lungs. He hated cigarettes. Normally, he wouldn’t sit with someone smoking, complaining that the smoke gave him asthma. But Rakesh was an exception. He had soft corner for Rakesh, despite his (what V called) pedestrian writing. Rakesh and he went to the college together, and he was one of the few friends from back then with whom V could still connect.

“But what’s the point? Aren’t we writers supposed to get out of our comfort zones?”

Rakesh looked at V quizzically. He wondered if he should pick issues with the phrase ‘we writers’. V, as far as he knew, had wrote nothing that qualified as writing, not in the world he inhabited at any rate.

“Have you ever done a honest day’s work as a writer?” he asked finally, looking out of the cafe window, at nowhere in particular.

“What do you mean?”, V asked, trying to sound nonchalant, yet his voice betrayed a tinge of anxiety. Or was it reproach?

“I mean, have you written a single page of prose, keeping in mind who will want to publish the shit?”

“You mean, honest work in this line means taking other people’s judgment of what’s right and wrong, or suitable/unsuitable for publishing, as one’s starting point?”, V said, his voice agitated. He waited for the answer to his rhetorical question. As he expected, no answer came. For a brief moment V held his pose, in every sense of the phrase, and added in faked nochalant voice, “I guess not”

“I thought as much”, Rakesh said.

“Why would I want to be a writer, if I were to accept that as a starting point?”

Rakesh sighed. He didn’t have time for V’s childish questions.

“The trouble with the world of art is that people come here trying to escape the hard right and wrong judgments, believing they can redefine right and wrong”

For all his faults, V thought, I can still talk to him, because he at least understands the fundamental questions of life. Not too many people these days had time for those fundamental questions. They were so lost in the mundane facts, and problems. It was hard to even talk to them.

What about Chaitali? He wondered …

Long back, when they were dating, he remembered he could talk to her. She understood. She even had answers that seemed to align with his. Or was he too eager to find an alignment? Like the Indian pundits who would fix up any horoscopes. Not that he believed in horoscopes, but wasn’t that cheating? And sometimes, both the parties would do it, each believing that the other cares for horoscopes. Or was it that they wanted the other party to think that they believed in horoscopes — thus establishing their ‘traditional’ credentials?

But what about Chaitali?

He shuddered. Maybe he had cheated himself? Even before he knew there was alignment on things that matter, he had stopped judging? How much more ridiculous was that? He who hated arranged marriages, had he arranged his own marraige by the same methods, in spirit? Nah, he said to himself. Chaitali was okay. She still understood the questions, and their importance. It’s just that her answers had changed over the years, while his had stayed the same. Was it because he never had to taste his answers, in the real world, as opposed to all the imaginary worlds that he tried to create, while she had to?

And Rakesh? He looked at Rakesh, who had lit up another Marlboro light, and seemed to be waiting for him to say something. Trouble was V had no idea what it was. Then he remembered the thread.

“And?” he decided question was the best option.

“And soon they realize that unless they’re genius, they are more constrained by rights and wrongs as defined by someone else — and there isn’t even a way to resort to objectivity. Hell, those are random rights and wrongs, that can never be defeated”

Trouble with those who can think through other people’s shoes, V thought, is that you can never judge. You always keep the case open, for further evidence. He loved Chaitali, so judging was now superflous. There was a time and date for it. He had done it. The case was closed now. If he reopened it, it will just stay open.

“Unless you’re a genius?”, he suddenly said, picking up the thread finally. This was getting interesting.

“If you’re a genius, you can escape them in your lifetime, yes. But down the line, you become another random set of rights and wrongs. In a sense, you lose to the system by being endorsed by it. And worse: you can’t even fight, because by then you’re long dead”

“Do you think you are a genius, V?”, Rakesh asked suddenly.

“Ummm?”, V said, half automatically, half deliberate.

Rakesh laughed. “You do, don’t you? You conceited, arrogant bastard!”

“Well I don’t know if I’m a genius, but I don’t think I’m ordinary, at least”

“No one thinks they’re ordinary, dear. Welcome to the club”

Broad Brush Paintings – Episode 1

Chaitali could not tell how long she was awake, or why she had woken up. She checked the clock; it was showing 2:30 AM. As far as she could recall, no nightmare had woken her up. Generally she was a sound sleeper, and wouldn’t wake up at all, till just a few minutes before the alarm was supposed to go off. The thought of being woken up by an alarm did not appeal to her. Alarms can never replace a gentle human call for wakeup because there is feedback loop involved, she thought. A person waking up another person, unless she’s a sadist, will start with stifled whispers first, and if need be, change to nagging, louder calls.

A thought of alarm clock reminded her of the old Swiss clock her grandfather had bought from chor bazaar for the precious sum of 10 rupees. It must have been quite a  pinch, then, she thought, wondering what will she get now for the same sum? A tea in a decent restaurant will be more expensive! But then, for all the pinch, her grandfather’s clock had been worth every single paisa, and more. It was an old style, mechanical clock, that needed winding, of course. And it had survived a full fifty odd years, through  her school-days, even college days. She would keep it by her bedside, when she wanted to wake up early in the morning to study. After the first few days, when she was jolted to a wide awakening due to the monstrous, steely alarm of that Swiss clock, she had rarely heard it. She didn’t want to wake anyone else in the house, not even her mom, who would get up anyway to prepare a hot cup of Bournvita flavored milk for her. Her scholastic success meant more to her mother than it ever meant to her, then or now.

It was that terror of the jolt, and the fear of waking others in the house, that had stayed with her till this day, when there weren’t that many people in the house to wake up, except for V (or Vedant, but no one ever called him that), who was as sound a sleeper as any she had known. Besides, the alarms these days tried to mimic human waking up, with the frequency and pitch going up, ever so gradually.

She looked at V snoring besides her, his back turned towards her. His legs were cuddled up, and he was sleeping almost in the womb position. Men, she thought, never really come out of the womb. Then she scolded herself for generalizing. I should say most men, she reminded herself.

No alarm, she knew, would ever wake up V, not even the one in her grandfather’s clock. Where is it now, she wondered. She made a note to ask her mom about it, the next time she called her. The thought depressed her. Lately her mother was getting impossible to talk to. How long can she keep on blaming it on her mom’s menopause and excuse her, Chaitali wondered. But then, lately, lot of things depressed Chaitali. V’s dead sound sleep hardly made it to the list.

Now that she was awake, she didn’t know what to do. She was so not used to getting up at such god-forsaken hours, that she couldn’t just go back to sleep. She was thirsty too, and the bottle she kept on the small bedside unit was empty. V had this (annoying she noted) habit of finishing off the bottle on her side too. Since she woke up only early in the morning, it didn’t bother her much, but it bothered her that he never refilled his bottle. She knew it was no use talking to him about it (as about anything else), for he’d just point out that she never drank water in the middle of the night, so how did it matter if he just drank from that bottle too?

She got up and dragged herself to the kitchen. Besides the sink, she saw a plate with crumbs of bread and left-over ketchup. V’s late night hunger pangs, she sighed. Was it the early dinner that was the problem, she wondered. After all, early dinner is only a good idea if you’re going to sleep early, like she did. But he had never complained, just as he rarely complained about anything. She knew he hated routine, and yet, it was routine that she excelled in. Her life was an endless progression of routine.

She sighed again. Her life looked like that of some extremely dissatisfied heroin in V’s numerous unfinished stories. Yet V seemed oblivious to it. She thought she might have been better off as some character in his stories. She’d at least get more attention. But then it wasn’t the routine that bothered her. It was routine that made her successful. It was routine that had brought her the security in life she was looking for. What is security if not another routine, she wondered. What bothered her, was that V wasn’t bothered by it.

She walked into the living room, and switched on the light in the corner. The room was illuminated by a dull, orange light, owing to the colour of the lampshade. She felt content. It was a long time since she had enjoyed such a peaceful space for herself. Not that V would ever encroach on her space. But he needed so much of attention, that she never got the space, and that too had become another routine in her life.

As she slumped in the couch thinking if she should just switch on the television, she saw V’s old writing folder on the coffee table. It was open. V must have been sifting through his early writings, she thought — something he did quite often. Wasn’t that also a routine of sorts, she wondered. How come he loves that so much, when he hates the routine? She picked up the folder, and started browsing. V, she knew, wouldn’t mind a bit. In fact, he would be delighted.

Then she saw the poem, again, after all these years …

Autumn

You left
leaving behind a trail
of crumpled leaves
fragments …
of memories

Autumns are never pleasant
they’re the premonition
of cold, merciless winter

The nature is kind
for the winter
however certain
ends too
certainly

The autumn
you left behind
is the final season

I fell for this? She wondered. This kitsch! She was no snob, and her exposure to literature, and especially poetry, was quite basic. But this? I’ve married a failed kitsch artist, she sighed!

Even V couldn’t have created a better failed heroine himself, she thought as she switched on the TV.

A Blind Date (Concluded)

The first time he really talked to her, he could feel heat building up in his body. It wasn’t even the sexual tension, although, with her around, that was always in the air (in his mind). All his googling about the impending encounter had proved useless in the first couple of seconds, as his body took over, and his mind went into reflexive mode. In the excitement of the encounter, and the sense of achievement he felt, he hardly noticed what was said. All he knew was that she had suggested (to his utter surprise and relief) that they meet for a Saturday brunch.

Now, trying to recall the conversation, he remembered it wasn’t she who had suggested brunch. It was he who had mentioned an early lunch or brunch. It suited his weekend rhythm. She had agreed, although he thought she was a bit baffled.

It was going to be lunch, at this rate, he thought, as he checked his watch again.

***

Just as he was sure that she had played an elaborate practical joke on him, he saw her sporty yellow car screech to a halt in the parking lot. She reversed the car into an empty parking lot making a guy jump off out of her path.

She smiled as she saw him.

“Hi”, she said, as he led her towards the cafe.

He tried to smile back, but all that came out was an awkward movement of the lips that was aborted, even before it could take shape of any meaningful human expression. Instantly, he felt hotness around his ears, and a blush spread on his face. He looked away, in panic.

“I said Hi”, she said, pouting her lips, and in mock anger.

He was glad that he wasn’t fair skinned, for the blush would have been impossible to hide then.

“Sorry”, he blurted out. “I mean, hi, how are you?”

She smiled again, as she answered, “That was cute. Blush and all!”

He desperately wanted to change the subject. She was late, he remembered. Should he ask her what took her so long? No apology had come, either, he made a mental note.

“Stuck in traffic?” he asked abruptly.

“Oh no. It was lovely actually, driving on empty roads. I should get up early more often”

He chuckled. So she was just late like that? he wondered.

There was an option of sitting outside, the waiter told them. The cafe had a small garden. He hated it, because it was on the roadside, and the noise there was significant.

“Yeah we’ll prefer that”, she said.

He looked at her aghast. She was already moving though, following the waiter.

They sat down, in a corner table. At least there is some privacy, he thought, looking at the well manicured bush that separated them from the next table.

She looked a little miffed, and he had no way of knowing if it was because of something he did or didn’t do. Should I have pulled out the chair for her, he wondered.

“It’s kind of late, should we order lunch right away?” he asked her.

She seemed not to take any hint, though. Still no apology, he said to himself.

***

“What are you humming?”, she asked, as they waited for the food to arrive. The small talk hadn’t survived the first few minutes. She had tried to go on her own, for a few more minutes, and then seeing not much response, she had also stopped talking. If she was irritated, there was no way for him to figure out. Her face seemed quite careless. The silence was awkward, but mainly for him. It was then that he had started humming. It was Jupitar again.

“Jupitar”, he said enthusiastically. Finally something to talk about, without leaving his comfort zone.

“Which group is that?”, she asked.

“Ummm. It’s Mozart’s 41st Symphony. The last moment”, he had said, his enthusiasm weaning as fast as it had built up.

“Oh! That orchestra kind of stuff?”

He felt a stabbing pain. Then he realized he was just wishing it. He wondered if he was overreacting. After all, it was, orchestra kind of stuff, literally. Thankfully, the waiter arrived with their orders, just then, and he didn’t have to answer her question.

What did she read, he wondered. Not Sidney Sheldon’s, he prayed. He was suddenly afraid to ask. She wasn’t.

“How come you eat this early on a Saturday?”, she asked.

“I like to stretch the day by cutting down a meal. I take an early meal, and then just pick up some book and read through the afternoons. Only on weekends does one get time these days”

That was the longest sequence of words he had spoken to any girl, in quite some while. Except for his sister, of course.

It was difficult talking to his sister, too. But for entirely different reasons. First chance, and she’d start listing the litany of her troubles. Household troubles, he sighed. Indisciplined kid, unconcerned husband, meddling mother-in-law … Doesn’t she understand I don’t give a damn, he wondered. And then it hit him again, the dread. Is this what my life would turn into? Is this what all this courtship was supposed to be for?

“Hello?”, her voice got him back.

He looked at her, puzzled.

“I was asking you what do you like to read?”

He wondered what should he say. For some reason, he didn’t want to sound too highbrow. That left out the Kafkas, the Manns, and the Joyces. But then, he wouldn’t allow himself to be seen as having anything to do with the populars. That left out the occasional Ludlum that he enjoyed, or even Richard Bach or Paul Cohello, that he did enjoy a while back.

He settled on Wodehouse. That was a safe bet.

She rolled her eyes. “I tried reading that once. Nothing happens in it!”

He looked away, trying to hide his disappointment in vain. Not because he did a bad job of it, but there just wasn’t much need to try. She wasn’t even looking at his reaction, when she said that.

“I like …”, he held his hand out for the waiter.

***

Why had she agreed on this date, he asked himself. The answers were hard to find. He didn’t have an inferiority complex about his personality, at all, but he knew he wasn’t the kind of guy that most girls will notice. And she might be extra-ordinary in her looks, but even as he was secretly charmed by her, he didn’t believe for a minute that she was any different. So how had this happened?

“I was surprised you knew me”, he said, as he took a sip of the Merlot. It wasn’t too good, and for a moment he thought of ordering something else. She seemed quite happy with it, though.

“This is lovely”, she said, “I rarely drink wine. “But I like this”.

He decided to endure the wine, too.

“Sorry, you were asking something?”, she said, finally.

“I was saying, I was surprised you knew me at all”

“Everyone knows you!” she said. “You’re our resident genius, after all”

For a moment he looked at her face, to catch a hint of derision or sarcasm. But she betrayed nothing but sincerity.

He frowned.

“I payed you a compliment, you know”, she said, her pout returning.

“I don’t know what to say! Thank you”

He took another sip of the wine. It wasn’t that bad, he thought. It must have been the aftertaste of the starters, that had spoiled the first sip.

***

“Are you free on Saturday?”, his friend asked, “Lunch at our place?”

“Ummmm”, he hesitated.

“What? You are not going on a date are you?”

He grinned.

His voice almost inaudible, he added, “a blind date”.

A Blind Date (Part I)

He waited impatiently for her. It was more than thirty minutes past the time she said she will come.

“I should have waited in the car”, he said to himself, as he wiped perspiration off his forehead. It wasn’t a particularly hot day, of course. It was just his anxiety. It had been a heroic effort for him to even talk to her. Words always seemed to fail him when she greeted him in the office canteen, or walked past him. He would attempt a feeble smile, and return the greeting, before walking away a tad too quickly.

She was beautiful, way beyond his league, he’d say to himself. She was tall, but not too tall (neither was he), strikingly fair (not that is really mattered to him that much), and had very prominent features. Her complexion allowed her to carry both dull and bright colors with equal ease. And she was always dressed almost perfectly (according to him): neither too casual, nor too dressy; just about right to make people take notice.

It all started with sideway glances. He was always aware of her presence nearby. Even when he was busy with his work (and he took it very seriously), he could pick up her soft voice, as she spoke with someone in the hallways. He would get up and walk to the water tap, even when he wasn’t particularly thirsty. But as he passed by her, his blood-pressure would rise suddenly, and his movements would become awkward — the way they typically become when one least wants them to.

At first he thought she never noticed him. He was so sure of the ordinariness of his looks that he thought he was invisible to her (and to most people, but that hardly mattered to him). A few times she caught him staring at her and looking away as soon as she looked at him. He tried to avoid her gaze, after such instance. But, the next time, he would spot her looking at him with mischievous expressions. He would look away in haste.

***

He looked at his watch, for maybe the hundredth time. To his surprise, it had hardly moved.

“I should have just waited in the car and listened to Jupiter“, he murmured. He started humming the movement of Mozart’s last symphonic work, from where he had left it. He thought about its intricate interplay between diverse themes, and their fabulous confluence near the end. He had got out just before the real interesting parts. He had, of course, heard it a hundred times. But it still made him irritated — leaving it unfinished like that …

Why was he there, he wondered. All these years, he had been happy alone. There was so much to do with life that he had never felt that his life lacked anything. Did he feel that now, he wondered for a moment? Or was it just his mom, and sister, and their pestering questions?

“When are you going to get married?”, his mom had tried to reopen the conversation — that he absolutely detested — the last time he’d called on her. It wasn’t as if he did not want to get married. He just hated the whole concept of arranged marriages. Did his heart long for a companionship now? Now that most of his friends were settled in their married lives? He was ready to acknowledge to himself (although he would never hint that to his mom, or his sister) that he did feel a longing — if that’s what it was, whatever that he was feeling. It was another matter, that he felt completely inadequate to do anything about it.

“Why don’t you try blind dating?”, a married friend had kidded him.

“What’s wrong with arranged marriages then?”, he had retorted.

“Who said there is anything wrong with them?”, the friend had asked, a little offended, he noted.

“I didn’t mean it that way”, he had said, “I’m sorry”.

“Chod yaar“, the friend had said. Forget it, man.

“You’re too bloody serious in life”, the friend had added, as he excused himself to take his wife’s phone call.

[To Be Continued ...]

Flash Fiction – The Cynic

The cynic gave a contemptuous laugh.

“That bad, eh?”

“You call this Flash fiction?”, he shook his head vigorously.

“Yeah? How about this for a flash-fiction?”, I said, as I took out my gun and shot him.

He gave another contemptuous  smile.

“It’s a flash alright, but fact not fiction”

Those were his last words.

Ripples in sand

Notes:

• Title is a placeholder. Will have to go.
• This is my weakest fiction, till date, but then I’m happy I finished something
• Criticism is welcome, but superfluous
• It’s still better than a crib-blog
• Don’t read with any expectations

---

My fears do seem surreal
but I wonder if I can bear,
to see these walls crumbling
dreams… they’re are known
to end as abruptly, as they come…

***

I waited for some time, after ringing the doorbell. Anuja lived alone in this spacious two bedroom flat in the city’s upmarket area. When she decided to move here, I had offered her to stay with us. My middle class sensibilities, by all means – as the rents in the city had already skyrocketed. I was sure that Varun would not mind at all. He’s always been fond of Anuja.

However, she had dismissed my suggestion casually.

“Di!”, for some reasons she always addressed me with this ridiculously shortened form of didi. “This is my one chance of living on my own”

I hadn’t pressed much, knowing Anuja. And to be honest, I was even glad. An extra person in the house after all these years, (yes even my own sister) would have meant changes.

Of course, I was hoping that I would get to spend more time with her, now that we were in the same town. I had seen very little of her after Varun and I relocated to Canada, just a few months after our marriage. When we got back, Anuja was busy with her job in another city, and we were busy settling back into a totally changed country. The fact that we had lived here almost all our lives was hardly helping.

Anu is five years younger to me — almost a generation, in today’s fast moving time. Still, growing up, we had shared a very close bond. Things started to drift, however, after my marriage. Our communication settled down to a few casual mails or chats, and occasional calls. I was desperately hoping we would get to catch up on those lost times. Half an year down the line, we had met just a couple of times. On one Saturday, when Varun was to be in his office for the whole day, I decided to go shopping. I remembered Anu mentioning the new mall that had opened close to her place, and thought it would be a good idea to check it out, and maybe drag her there too. I tried calling her up, but her phone was switched off. Typical Anu, I thought.

I was thinking of rining again, the door opened. As I was about to step in, I realized that the person opening the door wasn’t Anuja, but a young man (very handsome, I must add).

“Yes?”, he asked, partially blocking the door.
For a moment I wondered if it was the right house, but then I had seen the nameplate.

“Isn’t Anuja at home?”, I asked.

“Yes she is, please come in”

I noticed then, that his shirt was just thrown over, carelessly, half-buttoned up; his hair was ruffled.

“I’m Mukta”, I said. His face showed no comprehension. “Her sister”

“I’ll tell her”, he said, as he went back to the bedroom. I thought I saw a hint of embarrassment on his face.

From Anu’s bedroom I could hear a few miffed voices, and finally she came out. She was wearing floral pajamas, and she looked so beautiful. For a passing moment, I felt a twinge of jealousy: she looked so young and full of life. But while I was marvelling her looks, she was looking at me, with slight irritation, and she was making no effort to hide it. Suddenly, I felt like an intruder.

“Di, what a surprise”, her voice had no trace of excitement.

“I was trying to call you, but your cell phone is switched off”, I explained. Unnecessarily I thought, a moment later — after all, since when did a sister need explain her visit?

“Yeah, on Saturday mornings I hate to be woken up by marketing calls!”, she said. Afternoon, I wanted to correct her, but she was still looking irritated. Just then the gentleman walked into the living room, his hair and clothes much more tidy now.

“Di, this is Gautam. Gautam this is Mukta, my didi“, Anu introduced us. Her manner did not betray any awkwardness, if she felt it at all. I would not say the same thing about the two parties being introduced.

Gautam smiled a polite smile and took his leave, almost in a hurry. I was left with Anu, who was behaving as if this were an everyday situation for her.

“Your new boyfriend?”, I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Not exactly”, she said, looking straight at me.

“What does that mean?”

“You’re not naive enough to ask that, are you?”

“Anu!”

“Please stay out of my sex life, Di”

I looked at her aghast.

“What? Should I say love life? Surely you don’t call it love when it changes every week?”

“But Anu, what are you going to get through these flings? Don't get me wrong, but what's the future in this?”

I thought I was sounding just like my mother. Anu, who had lived in a small town with my parents almost all her life, who had never been to more than four cities, and had never set her foot outside India – she was making me feel naive, orthodox, and outdated.

“Don’t get me started. You know… if facades fall, then everything will change”

Her face showed no anger, or even irritation. Yet, there was something which made me step back, involuntarily — something cold and menacing.

“What are you talking about, Anu?”

“Forget it. Tell me, what will you have? This is the first time you’ve come to my place, if we don’t count the day you helped me unpack”

“No… no, I want to know”

She looked at me with a look that was closest one could get to feeling sorry for the other person.

“The one time I ever made a real choice, I lost him to you”

Varun? What is she talking about? She was in love with Varun? And for god’s sake why tell it now, after all these years? Surely it was a teenage crush.

“He knows?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”, she snapped.

“Anu … We used to be able to talk, you know”

“Di, stop patronizing me, will you? You think I’m a kid who had an innocent crush on your husband, and who needs to be shown the frivolity of it all? At this moment, if any-one’s innocent, it’s you, dear. Go home. Forget I ever said this. I never intended to. Is there a point in raking this up now? You have a happy life. And I’m managing pretty fine. Just don’t scratch the surface. It’s not going to help any of us”

She was dead serious. The hurt in her eyes was all too real, despite her attempts to keep it away.

Life teaches us that digging up graves is a pointless exercise. And yet we never learn. I loved Varun. I trusted him to tell me anything he ever needed to tell me. Anything that I needed to know. And yet …

***

I sleepwalk carefree, over the clouds

oblivious of the approaching storm

the dream is invaded by a smoky haze
paralyzed, I watch your receding form

“What’s wrong, Mukta?”, Varun asked on the dinner table.

“Nothing”, I replied dryly, moving my spoon through the soup.

“Come on honey, we know each other too well to fool each other like that”, he said, in his usual, calm voice.

“Really, Varun?”, I asked, looking straight into his eyes. He looked hurt. I felt bad for assuming him guilty for an unknown crime.

“What’s wrong love? Why are you so bitter today?”

It took you an hour to realize I’m bitter, I wanted to ask. But I resisted. You must assume him innocent till proven guilty, I told myself.

“I met Anuja today”, I said after a pause, looking straight into his eyes, trying to catch his reactions. His face didn’t change even a little, not even puzzled.

“How’s she?”

“If you think I’m bitter, you should talk to her”

“Will you stop talking in tangents?”

His tone was a little irritated now, I observed. Do we see things when we want to see them? Because his facial expressions were no different from usual — when he lost his patience. And that wasn’t unusual either. So was I reading too much into his tone?

“Because, Varun, after all these years of living together, I find it insulting to ask for information which I should have been told long before”

He opened his mouth to say something, but then he pressed his lips together, grinding his teeth. His shoulders dropped. For the first time, since our first meeting (however then it was shyness, not guilt or shame) he couldn’t look into my eyes. He didn’t say anything for what seemed like an eternity.

“So she told you”, he finally said. It wasn’t even a question, just an assertion.

“Not exactly”

He sighed. For a while he didn’t say anything.

“Oh God, Mukta, I’m sorry”

I started crying. Suddenly, I didn’t want any details. What kind of fool goes about digging the firm looking soil under one’s feet? If I hadn’t pushed Anu, I would be laughing with Varun, probably. I would be asking him if he liked the soup, and urging him to have some more. I would be asking him how his day went, and tell him about the weird salesperson who kept on following me from one rack to another. I would be telling him about Anu’s stream of boyfriends, and letting him give me a dose of liberal medicine –  how I should accept her as an adult now.

Nothing of it. Here I was, trying to figure out how much of our life together was a lie. And whether the percentages really matter. A lie like that paints everything in one color, like the primer they put on before repainting, making every wall, every ceiling, the same ugly shade of white.

“Mukta, will you please listen to me?”, he said.

Don’t you get it, I wanted to shout. What will all the gory details change? Don’t you see that everything has changed? What can you tell me that will restore our world.

I stormed out of the dinning room, and slammed the door of the bedroom.

***

Brick by brick, we built this house
from yonder we brought these trees
today, the walls are green with moss
and the garden is dried shade of brown
did we lose it inch by inch?
or was it all just a mirage,
a passing dream?

“Mukta!”

It must have been more than an hour, when Varun finally knocked at the door, softly. Astonishingly, I was asleep. I guess it was due to much crying. I looked at myself in the dressing table mirror. I was a mess. I looked like a ghost of what I was only a few hours back. I got up, washed my face, tidied up my hair. Then I put on some makeup. The rituals can dull pain by their boring regularity, I guess.

Varun’s knocking was a little more urgent now, and his tone more concerned. I opened the door.
His face had a relived look. Did he think I was going to kill myself?

“Mukta. Can we talk?”

What’s the urgency, I wanted to ask him. If it could wait all these years, surely it can wait some more time. In any case, it was already too late. But hope is such a bitch. It tempts us, and drags us into the quicksand of despair, to laugh at us derisively — for falling for its tricks again.

I nodded.

He took a deep breath. Poured a large peg of scotch into a glass, and finished half of it, in two gulps. He always had his scotch neat. But he never gulped it like that.

“Anu had proposed me, just a week before we met. I was not prepared for a relationship back then. I was just a few months into my job. Besides, she was so young. Anu was working with us as an intern back then, you remember right?”

I didn’t answer. Of course I remembered, and I knew he was just trying to clear the mist that had clogged the air between us that night. Any response would be better for him than no response. But I wasn’t exactly in a generous mood. He waited for a moment, and let out a muffled sigh, as he saw the futility of attempting small talk with me, in such a mood.

“For a brief while before that, we were dating… sort of. I mean, I realized that day, when she proposed me, that that’s how Anu looked at it, at least. For me it was more of a friendship.. hanging around, like best of pals. I was already too old for my age, and she was the fresh splash of life, of youth. I always thought I was just a father figure for her….”

He had gulped down the rest. On other days, I would have scolded him. But I thought I did not have the authority anymore.

“It was in this period, that I met you. And before I know, I fell in love with you. Suddenly, timing didn’t seem so wrong. Still it was too complicated for me do do anything about it. I wasn’t sure how she would take it. But she knew. I guess she knew me well. It was at her insistence, that I proposed to you. We had decided we would never tell you, because it would just complicate all the lives involved”

“I don’t know why, today… Not that I blame her. She has every right”

His voice trailed off. For a while, he did not say anything, and then he looked into my eyes. His eyes betrayed the effort it had taken him to do it.

“Mukta. I love you. Please talk to me. I can’t take this silence”

When we say, “spare me details”, do we ever mean it?

***

Soft winds soothe the aching heart
as the sun vanishes into distant land
I crave for your virgin touch,
like the time you first held my hand

I know, my visions might crumble
like the castles in the beach sand
but I know, the love we lived
you will always leave behind

Anu called up on Sunday afternoon.

“Di?”

I didn’t say a word.

“Di. I know it’s you. Please talk to me”

Varun had tried in vain to get words out of me, the whole of morning. We chewed our lunch, in silence. He vanished into the study room, more to leave me alone, than for any other reason.

I went back to the bedroom, and latched the door, as if I was afraid of being violated, just by his presence. I was completely drained to think of anything. Anu call had broken my reverie. And her voice suddenly brought me back my voice.

“Why Anu, I’ll be happy to. What do you want to talk about?”

My tone was caustic. But at least it was easier to talk to her, than it was not to talk to Varun, at all. For wasn’t she as much a party to this lie that I was living? Or was it easier to talk to her, because I was more angry at her than Varun — so angry that silence seemed a response out of reach?

“About you and Varun, of course”

Gone was her cool, confident, tone of the day before.

“So he called you?”

“Of course he called me. And I’m glad he did. Please don’t punish him for my sins”

My first reaction was not anger, strangely. It was amazement — to see my little sister grown up so much. Amazement, seeing her — no more indulgently as a spoilt brat, but as an independent adult, just like Varun wanted me to see her.

It was brief though, the moment. The next moment brought back the pain of back-stabbing — not just because she hid it from me, but because she took away my choice to be the martyr… to be the the elder sister ready to pamper her younger sibling with all she could have afforded, and all she could not have.

A part of me was angry at her because she didn’t tell me before. A part of me was angry at her because she brought the subject up at all. And the contradiction seemed trifle.

“You mean he is guiltless?”

“Had he told you back then, what would have come out of it?”

“Truth?”

I thought I heard a derisive laughter. But I knew the derision wasn’t in her laughter, it was in my mind. I was so prepared to hear those words: “grow up, Di”

“Truth that would have strained every relationship, that could have come out of it alive? Truth for the sake of truth? I can’t believe, Di, that you would even think of throwing it all away for a stupid truth”

“Anu, when you’re in a stable relationship …”

I deliberately paused, letting it sting, then regretted my cruelty. Wasn’t she in a serious relationship, once, which had left that permanent scar on her? But I was too proud to apologize.

“You will know that you cannot trust ninety percent, or ninety nine percent. It’s a hundred percent or nothing. If I can’t trust him to tell me one thing, I cannot trust him to tell me anything. How do I know it’s just this one stupid truth, Anu?”

For a moment she was silent. When she talked, I wondered who was the little sister.

“Di… Relationships can never be like that. You don’t need me to tell you that. Are you really saying you cannot trust him anymore? What about me? Can you trust me?”

I knew I couldn’t say the truth, for all it was worth.

“I don’t know”, I said.

“Di, why don’t I believe that?”

Then, without any warning, tears formed in my eyes again. My voice chocked.

“He is as guiltless as you get them in real life. And he is yours. He loves you! Don’t you know that?”

There was nothing to say to that.

“Why did you bring it up now, Anu. Why now. Why someone who can see things like that, could not see what it would do?”

“I never said I am guiltless”, she said. I thought I heard a sad laugh.

“And you still want me to trust you?”

“I want you to trust him. Punish me however you want, but not by punishing yourself, and him”

We were both silent, for a while.

“Why Anu?”

“Because, being a martyr isn’t easy, Di. Especially when no one knows it, and you don’t even get to live it. As for me, it wasn’t even a sacrifice. I let go what I never really had. But I never saw it that way. For a long time I was living life like a vain martyr. And I blamed you for every moment of it, for putting me in a position where there wasn’t another choice. If it were someone else, I would have tried to snatch him from her… I would have done whatever it took. With you I was helpless. Maybe I just needed to throw away all that karma, which I thought was good karma, but which was making my life hell”

“It just happened… Di… It just happened”

What can you say to that? When one martyr dies, another is born.

“Can’t you forgive him? It’s only your world that’s worth saving, at the moment. I know I cannot ask anything else of you. But this much I will…”

“I don’t know”, I said. Knowing fully well she knew, what I knew.

“Thanks Di”, she said, as she hung up.

***

We’ll pick up the pieces
and go back home
we’ll paint the walls
inch by inch
and grow the shrubs
you and me
we’ll watch the past
with a knowing smile
will we?

Ashen Lives

“What happened?”, Shikha asked, as I moved away from her, and switched on the light.

“Nothing”, I said, lighting up a cigarette. “I remembered I had to call up someone”.

“A$$hole”, she snapped. “You’re not leaving me like this”

“It will take a few minutes. Logistical issues”

“And they can’t wait?”

“Not really. But I’m finding it hard to concentrate here”

“You must be kidding me”, she said, getting up. She snatched the cigarette from my hand, crumpled it into the ash-tray. “How many times do I have to tell you not to smoke inside the bedroom. Live one fucking room clean, will you?”

I got up, picked up the cigarette packet. It was empty. I cursed her as I walked into the hall. I dialed Riddhi’s number. It was late, but then Riddhi didn’t have a life outside work. A prospective customer wanted me to fly to Delhi and give a presentation to the board of directors, tomorrow. For a couple of days I had sat on it, and done nothing. Even a presentation was not ready. But then there was Riddhi. I realized that I could take her with me. That would solve two problems. I just needed to tell her that, and ask her to get the the presentation up. Tomorrow, neither of us would get much time to work on it.

*

After the call I slumped into the couch and switched on the TV. Some stupid Dance competition was on. Shikha loves to watch such shows. I have never figured out how she can waste her time on things like that. There was a time, not so long ago, when we used to be an active part of a film-club. We attended plays, live concerts, even art-exhibitions together. The tickets seemed exorbitant, in those days, and time even more precious. But we used to manage. It all changed when I got promoted at a pace we both hadn’t bargained for. Shikha was still struggling with part-time jobs. She hated spending time at home, but nothing was working out for her.

“You pig”, she said, throwing a pillow at me.

The dance competition was still on; I hadn’t changed the channel. Suddenly I remembered that she was waiting for me in bed. She was less angry, more amused. Familiarity breeds amusement, not contempt. Contempt is too weak to survive the test of longevity.

For all the talk of not taking people for granted, isn’t that what we do? I mean, I knew I should have apologized, but when you do something like that every other day, what the point anyways?

*

In the morning, as I reached the office, Riddhi was waiting for me with the draft presentation. She went over it, as I kept looking at her bare shoulders, thin and exquisitely feminine. Yes shoulders, of all things! I don’t know why. I think she caught me staring at her a couple of times, and looked away. I thought of what Shikha will think if I had an affair with Riddhi. Would she even care?

Midway, I lost whatever interest I had in the presentation. As it is, knowing the client, I knew there wasn’t much business prospect there. Still I had to take the chance. I was glad that I thought of taking Riddhi along. I’ll decided to let her do the presentation, and just take care of questions. She needed to learn to do that anyways.

Damn those sexual harassment guidelines, I thought as Riddhi put her arm on the common armrest on the plane. I was in the unenviable middle seat, thanks to the chivalry pressures. On my left, a balding middle-aged guy was leafing through the Economics Times. Riddhi was looking out at the setting sun. The sunlight was playing lights and shadows game on her face, underlining her sharp features. And I kept thinking she didn’t really need to use that arm-rest; she had her exclusive one on the window side. But there it was, her arm, freshly waxed, skin glowing in the reflected light, lightly resting on the armrest. I rested my arm alongside hers, barely touching. She moved her arm away.

Ten years of a prematurely aging marriage, and I had never felt so strong an urge to stray. For one night, mind you. Yes, the eye had roved before, the mind had drifted, the blood had boiled, but this was something different.

*

“There is something I need to tell you”, Shikha said, as I pulled her close to me.

“It can’t wait?”, I said, nibbling on her earlobes.

“No it can’t”, she said, violently pushing me away.

“You’re leaving me?”, I asked, half fearing she’ll say yes.

She smiled derisively. “I don’t exactly have the authority to tell you that, when I almost slept with a man”. She was on the verge of tears. I didn’t want to hear the details. But however fragile, our relationship had survived on truth. On details. In details lies the redemption, when the big-picture is bleak.

“Today, I had gone for an audition”, she started.

Will I be able to take the details, today, I thought. Like where all his hand moved. When exactly did she stop him, if she did?

“Shikha you don’t need to tell me”, I said. My voice was down to a whisper…

“Of course I do. I felt like a slut today. I realized today, the world is not as demeaning as we’ve all made it look like. When you want something desperately …. forget it. That sounds like a justification. And I don’t want to justify. Leave me Pranav, please … Because, you don’t want to live with a ghost”

“We’ll talk about that later”

“Oh yes. We must not jump the pages”, she said. Again derisively, only the derision was directed at herself.

“No I didn’t think of you when I decided I must stop it. That was before… before I consented… But then a fear gripped me. What if I can’t make it, even after this? Would I be able to live like a failed slut. I knew I couldn’t. It’s easier to live like a martyr. So, no, there is no ‘exit route’ for you, you see. You’ll have to judge me. It wasn’t our love which won. Just my fears”

We both couldn’t speak a word for a while. We, who had perfected the art of comfortable silence, struggled with the uncomfortable one.

“Leave me Pranav… please”

Martyrs are made from momentary glory, or madness. There isn’t much of a difference in the two. I don’t know what it was, but I said we could live through this. Against her premonition. She was right; it’s not easy living with a ghost.

*

We checked into a hotel, well past the dinner time. We weren’t very hungry either. We decided to have something light in the restaurant on the terrace. Riddhi was silent for most part of the flight. She was due for a promotion, and I knew what it meant to her. In all my professional career, I had never abused my position. The thought itself filled me with revulsion. But as I sat there with beer, I contemplated it seriously. Riddhi had changed into a simple thin-strapped top and an elegant skirt. She looked stunning.

“You know why I got you here, don’t you?”, I asked, point blank. Although that wasn’t really why I got her there.

“Pranav…” she started saying but stopped.

“Don’t you?”, I pressed, my voice ruthless.

“Yes, for the presentation”, she said. Lameness didn’t suit her, really. But she knew I was serious, yet hoped I was kidding. After all, nothing could have prepared her for this side of mine.

“You mean I couldn’t have done the presentation without you?”, I asked, sharply.

Her lips opened involuntarily. The lower lip trembled. She lowered her eyes.

“I didn’t mean it that way”

“So?”

“I… Why are you doing this to me, Paranv? You’ve changed”

You bet I’ve changed, I wanted to say. Some asshole like me, has used his power to destroy my life, or the facade of it, anyway. Of course I’ve changed.

“Do you want the promotion? I don’t know how these things are done, and I don’t care. But I can’t pretend”

She didn’t say a word.

“You know, you don’t have too many options. The world you want to succeed in doesn’t leave you too many options. It’s now or later. That’s all”

A tear formed in her eyes. What kind of assholes do this, I thought, and then I realized I was doing it. Very seriously, although I was kidding myself this was just a game.

“If the answer is yes, meet me in my room afterwards. And for god’s sake, don’t cry. You’re not a kid anymore”

*

I knew she wouldn’t come. She would probably put up a case of harassment against me. Or just resign and move to some other job. I wanted her not to come, as I sat in my room, flipping through the idiot box.

I heard a knock. It was her. I let her in. She sat down on the bed.

“Pranav … ” she said. “When I went back to my room, I thought it’s some crazy nightmare. But I know it’s not. I mean, I knew things like this do happen in our field, but I always thought you were different. Anyways. I’m here now. What do you want to do?”

I moved next to her. I put my arm around her and pulled her face towards me. She had closed her eyes, but her face was contorted.

“You’ll have to take the initiative, you know”, I told her. “We reward only initiative”

Stop punching a dead bag, I kept on telling myself. Stop this torture. Stop this. How would Shikha have felt, you son-of-a bitch. Stop!

“No I’m not going to make it easy for you”, I said. “You will have to take the initiative”

She broke down. Started crying. “Please don’t do this to me… please… why are you doing this to me?”

It was then I realized what it would have taken for Shikha to not make excuses, even to herself. Not once did she abandon the responsibility of her choices, however forced.

“I’m sorry Riddhi. I am really sorry”, I said, as I patted her on her head. Go home. Take the next flight back. Your promotion is not going to be decided by these things, trust me. I’m so sorry… I cannot explain any of this. It’s up to you how you see this”

She looked at me with a look of incomprehension.

“Please go to your room”, I said as I lit a cigarette and walked out in the gallery.

*

I took the flight home the next evening. The presentation went well; Riddhi was absolutely professional, as always. On the plane back home, we checked in into distant seats. At the airport, I offered to drop her home, as it was late. She nodded.

“Why, Pranav?”, she said as we hit the road. That’s the first thing she had spoken to me after the previous night.

I shrugged. Explanations are a problem, because when you’re unclear yourself, you tend to give out the most sympathetic of the explanations, or the most judgmental, depending on whether you’re trying to absolve yourself, or punish yourself. I didn’t want to do either. Absolving was out of question. Punishing would have been an easy exit. I needed to live with the guilt, and learn what Shikha had learned. I guess I was being prophetic when I said to her, we could through it.

“Riddhi. I wish I knew. I would be lying if I said it was just a game. I am terribly sorry for what I did, but I have no answers… or explanations”

She looked at me, then looked away.

When I reached home, Shikha was already asleep. I rushed outside, to discard the cigarette I was smoking. When I entered the bedroom again, for the first time in years, I noticed that when she is asleep, her face still has an innocent look. I kissed her forehead and slumped onto the floor, right next to her.

Even the frogs have brains

Even The Frogs Have Brains

It’s Prometheus’s fourth book, and suffices to say that it could as well have been his first! While most writers improve over time, with Prometheus it’s the opposite. He is forgetting what little he knew about the art of writing. It would have been so much better if he were writing non-fiction, because at least then he couldn’t be accused of lack of creativity. But this — The Other Half of Frog’s Brain — is worse than its title. I can understand Prometheus’s envy with the frog for its tiny but existent brain, however to write a book like this is insulting the intelligence of the readers. It’s a testimony to the sorry state of today’s literature that something like this sees the light of the day. I regret to say that there is an endless tunnel at the end of light….

Prometheus started reading the review of his latest book with a sense of hope, however going by the past record he knew that a bad review from Shiva would mean an instant best-seller. Not again, he thought. For Prometheus was going through a rough phase in his life. He always considered himself to be an intellectual: someone above the level of masses. But three straight books on the best-seller list had really sullied his reputation, and shaken his confidence. Before he could understand what was happening, he was a popular writer, and the masses were loving him!

He was sitting in his study, thinking about it all, and sulking. His reverie was broken by a loud knock on the door. He considered for a moment if he should feel angry about this disturbance, but decided otherwise. After all, he wasn’t in the middle of writing. He opened the door to find a clean shaven tall guy with a revolver in his hand.

“What do you want?”, Prometheus managed to babble.

“Shut up! And don’t move, or I’ll kill you”

That was ‘Kala Kauwa’ alias ‘Tatya Tapkayega’. His illustrious crime career consisted of two unsuccessful attempts to raid co-operative banks in remote parts of state — because both of the times as the cash was handed over to him, he kept the gun down and started counting the cash.

“Well, it was written there — Count before you leave the counter“, was his defense. But  then bank robberies were just a diversion. Tatya had bigger dreams.

“No, don’t shoot! Take anything you want, money, those books that I’ve signed… anything… Just don’t kill me. I don’t want to be mourned as a popular writer!”, Prometheus pleaded.

“Huh? Shut up”, roared Tatya, “Listen to me carefully. I’m Tatya Tapkayega. I’ve murdered twenty-one people so far. Twenty-two is no big deal for me.”

“…”

“Listen, I want you to write the story of my life. Aren’t you that famous writer?”

“Yes”, Prometheus said dropping his shoulders further.

“And if you don’t write exactly as I say, I will kill you. Don’t even think of going to the police, because my gang would kill you and your family. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes”

“So when do we start?”

“Well, first we need to decide on some sittings when you will have to narrate me your experiences, and then we can think about how we want to present it … ”

“What are you talking about? I don’t have that much time. I don’t care about the details; just write about the twenty-one murders. And I want it done by the end of this week”

Fantastic, Prometheus thought, twenty-one murders!

“Any rapes, sir?” he tried sarcasm, against his alleged better sense.

“Put in couple of them. But don’t be too graphic. I want the book to be for the general audience”

“We will be publishing it under your name, right?”

“Are you crazy? Who’ll publish it? We will publish it under your name, and when it’s a best-seller, you’ll give an interview and tell that it’s a true story: Tatya’s story.”

“But what if it doesn’t become a best-seller?”

“Oh! All your books have been best-sellers. That’s why I’ve come to you. So it better be a best-seller, or else… “

 

“Twenty two is not a big deal for you…”.

 

“Exactly!”

“God! Why do you do this to me! Now, if the book becomes a best-seller, I’m further slotted, and if it doesn’t I’ll be killed!”, Prometheus thought.

“Okay Mr. Tatya, you’ll have the first draft it by the end of the week. Is it okay if I cut out a few murders, twenty-one might be a bit too monotonous?”

“No way!” Tatya shouted, “Not a murder less, not a murder more. I want 21 murders. I’m Lord Ganesha’s devotee”

“Hi Darliiiiiiiiiing….” announced an excited female voice, only it chocked at the sight of Tatya and his gun.

That is Sakshi, the beautiful model who never takes part in beauty contests because she doesn’t like to wear a crown on her head. Make no mistake about it; if she does, she will have that crown on her head; she’s that beautiful. Sakshi’s main problem in life is that she wants a really ugly guy as her boyfriend. Well, what’s the problem, you ask? The problem is that they develop a deep inferiority complex, ruining the relationship. Manoj Dhingra (that’s Prometheus) is her latest boyfriend, and he’s really ugly.

“Don’t move, or I’ll kill you!” Tatya threatened her, which was unnecessary as she was already pretty threatened.

“Okay, now I’m leaving. You take care of this darling of yours, and make sure she understands! Otherwise, twenty three is not too much for me”

With that, he was gone.

“Who… who the hell was that?”, Sakshi finally found her voice.

“It’s a long story. Right now, I don’t have time. Just remember not a word about it to anyone, or he’ll kill us both”

“No! Okay. But what happens to our date?”

“That was our date!”

“Let’s go somewhere, and you can tell me what happened, darling!”

“No. Not right now. In fact I can’t meet you for a week at least”

“No! You can’t dump me like that!”

“I’m not dumping you”

“You are too! Everyone dumps me”

“I don’t have time for this now!”

“There, you’ve already made up your mind!”

“OK! Now will you let me work?”

“But why are you dumping me. Is it because I’m beautiful?”

“Are you crazy?”

“Then what is it! Tell me, I need to know”

The phone rang, providing Prometheus the much needed respite.

“Who was that girl in your house just now?” it was Tatya.

“Oh, she’s my girlfriend, Sakshi.”

“Oh! She’s gorgeous. Could you introduce me to her, properly I mean?”

“She’s my girlfriend!” Prometheus said, trying to sound calm.

“I was!” Sakshi cried.

“What you guys already broke up? Fix me up with her! Or I’ll kill you”

“Who is it?” Sakshi asked.

“Oh, the same guy who was just here”

“What does he want now?”

“He wants me to fix you up with him”

“No, he’s too handsome”

“So what’s your bloody problem with that?”

“Oh, I don’t like handsome guys”

“Hello, are you listening to me?” Tatya cried

“Listen Kala Kauwa, I’m trying to talk to her here, about you I mean”

“See, you have already abandoned me!”

“Will you shut up?”

“I will kill you, if you talk to me like that ever again!” Tatya again!

“I’m not talking to you”

“Okay, I’ll meet him. At least he won’t have a damn inferiority complex like you losers.”

There, thought Prometheus, my girl-friend’s broken up with me, and now I’ve to write a book that will decide whether I’ll live with a stigma of being a popular writer, or I will die!

******

Shiva was sitting in his office with a copy of Fractured Skulls, by Prometheus.

 

“What are my options?” he contemplated. “Either I condemn this piece of trash and see that stupid loser laugh his way to the top of the best-sellers list? Or try the unthinkable?”

After along deliberation that lasted a minute, he chose the latter.

 

Genius Comes Out Of Hiding:

It’s a pleasure when a critic has to eat his own words. Prometheus’s latest book Fractured Skulls is nothing short of a work of genius. In a surrealistic recreation of the most grotesque of the violence that goes around in the dark alleys of our cities, Prometheus has redefined the very norms of fiction — blurring the boundaries of reality and the abstract. It’s a stuff that Burgees and Kubrick would be proud of. The book has twenty-one chapters, arranged into three sections, symbolizing the trinity. The sections themselves contain eight, seven, and six chapters respectively: symbolizing vices, luck, and the devil. Prometheus has captured the dilemma of a cold blooded murderer by profession, who is a romantic at heart. It’s the saga of human mind: its hopes, its aspirations, and the play of light and the darkness within….

Fractured Skulls was published by Walrus India Publications, with lots of publicity. However it never made it to any of the bestseller lists.

It was the first time that a Prometheus book was rejected by the public.

Prometheus was hiding in string of shady hotels in remote towns, when Sakshi called him, announcing to him the news of her engagement with Tatya. She said they were madly in love and that she had convinced Tatya to leave the world of crime for good.

Tatya was more than happy to leave his illustrious crime career. Besides, Sakshi had assured him that her modeling career would take care of their financial needs, and that with his looks, she could get him in the line too.

Shiva is ecstatic that he finally managed to break Prometheus’s successful streak! Prometheus, three years junior to him had beaten him in a short-story competition in school, and this was his sweet revenge, after years of patient wait.

Prometheus is happy for two reasons: one, no one’s out to kill him; and two, he has finally managed to break the evil spell of success.

The word is a one heck of a happy place!

[Another old piece of writing, never posted]

 

Maya’s Story

Sometimes it’s futile to tell and retell stories. I learnt this when I started writing Maya’s story.

I remember distinctly that evening when I was sitting in a relatively secluded corner at Ritwik’s house-warming party. I hate parties, and I wouldn’t have gone there if it weren’t for Ritwik. The guy can get quite sentimental and that’s more painful than spending an hour or two in a secluded corner and guzzling down the free booze — Ritwik never disappoints in that department.

“Many of your old friends would be there”, he had told me

“Like?” I asked naively.

“Ashok, Rajan … you know the whole lot..”

I rather liked to avoid that group, and of course Ritwik knew that. But then that’s Ritwik for you.

As it happened none of them turned up. I almost wished they had, for at least I could have had good time hating them. But as the evening unfolded, I was glad they did not turn up – especially Ashok. Ashok is Maya’s husband, or rather Maya is Ashok’s wife – if I must to do the introductions right, for Ashok was my batchmate, and it’s because of him that I ever got to know Maya, in the usual sense that is. In reality it’s hard to get to know even your closets friends, but that’s kind of irrelevant.

I met Maya for the first time in one of the socials in the hostel, back in my graduation days. Even then, I hated parties of any kind; but then who would miss any chance at decent food? I was munching on some starters when I noticed her laughing loudly on some pathetic joke Ashok had just narrated. Just as I was wondering whether Ashok had got her there, Ashok noticed me, and gestured me to join the group.

“Hey buddy”

Well he very well knew we were no buddies, but Ashok was at his charming best. Besides, he had to show off his girlfriend to everyone, especially me – because he hated me. I’m not really sure why, for Ashok was the star and I was the loser. Probably the stars are little envious of losers like me who don’t have any performance pressures. Anyways, so Maya smiled cordially at me when Ashok introduced me formally as:

“Meet the writer/poet of our class”

That was his way of politely saying I was lousy at studies. Maya, who seemed to be listening to every single word of his as if it were some gospel, gave me a reverent look, not picking up the intended sarcasm.

“Oh! What do you write?” she asked

“Nothing really. He’s kidding. I don’t even write my exam papers well”, I decided to use my often repeated oh I’m so modest line.

She laughed that strange laugh of hers again.

+++

As I looked across the room, after I had settled down with my drink I saw her. For a moment I was unsure if it was Maya, but she laughed at some comment that Ritwik made while introducing her, and I knew it had to be her. Her laugh had lost the naive enthusiasm, but it sounded almost like it used to more than a decade back.

“Hello!” I heard Ritwik’s mock accent, and realized that they were standing right in front of me.

“I presume there is no need for introductions?”

“None”, said Maya promptly, “My husband made them for us years back”

“And where is your husband?”, I asked for the sake of courtesy.

“It’s OK if you don’t ask me that, you know”

It was my turn to laugh.

“No, I really wanted to know. Haven’t met him for a while.”

“And are you missing him?”, she asked mischievously.

“I was, just a while back”, I wasn’t exactly lying.

“He had an urgent official work to take care of”, she was.

“I entrust you to entertain the lady”, said Ritwik, leaving us alone after all these years.

Of course, lot had happened in those years.

“So do you still write?”

“I do”, in the absence of Ashok, there was no need for modesty.

“And what do you write?”

“Anything that catches my fancy really… I just retell stories that I’ve seen or heard”

“Would you tell my story, then?”

That startled me.

“Why would you want your story to be told?”

“Everyone wants their story to be told. It’s just that they don’t want other people to know it’s their story”

It was then I realized that I didn’t really know Maya – the Maya that was standing in front of me. I had never known that this Maya was living in the same body.

“But then many people would know it’s your story, if I were the one to tell it”, I obviously wanted to stay out of it. As it is, Ashok and I shared enough hostility.

“Well they’ll pretend they don’t”

There wasn’t much left to say. I had to listen to her story. Part of it may well be the voyeur value – for her story would partly be Ashok’s story. But that was just a small part. I could hardly turn my back on stories that wanted themselves to be told.

++++

“Why do you guys hate each other?”, Maya asked

We were sitting in the canteen waiting for Ashok to turn up. Well, actually, she was waiting for Ashok to turn up, and I was waiting for my my omelet.

“Hi!”, she said enthusiastically. It was some time since the Socials evening, and I was surprised she recognized me. She even addressed me by my name.

“Hey”, I said, forcing a fake smile.

“We never got to talk that day”

I wondered what we could have possibly talked about?

“Yeah”, I said hoping she would get the hint.

“Are you expecting someone?”

“Yeah. The omelet.”

Another laughter.

“Would you mind if I join you? Ashok asked me to come here, but looks like he’s got stuck somewhere”

“He probably is”, I said sardonically.

—-

There was one question I kept asking myself, all through our conversation that day. “Why me?” After all, she hardly knew me. And for last decade or so we had been out of touch.

“Ashok and I got married two years after he graduated.”

Ah. I remember those days, more clearly than I remember any other time of my life. It’s probably because I had a lot of time and lived at a leisurely pace. When you have time, you observe. When you observe you remember, vividly at times.

For instance I remember, vividly, Maya’s face as she sat across me at the canteen, as Ganu got my omelet sandwich. I remember that because that was the first time I looked at her without she looking at me. I noticed her dreamy eyes, her naive and curious stare, her warm smile as Ganu asked her what she would like to have. It was then that I had wondered for the first time how did she end up with a jerk like Ashok.

—-

“You seem lost”, she said, “you don’t have to listen, you know”

I looked at her again, and noticed that there wasn’t a trace of the naivety, neither the curiosity in her stare. There was just a lifeless blank.

“No, no. Whatever gave you that impression. I’m generally lost”

She laughed at that, a very courtesy laugh.

“The reason I want to talk to you is because I just have a feeling that you’d understand. Of all people, you would”

I understand already, I wanted to say. There was a predictability about the whole affair. I could have told her that years ago. Details only matter to those who have lived them. For others it’s just the plots that matter. And there wasn’t much of variation to be expected in the plot.

“So tell me!”, she pestered enthusiastically, as I munched silently at my omelet. I was glad that I had it to munch on, and had stuffed my mouth, so that it would serve as a good excuse for not talking. Obviously, she wasn’t going to take hints, and there was no way out. It was a minute before I could speak. She was waiting intently, with a sparkle in her eyes. I almost fell in love with her right there, for a minute or two.

“Tell you what?”

“Why do you guys hate each other?”

“You mean Ashok hates me?” I wanted to add ‘too’, but refrained with a lot of effort.

She winked at that, “Answer me!”

“No seriously. Did you ask Ashok why he hates me?”

“I did”

“And what did he say?”

She looked away when I asked her that, and looked back at me again.

“I’ll tell you when you’ll tell me why you hate him”

“But I don’t!”, I said. I was partly speaking the truth. Hatred is a tribute I pay to very few people, and for all he was worth Ashok wasn’t even close.

“Do you believe I’m that dumb?”

That really threw me off balance.

“No. But I did”, I said. After all, she wasn’t my girlfriend or anything!

“Why?”

“Are you interviewing me?”, I asked. Not that I minded answering any of her questions. I had enough time to kill. Still I had to make it interesting enough for myself. It’s painful when a conversation with a beautiful girl turns boring. You want to give yourself some excuse to hang around, but then it’s hard to convince yourself it’s worth all the boredom.

“Yeah. If tomorrow you become a famous writer, I could claim that I got your first exclusive interview”

“So let me guess, Ashok told you that he finds me too frivolous for his taste, and too shallow”

She looked away again, betraying a yes.

“Like I told you, I’ll tell you when you tell me your reasons. Besides, you are trying to avoid answering my question”

“That was just my gut feeling when I first met you”

++++

“Both of us were absorbed in him”, Maya said

“What do you mean?”, I asked jolting back from the memory lane

“Exactly that. I was absorbed in Ashok, charmed by him. And he was absrobed in himself. I was his trophy wife. The first few months went smooth, without any major issues, that is. Ashok was doing well at his job. He used to come home charged up, with some story or other of his small triumphs. On weekends, we would entertain some of his office friends. It would always be small groups, talking about books, classical music, and the like.”

How predictable, I thought. And then one day the lady decided to chip in and contradicts her husband, in front of the crowd. Hubby gets outraged. The trophy wife isn’t supposed to contradict the hubby. Hubby realizes his wife ain’t as dumb as he thought. Wifey realizes her hubby is not as great as she thought. Blah blah blah.

—-

“There you are!”, Ashok said as he walked to the table where we were sitting.

“Hi Honey!”

“Hey man, how are you?”

“Tell me one man who wouldn’t be happy talking to this sweet lady here”

“You tell me man”, Ashok cuddled up along side Maya

“Listen, you’ll have to excuse us. We are already late. Will see you later”

“We’ll continue our conversation some other time”, Maya said, as they got up to leave

“Sure we will”, I said

“What conversation?”, Ashok asked

“I’ll tell you on our way”

—

“There. You’re lost again!”, she said. I guess I had missed a lot of what she said. But not exactly. As I told you, I didn’t care for the details.

“So one night after the guests had left, and I was picking up the dishes, Ashok told me that I shouldn’t exhibit my ignorance in public like that. I was shocked, for it wasn’t I who was ignorant. I asked him what he was talking about, and he said that there are a lot of things I did not know, and it would be better if I didn’t embarrass him with ignorant statements like that in public…”

Over the years, she kind of gave up. If he wanted to be the hero, someone had to play the second fiddle, and she didn’t really mind that. Habit is a powerful thing, if you could embrace it. Maya did embrace it. It was easy playing the trophy wife. His group of friends was as self absorbed as he was, so it didn’t really matter.

Then one day Neeraj, her husband’s subordinate, stirred the tranquility. It was the first time he had been invited to their home. He never seemed comfortable in the group. That day Ashok had a few drinks too many. As the guests left one by one, Neeraj offered to help her cleaning up.

“It’s okay, I can manage. You should go home, it’s late”, she told him.

He insisted.

“You didn’t speak a single word the whole evening”, he said after a while.

“I’m surprised you noticed that. Anyways, there wasn’t much to say”

“There is always something to say”

“At times there is no one to listen”

—

“What do you think Maya?”, he asked me in the next party, in the middle of a heated debate

“Maya hates politics”, Ashok interjected

“So much the better. We’ll get an apolitical view”

Ashok was left with nothing to say. Everyone was looking expectantly at me…

Well, nothing new again. The knight walks in, to help the damsel in distress. Only the walls are mental, and he breaks them one by one. She falls for the brave (read sensitive here) knight. Why is she telling me this? I could write hundred such stories, and get butchered by the critics for writing lame, cliched stories.

I sipped on the wine, pretending to hear her story.

I met Maya twice between that meeting in the canteen, and today. On the first occasion, it was with Ashok again, and predictably formal. The second time was when I met her accidentally on the road. It was just a week before their engagement. We had a general talk then. I don’t remember much of it, for I was waiting for my bus, and kept looking at my watch. She was lost in her pre-engagement euphoria. So she never asked me why I hated Ashok again, neither why I thought she was dumb the first time I saw her. I wasn’t complaining.

“You fell in love with Neeraj?”, I asked her, cutting short her narration.

“I don’t know what the word means anymore. All I know is, that we made love every time the opportunity presented us. You can call it a liaison, an affair. Only I know that I wasn’t scared of getting caught. I wasn’t feeling guilty of cheating my husband. Not even for a second. I would have walked out with Neeraj if he had asked me even once. But he never asked.”

“He used you?”

“It wasn’t a deal. I needed him, and I didn’t think about the future. I had shut myself to a world, a world in which I wanted to live, but which I had incomprehensibly turned my back on, I had isolated myself one brick at a time, unconsciously. I wasn’t even aware of another way in which I could live, when Neeraj had shown it to me, equally unconsciously. It wasn’t a business transaction.”

“And you? You never asked him?”

“I did. One day, as we lay in his bed, I told him that I was in love with him”

She stopped abruptly, as if gathering strength.

“What did he say?”

“He said that although he liked me a lot, he was not sure he could spend his life with me. That he was too young to think about long term relationships”

“And you bought it?”

“That is not all. I told him that I didn’t care about settlement. I wanted to know if he loved me. That’s when told me that I wouldn’t be able to take the truth. I told him that that’s one luxury I have always afforded myself.”

You see, that’s when Neeraj told her that he thought of her as his boss’s trophy wife, and he wanted to break his boss. Eventually he got involved into her, but frankly he didn’t know her that much. He could never figure out which part of her was a mask, and which one real.

And then it hit me why she wanted to tell me her story. She wanted to find the answer that she hadn’t got in the conversation she had started with me a decade back. It was a key to her riddle. Only I had no answer to give her.

---

[PS: This was posted long back on dudseascrawls.com, but I realized that it's not on my own blog, so crossposting]

 

 

Gossamer Tales

“Please… Go away”, Sridhar said suddenly.

Nandini looked at him blankly. When she shared the news, this was the last response that she expected from Sridhar.

“Sri…”, she managed to say finally, “what’s wrong?”

Sridhar looked at her, his face was calm as ever. “I say this kindly, Nandini. Walk out of my life right now. This is the right time. Tomorrow, when I’m a tiny part of your world, it will be harder, for both of us”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sri. And what is this tiny part? You know what you mean to me”

Sridhar sighed. He remembered the first time Nandini had approached him, after his literary criticism class, to ask some questions. He had patiently explained to her, till each of her doubts was cleared, and not to mention, she had driven home a few points of her won. In his twenty years of teaching career, very few students had managed to impress Sridhar in the very first encounter. And still fewer had actually dared to bridge that socially accepted gap between professor and students, and become a friend.

***

“He’s in love with you”, Subbu said to Nandini. They were celebrating their anniversary with a dinner date, and were waiting for the desserts to arrive. Nandini, who was back from a visit to Jayesh’s place. Jayesh, Sridhar’s nephew, had forced him out of his cozy one bedroom flat in Bandra, and taken him to his new, swanky flat in Borivili, when on one of his sparse, but regular, visits he had found Sridhar running a temperature of one hundred and three. He had informed Nandini, too, and for couple of days, she was juggling her job, and house, and attending Sridhar, who insisted that he can take care of himself, and that Jayesh was there anyways.

Today, she had been there again, after leaving the office early, so that she could make it to their dinner date in time. Subbu, of course, had been sweet as ever, and had himself suggested that they meet somewhere close to Borivili so that she would not have to travel much again. She picked up some supplies on her way to Jayesh’s house, because she knew Jayesh, with his busy schedule will be stretched as it is. When she rang the bell she was surprised to find Jayesh opening the door, instead of Naru, Jayesh’s cook and helper.

He was as courteous as ever. In a hushed tone he told her that today Sridhar was acting a little strange and had called him home early, if possible. Luckily, he had just a client call scheduled in the evening which he was able to shift to later in the night. Shridhar, he said, insisted that he shouldn’t be disturbed by anyone, as he needed some rest.

“That’s not strange, he needs rest”

“I know, but why did he have to call me home at all then? After all, Naru could have easily made sure that he had rest”

“Unless, of course, he didn’t want to see me”, Nandini wondered aloud.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Nandini. I don’t know what has happened between the two of you, but he would never want to avoid you”

She had smiled at that, and handed him the supplies. “Anyway, I guess it’s better to let him rest. Tell him I was here”

“Are you leaving just like that? I didn’t even offer you anything”, he called for Naru.

“Don’t bother. I’m not a guest here. Anyways, I was in a hurry today. Subbu is waiting for me”

“Oh, okay. Say hi to him. Oh shit, it’s your anniversary today, isn’t it?”

“Yes”, she nodded.

She noticed that he was in a deep thought when she turned to leave.

***

The waiter arrived with their desserts just as she was about to respond to Subbu. She looked at the Tiramisu, and then at him. He had not ordered anything for himself, as usual. He’d just take a couple of bites from her. She looked at his calm, casual face, which showed no signs of jealousy, anger or even mild displeasure. He should at least show a few possessive instincts once in a while, she thought, and then brushed it aside. It was his most endearing quality for her, after all.

“Come on, Subbu. Not you, of all people”

He smiled at that. “Don’t you think so?”

“You’re serious?”

“Of course I’m serious. I know what he means to you, and I wouldn’t even think of mentioning it if I weren’t serious”

She remembered Supriya, her closest friend back in college. They had grown apart, when she had asked her if there was something going on between her and Sridhar Sir. Coming from Supriya, it hurt her. Can’t there be just a deep relationship without it being romantic, she had asked Supriya.

“Have you ever looked at the way he looks at you?”, Supriya had asked.

“I don’t want to discuss this”, was all she had said. However hard she had tried to put that one stray incident apart, she could never forgive Supriya for asking that question. Subbu knew the story.

That was long back, she wanted to say. And frankly, I don’t have the option of not discussing it today. Not with you.

“Why do you think so?”, she asked, trying to sound casual.

“It’s a gut feeling. I thought it was obvious, even. He’s so possessive about you”

She smiled, despite herself. If possessiveness is the measure of love, then what about you, Subbu?

She didn’t ask that, though.

“You don’t agree?”

“No”

That’s what I like about you. You would not even ask me why, unlike me.

“I think it’s not possessiveness. I think, at some level, he’s genuinely worried that he’ll be the third person in a relationship, and he hates that. You know he hates occupying the fourth seat in a local train — not just because it’s a discomfort for him, more so because all he can buy at the expense of that partial benefit is discomfort of three more people. He hates all of it. And that is why he prefers standing. There is a dignity to a total discomfort, he said to me once, you can at least buy peace of mind with it, even if momentary”

***

“Would you drop it?” she said to Sridhar one day, in the middle of a telephonic conversation that was punctured from the other end by just a few syllables.

“Drop what?”

“The posing. It doesn’t suit you”

He laughed. She could catch a sad tinge in that laughter. Am I reading a sadness in his every other thing, she wondered. But since she told him about Subbu, he had closed himself to her. She had always found it odd that she was the only friend that he had. He rarely talked about any of his old friends either. But then they had so many things to talk about that it never really seemed important to talk about his life.

“You won’t get it, till it’s too late, and I’d rather not wait till then”

That was the longest sentence he had said to her that day, and cryptic enough to make any number of sense. When she asked what he meant, he just chuckled and changed the subject.

There was no one to talk to, either. So she let it go, and kept in touch with Sridhar despite his obvious attempts at avoiding her.

***

She had almost finished the Tiramasu silently, when she looked up at him. He was observing her, as if with just half of his mind. She noticed that he had helped himself with his customary two bites, without slightest of deliberation — neither in doing it, nor about not thinking about doing it.

“You don’t want to know why I think so?”, she asked finally.

“No. I think you know him better than anyone else in the world, and if you think so, then you’re entitled to it”

“So you’ll take my word for it, then?”

He smiled his disarming smile.

“You know I take no one’s word for anything. Granted that I know him very little, but I trust what I see. And there is nothing wrong with it. You’re an amazing woman. It’s so easy to fall in love with you”

She chuckled. She remembered the lines, almost identical.

That day she was walking towards Bandra station, early in the morning, after spending the previous night at Sridhar’s place, when a mid-aged lady called her name. She looked at her, but couldn’t recollect ever having met her.

“No you don’t know me. But let me just tell you that you’re not the first one”

“Pardon me?”

“Sridhar”, she said, “It’s not his first affair, you know. At least, this time he’s not married”

“What are you talking about? Who are you?”, she said trying to keep her temper in control. After all, she didn’t want to hear from strangers accusations about their relationship.

“I’m Shalini, Sridhar’s wife. Ex-wife, I mean. I left him ten years back”

“Yes, I know”, she said, in a matter-of-fact voice.

“And did he tell you why?”

“I never asked him”

“You should have. I left him because he was having an affair with one of his students. The whole college was talking about it, just as it would be about you”, she said softly.

“It’s for them to talk. But he’s not having an affair with me”

“And what about you?”, she asked.

“That’s none of your business”, she said, and wanted to add now, as an afterthought.

“I see”, she said with a bitter smile. “I guess it’s futile talking to you. It’s so easy to fall in love with him”

****

“Why are you smiling?”, Subbu asked.

She narrated the story. Subbu was silent for a while, thinking. “Do you know this other girl?”, he asked finally.

“Yes. Sridhar had told me about the story, or his side of it, long back”

“When Shalini confronted him with his alleged affair, he denied nothing. For him denial was beneath his dignity. And it’s futile, he said to me. Denial is never successful, because when someone accuses you, she’s prepared for denial. There is an ‘I thought you’d say that’ thing about denial that makes it so impotent. Anyways, I was telling you about this other girl. I met her one day, at Sridhar’s place. She was married, with a son; well settled in her life. She was staying in Germany, Her husband worked there, and she was on a tour of India, after five years or so. Sridhar was not around. She waited, and we talked for quite some time”

“She wanted to know how Sridhar was. It was a few months after Shalini left him that she met her future husband. She had introduced him to Sridhar, but he found Sridhar too full of himself. She was madly in love, and Sridhar, who was a mentor and a close friend, didn’t have much place in her new world. Meetings were replaced by phone call, and phone calls by quick information calls. It was almost obvious to her that he’d understand”

“He didn’t. He had never cared for what the world thought. For him friendship was immutable. He had risked his married life on that premise, his whole social life. And her timing couldn’t have been worse”

Subbu listened intently. For a moment she thought he wanted to ask something, but then his face changed again, into an attentive one.

“You won’t believe, but that day I asked her, a complete stranger, if she though Sridhar was in love with her”

It was Subbu’s turn to smile. It was a wise smile, of understanding, not knowing.

***

She looked at Nandini with an expression that was too familiar to Nandini. “No, of course not. I thought you knew him well. He speaks so much about you”

Nandini looked into her eyes, as she replied. “No, I never had any doubt. He’d have told me if it were the case. I wanted to know what you thought. I always thought it’s very easy to misunderstand Sridhar. And I find it ironical, because he’s very simple if you look at it one way. People are unpredictable. Sridhar is predictable; predictable because he’s life is ruled by a consistent set of rules, however strange they may seem. You know the rules, you know the man. But over the years I’ve started to fear that maybe it was just me who could figure him out”

She shook her head. “No, but I know what you mean. My husband never figured him out. And I wasn’t strong enough then to go with my heart. I avoided Sridhar to avoid questions, and misunderstandings. In the process I lost the closest friend I had.

“You know, he loved Shalini so much that he was completely broken when she left him. He went through a severe depression. And he was aware how hard it was going to be, but he was too proud to explain. I offered to talk to her, but he wouldn’t allow me. And part of the whole problem was that, despite his love, he wouldn’t think of compromising on his other relationships. I guess I would have reacted in the same way that Shalini did, if I were in her place. Ironically the one friendship he put his bets on didn’t survive the test of time. I was to blame. Or maybe it were his idealistic notions that were the root of it all. He was born a little too soon, I guess”

Nandini could make out the thin lines of guilt in her face, after all these years.

“It’s okay”, Nandini said, finally, putting her palm on her shoulder. He paid for his ideas. We must not pity him for that. Everyone deserves to bask in their hard earned martyrhood. Let’s not take away that from him, by feeling sorry for him”

She laughed. “Finally he’s got a perfect friend, I guess”, she said.

***

Subbu sat still.

“Another irony”, he observed, as the waiter arrived again with a bill.

She smiled. “And another martyr”

They smiled, together.