Walking along

I find myself taking off my short as I walk down the pavement. It's a mechanical action that I don't quite understand. It's hot for a second; cold again. People look at me, seemingly disapproving of my pants now being pulled down under my legs. Before I know it, I'm crossing the road, gathering giggles from some, frowns from others.

I pass by a mirror. The greying beard and hair and stained teeth seem to seem too distant. It is as if I am supposed to know this man though I cannot register why.

This feels like an Aldous Huxley book coming to life. But I go on, gathering more onlookers. I look down to see bodily parts I don't believe are on my body. There is no life, no colour. I walk on.

The police come and stop me and someone asks me my name. I do not answer. They look for identification of some sort. There are none. My torn pants are another road and I am far away from home. Do I have a home? What is a home?

You've probably seen me before and wished you had unseen me. I'm the naked old man who lost his way. My mind has a mind of its own. And nobody's trying to fix me.

Away from the madness

It was truly the most beautiful sunrise. And I know everybody likes to say that about any sunrise that they watch from the hills or a beach. But personally, even if the aesthetics of it were not good enough for a painting to an artist, it was for me. Then again, it probably had something to do with the where and why of things.

After a long bus ride with only music and Woody Allen for company (I'm not complaining), followed by a fairly long auto ride in pitch dark with no battery on my phone, I had made it to the homestay. It was the kind of place where crickets ruled the sound chain, where the silence was so pure that it was actually disturbing to anyone arriving from a city. Just the right dose of nature for anyone even remotely missing its presence. Much to my Rishi Valley self's surprise, it wasn't that comforting being in the lap of mother nature. There was a fear of what the dark contained, the faces behind the sounds, the movement of the trees.

The flickering light made for interesting train of thoughts, allowing the danger to sink in, making me want to embrace it. I was beyond the judgment and madness and smoke of urbanisation - safer in a place unknown. There was more clarity in everything that the 22 years of my living had amounted to and for the first time in a long time, there was a sense of peace. Of belonging somewhere so detached from the normalcy of daily existence.

Initially, there was the restless sleep - the candle was right next to me, preparing me for the darkest hours of the night. The monkeys jumping around on the roof and the curtains flying in the wind seemed to add to the occasional shivers down the spine. But what followed was the most simple and deep level of rest. And when I woke up, it felt like the world was done spinning on its axis for the day - the most normal thing for it, a new way to see it for me. The change was almost tangible in the way my body warmed up to the sun's rays on it or the sight of a dozen shades of green I could see in the forest below. Spread out vast into the distance, it helped the realization sink in. And there was nothing more beautiful than its simplicity.

The view from where I sat.

Stranger

I see you sitting there wearing your black full-sleeve shirt. It doesn't look spectacular but it isn't too bad. I know you’re hiding your paunch under all those extra layers. We all do.

You have your hands on your mouth as if wondering why the three boys came and chose to sit next to you when all the aisles behind were free. And now you seem bothered by the four ladies behind you, giggling away to glory as they pass the camera from one person to the other so that no one feels left out.

You adjust your spectacles. I think that’s your best feature. Other than the fact that you were reading a book and came alone for a play, of course. You are like me, except I am you at gigs. And I sure know how much fun it is to experience what you are experiencing. I think.

May I please borrow your book? Any reading material will do right now.

I don't really know you, but I hope we meet again.

Death Lake

Soon before my college was coming to a close, my friends and I drove down to a nearby lake called ‘Death Lake’ or even ‘Suicide Lake’ by the localites. It’s a pretty self explanatory name and yet, something oddly intriguing about the cliff and this neatly chiseled out circular water body, the depth of which nobody knew. 

There were cars and corpses in it, they’d say. And yet, dhobis would sit by the edge smashing white linens onto the wet rocks every evening.

My friends had jumped in once. It was a Sunday and my mother was in town and I had not accompanied them. They all caught a cold that day. Luckily, I didn't.

The next time was the last time we all saw the lake. My friend took off his pants and jumped in. There wasn’t even a second thought about it. I saw another friend do the same. But then, these were boys who had experimented with LSD. And I've heard that sometimes, the effect never leaves you.

Well, I was sober. Too sober. But I did it. I made the plunge. No screams. Just a run up and a jump. 

The water pulled me in. It was deep. That is all I knew. I opened my eyes and there was green and blue around me – like trapped ferns in the beautiful world of their own. 

I don’t remember why, but it was the most alive I've ever felt. 

And at that single moment, probably the most dead.  

Love, or something on those lines

She poured out a glass of neat whiskey and dropped in a cube of ice. The glass immediately became moist on its outer surface. She picked it up, stirred it, and took a long sip, looking at him all the while. The man in the room stared at her, an eyebrow raised, arms folded. The drink was downed in two long sips and her twisted smile and the look in her eyes felt new and strangely nice to him.

Before he had showed up, her girlfriends had been over for an evening of catching up and bitching and reviewing each others’ lives. The ‘review’ was like an open forum between the four of them, where everyone could voice their opinion on the way each of them was living their lives. She had brought out the bottle before the review and kept taking swigs, much against the liking of the other three. She hated that they knew her so well, without her having to spell it out to them. She took another long sip, spilling some because of her physical instability. She put up her hand, almost as though she were ready to give a speech and wanted silence. The sentence could not even be started...

_____________________________________________

“You’ve had enough tonight, Fatty. No more!” he said, walking towards her in an attempt to take the glass.  “It’s the third time this week. I can’t keep com---”. “I never asked you to. If your fucking shoes had not made so much of noise, I’d have been happily passed out right now. You came to check on me? I’m fine. You’re dismissed. Go!”, she said. As always, she was convinced she had had the last word. 

He stood leaning against the wall as she got back into bed and pulled the blanket over her head. Two minutes later, she peeked out to see if he was still there. He was. She covered her face again, wondering if he’d go, half hoping he wouldn’t. She heard him walk towards the bed. His voice near her ears made her jump as he pulled the blanket down and whispered “You hate that I'm here, don't you? Or do you actually like me being here but want me to believe that you want me to go?”

She tried to stop herself from smiling. Why did they have to have a myriad of good memories together to cherish now that they’d apparently ‘grown up’? Eventually, the era of casual dating began and the childhood playfulness stopped. Other boys she believed she loved found a new place in her life. 

The warmth of familiar arms snapped her out of her reverie. They stayed that way for what seemed like hours, talking randomly about whatever came to mind. Finally, she tapped him on the back and asked him to check the time. “It’s us! Who would mind?” he asked her, surprised at her wanting him to go at this juncture. She just smiled. When he asked her why she was drinking so much, she gave him her innocent smile that he knew so well and said “Fuck you”, wriggling out of his grip. 

He jumped off the bed and looked at her. It was now or never. He held her face in his hands and kissed her. They were warm and smelling of more whiskey than he’d ever had in his life. “And you will stop drinking so that the next time we do this, I don’t feel like I’m kissing a whiskey bottle!”, he said, pulling himself away to look at her and say what he had to. She laughed at the comment and tried to find words to apologize. He looked at her, predicting her reply to what he was about to say next. Her eyes had given her away too long ago, but he had not been able to read them or his own, till only recently. 

“I love you. Marry me and let me look after you every single day of my life from now on, all right?” She looked at him, intrigued by whether she was too drunk to make sense of this joke he seemed to be playing, or whether it was oddly real. “Okay.” “That’s all I get for finally doing something that feels more right than anything I have done in the world? What has the world come to? Where is the appreciation for me being a man and all? You’ve had it!” And he proceeded to tickle her till she was laughing so hard that her stomach cramped and she had to beg him to stop. He had pinned her to the bed with all the tickling. She stopped struggling to get free of his hold. They were both breathing heavily and she caught her breath and said “I think I love you.” He just smiled. 

January

It began soon after I met you. Could I call it the best time I've had in my life? Probably not, since I believe I'm too young and refuse to go under a bus anytime soon. But I remember a series of chest pains due to excessive laughter and alcoholism. God bless you for that. It was like watching yourself grow up as another person. And I could not bother trying to make sense of it.

You were a child when I first saw you. Sure, you were 17, but that counts as a kid considering how you used to be. Yes, you smoked a cigarette back then too. But I'm afraid the maturity was not introduced due to inhalation of disgusting tobacco that will eventually lead to your death. But don't die, please.

If you remember clearly, there were always a dearth of awkward moments with us. In hindsight, there ought to have been more. We were probably supposed to just get along right from the start, which is strange. There was no 'working on'. Why not? The rum and vodka shots were not supposed to replace that. Sigh.

January, bro. I wish I remembered anything of that time. And I still managed that bloody Project 366 blog throughout. Such a blur. It reflects on the writing too, I must confess. But I would do anything to get that back - the pizzas, the phone calls to the grocery store, the forgotten existence of this place called college. C***s of the first order, if I may say so. I love you for bringing that part out. You complete me. 

Ah, yes.

These days aren't coming back, are they? This is it, right? You get to decide what memories (hopefully) you wish to create for yourself for the future, but you don't know what really lies in the future. And in that case, what's the point of making elaborate plans and having a pre-mature death for a reason you won't know till it hits you?

Some things appear so far gone in the past that you're not sure if it's worth including into your present in that same measure, and unfortunately, it's your present that determines your ****ing future. It's a viscous cycle and you don't know how to get off it or if you want to and what you want or don't want for yourself. You thought you were too young to make these life decisions on your own. But you're a few months away from turning a year older and this time, there's actually a certain maturity, or complete lack of it. It's disturbing to know that though others may not agree, you still feel too independent for your own good. You want to make the plunge, and yet, you have no clue how to even begin.

I must not regret this.

What if they forget me?
Have they already?
Did I even want this for myself in the first place or do I want to get back onto my intended path?
What path was I on anyway? 

Girl: I want to teach blind children to feel a flower, get the right distance from it and click it with a camera. With anything.

Boy: Haha! So cute! But it'll bum them out that they can't see the outcome of their effort, no?

Girl: No, they'll just know they managed to capture what they'd felt.

Boy: But the photograph itself wouldn't be of any sort of tangible value for them, wouldn't you think?

Girl: True, but it's exciting even when you close your eyes and let someone paint out a picture for you, right!

Boy: It is. I think it's a beautiful thought. You should talk to some kids and see if they enjoy the idea.

Girl: Okay :D

"My constant reminder": My entry to the Get Published contest

The idea:

The premise of the story runs on the lives of two friends, living in denial of what they share. The two are both 'normal' in the conventional sense of the word - family always comes first, The Beatles were the best thing to have happened to the world, the travel bug biting either of them means a non-negotiable adventure that must be made. Physical attraction was always the missing factor, but they were bound to each other in every other way. When you get to see the best and worst of yourself and him in relation to each other and the world, that's all there is to a relationship, isn't it? Conversations, incidents and other forms of interactions between the two will create the love story yet unwritten.

What makes the story real:

This could be anyone in today's world. Two friends imply two strangers who chose to have a conversation and get to know each other. It isn't a conventional love story and the characters may be fictional or non-fictional. But it'll be easy for a reader to draw parallels.

Extract (potential):

'I want to be alone with your smile', read the piece of paper, which had turned a pale yellow in its wait to be re-read. She flipped through the rest of the book and the words on the pages took her back to the woman she had once been, a past that now seemed too unfamiliar.

In tired scribbles, she had written, 'I wish I had not met you. It took me so long to break out of the company of worthless men. I took pride in walking the roads alone, earphones on to block out the sounds of society that I had genuinely stopped caring about. It was a wonderful time of my life, where memories may not have included conversations and the sharing of feelings; instead, music, poetry, lyrics and a fascination for the world took over my life in the best way possible. 

I wish I had not kissed you. The butterflies in my stomach are like uninvited visitors, and you sometimes make me wish I hadn't leaned in. I have not known the touch of a man less savage than me, and to have you occasionally hold my hand scares me. You were once a stranger to me, if you remember. I’d rather go back to that than to have you let you in close and leave without a warning ever so often.'

She knew she had to call him. With a sense of nervous excitement, she dialed the number, knowing perfectly well what to expect on the other line. Much to her disappointment, nothing had changed.

_______________________________________________________________________________

The idea:

The premise of the story runs on the lives of two friends, living in denial of what they share. The two are both 'normal' in the conventional sense of the word - family always comes first, The Beatles were the best thing to have happened to the world, the travel bug biting either of them means a non-negotiable adventure that must be made. Physical attraction was always the missing factor, but they were bound to each other in every other way. When you get to see the best and worst of yourself and him in relation to each other and the world, that's all there is to a relationship, isn't it? Conversations, incidents and other forms of interactions between the two will create the love story yet unwritten.

'I want to be alone with your smile', read the piece of paper, which had turned a pale yellow in its wait to be re-read. She flipped through the rest of the book and the words on the pages took her back to the woman she had once been, a past that now seemed too unfamiliar.

In tired scribbles, she had written, 'I wish I had not met you. It took me so long to break out of the company of worthless men. I took pride in walking the roads alone, earphones on to block out the sounds of society that I had genuinely stopped caring about. It was a wonderful time of my life, where memories may not have included conversations and the sharing of feelings; instead, music, poetry, lyrics and a fascination for the world took over my life in the best way possible. 

I wish I had not kissed you. The butterflies in my stomach are like uninvited visitors, and you sometimes make me wish I hadn't leaned in. I have not known the touch of a man less savage than me, and to have you occasionally hold my hand scares me. You were once a stranger to me, if you remember. I’d rather go back to that than to have you let you in close and leave without a warning ever so often.'

She knew she had to call him. With a sense of nervous excitement, she dialed the number, knowing perfectly well what to expect on the other line. Much to her disappointment, nothing had changed. 

_______________________________________________________________________________

They went by the name, 'She' and 'Him', much inspired by an American folk duo that went by the same name (minus the quotes in between). Self-proclaimed hippies in the 21^st century were what they were - lovers of music and all influences that aided the process of absorbing it.

She was a writer once, free of any sort of will to do any work that involved her having to step out of her cozy room and made to put her paper and pencil down for even a moment. Eventually, as she discovered, not too many people paid you to do that. Since her great plans of a full-length novel had never worked out, it was any travel-related writing that she took up, any chance that she got. She was distressed now because of the lack of words that seemed to have occupied her brain since he had shown up.

That silly young man with his curly hair and knowing smile had worked his charm. And all he had had to do was catch her staring at him across the table. And respond with a grin.

As all good stories would have it, She was drunk with Him. Not ‘with’ him, per se. Just in a room full of drunk acquaintances, friends and of course, strangers. It was a common friend’s party, and like all good parents should, his parents too had left him home alone and gone for a holiday. He made some calls and voila! there were close to 25 of us in a duplex.

Let us assume that it was a moonlit night, one that demanded the sharing of kisses and consumption of wine. She was absorbing it all – writing down vigorously in her little note pad words what the space was making her feel, the effects the wine was beginning to have.

That’s when she saw Him. He was heading straight for her on the terrace with a lit cigarette, the smell of which made her nose stand up instantly.

“May I have a drag, please?” she asked.

“Here,” said the man in a low voice, offering her a pack of Marlboro and lighting the cigarette for her.

Pretending like he didn’t exist, she turned back to her note book, puffing way as she thought of the next line to write. Much to her surprise, the words wouldn't come.

Her story had found its end.

Endnote: This is my entry for the HarperCollins–IndiBlogger Get Published contest, which is run with inputs from Yashodhara Lal and HarperCollins India.

We never learn

Temptation, it happens to everyone.
Temptation, wipe that smile off your face.

We never learn. We're supposed to pick up where we left off and NOT err again. It's like a flow chart in front of you giving you a clear path. And yet, to spice things up or just to be the fuckers that we are, we pick the road less travelled. There's no realization that it's the scarier path to walk on. But we still do it.

Stop kidding yourself. He does not look at you, does not show any sort of feelings to be with you, conveniently ignores messages that reveal how attracted you are to him. But just accept that he's not that into you. He may have been telling himself that he is, that poor delusional fellow.

Grow the fuck up. Stop kidding yourself.

Nothing is ever finished.