Something of Myself

I saw it coming. I knew you kept lying to me. I am to be blamed as much. I kept pretending as if I did not know anything. And you? You just thought we'll squash the moth at the fag end of the hour! How convenient?!

This is something I DESPISE. You paint me roses and then go and fetch lilies. You say red all the while we are at the store and come back with green. Why can't people be honest about things? About their own feelings? About their intentions? About desires? Why hide? What is at stake?

I DESPISE people interfering in my life. I like to live on my own. I have absolutely no qualms with the word 'solitary'. Why should I?

There is so much anger inside me now. Anger at being led the wrong way. Anger at barking up the wrong tree.

And so you will be delighted. At my cost. Hit the floor, down the martinis, chomp on the steak and who knows where it will lead to. Worse still, even if you don't do any of these things, I would be still hurt as much. Why? Because you lied to me. All the way. I can live with an impulsive lie - crafted by instinct to wriggle out of a situation. Or a deliberate lie, only to be explained later. But a well thought out, 'planned' lie, now that is something way too much for me to handle. It nauseates me. I feel the bile in my mouth. It does something to me. I cannot explain.

You see you can hide emails, text messages, chats, wall posts on FB but you cannot hide your desires. I see through them. You cannot be pretentious - it's not your forte, or is it? Did I miss out something here? Have you evolved while the sun was shining and the cows were away?

I have failed to master such skills. I think I should go back to the workshop. I should start working at myself. This me is going to be fooled all the time. This me is too soft. This me will be walked over. I cannot allow this. It's not part of the oaths. I will not accept things for the sake of keeping things alive. I do not function that way. I wear my heart on my sleeve and expect others to do so. I told you, I am to be blamed as much in this. But the question is, how long? I won't change. And I won't ask you to change. It's too late now. But I won't pretend to not see through your lies. Not anymore. Life's too expensive for that.

You did what you had to. Now wait for the sting. Sorry dear, life's just got to be fair.

I.3

And S- was being moved from one square to another as the two friends were soaking up the alcohol in unmeaningful conversations about life.

S- had just arrived home and was about to go for a shower when her mother thus spoke:

'Will you be having dinner or have you had already?'

'I will Ma. I'll take a shower and join you.'

'I have had dinner already. See you tomorrow. Good night.'

That was a bit odd. Ma never use to have dinner without S-. 'Anyways', she thought, 'no point trying to rationalise with her over something that she has not spoken about.' Deep inside she knew that her mother resented P-, our knight in shining armour, who was presently finding it difficult to walk straight outside the What If bar. S- finished her shower, donned a pair of shorts, a spaghetti top that was gifted to her by her dad and she lazed over to her mom's room.

She sat there gently, beside her, and stroked her forehead.

'Ma, are you asleep?' Are you mad at me? Why?'

There was no reply. But she knew that her mom was not asleep - for she was not snoring!

'Ma, tell me, please!'

'Nothing.'

'Well', she thought, 'at least she has uttered one word. Let me push her a bit further, but before that I should cajole her a little bit...' - who is not hungry for love?

She kissed her on the cheeks.

'Ma, I am waiting. Out with it now!'

'You went to see P-, didn't you?'

'Yes' (how did she know?!)

'Why?'

'Ma, it was just a visit. Nothing more.'

'You know S-, I have never liked him. He has been a no-gooder all his life. The proof of the pudding lies in the ruins of your marriage. So why revisit the past and ruin your life further?'

Was this just a piece of sheer co-incidence, or was it Divine Providence, or sheer irony that here were two people (S-'s mother, and P-'s friend) who were both, in their own inimitable ways trying to explain to S- and P- that life's past is meant to be put behind.

'Ma, don't go crazy about this whole thing. I did not go to sleep with him. Neither am I courting him all over again. Please don't make a big deal out of everything.'

'Yes, if only you had listened to me, if only your dad was alive, then this marriage would have never taken place...'

She was cut short by S- - 'Now who is rewinding? How can you be so hypocritical Ma?'

She was tired.

'Good night Ma. I am sorry if I hurt you.'

She closed the door and she headed for her bed.

------------------

Next morning, there were early signs, as they would say, of what the day would bring. There was a SMS from P- and that was the first thing she read in the morning:

'Morning. Live show @ 730. Kenny G. Let me know if you are interested. Have a nice day.'

He always wrote long texts. He hated abbreviations. He felt this would kill the language eventually. Mrng for Morning. U for You. Wld for Would. It pained him as much as it hardened his stance.

S- ignored the message. She was not fully awake until she had gulped down the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice...

'Will Ma still be angry or has she cooled down?'...

She got out of her bed, looked at her dad's picture which was framed on the wall. This was her first morning ritual. Looking at him. Thinking about him. Initially, after his demise, it used to be a difficult exercise - staring at him, and feeling the void. But now, it was more of a ritual - of remembering him, of not forgetting him or his contribution towards her being. She was what she was because of him. Daughters have this strange connection with fathers. Call it Freudian if you like, but simply put, it is an inseparable, irreplaceable bond between a girl and her role model.

She walked up to the kitchen where the glass of juice was waiting for her. Her mom performed her duties to the clock. She never failed to make her breakfast, pack her lunch, make her snacks, cook dishes that she loved. Inside the kitchen, she was in-charge. Outside, it was S-. In between, the dynamics took over. The relationship became complicated. Egos stared at each other. The past enveloped their lives.

As it did with P-, who was now terribly hungover, and wondering whether he should head for work at all. Alas, he managed to pull a Disprin out of the bed-side drawer. Disprin always worked, within 15 minutes, especially when you pop one in a glass of water.

Finally, he got up and opened the curtains. The Thames, which was now in the centre of an environmental controversy, was flowing as best as it could. The weather was nippy. And it was raining, like it always does in London. He hated this drizzle. He loved the city but not its weather. There was something about England that made him stay here for over 14 years now. He arrived here as a MBA student with a Queen's scholarship. And while the country seemed to have stood still for all these years, its people had changed. Both literally and figuratively. Whites were being outnumbered. Blacks were all over. The collective consciousness of Britain was undergoing change. Definitions of Britishness was being pushed about; being English was a socio-cultural debate that had roped in the likes of Rushdie, Kureishi and Smith. P- liked this winds of change. For a man like him, born and brought up in a small town in India (Jamshedpur), his home was where he came from...[to be contd]

I.2

She left with traces of Poison in the room. He closed the door and lit up a smoke, as he placed himself on the armchair by the window. He could feel the heap inside. A heap of fragments. Of unfulfilled longings. Of wishes he never could articulate. Chunks of anger which needed an outlet. He took a drag and made a few rings. Was it too late to reach out?

As he wondered, the phone rang. S- was at the other end.

'Hey, what's up? Long time no hear. I am in town. Want to meet up tomorrow?'

'Glad you called. I have been thinking of you, but could not reach you.'

'Is everything ok? You sound unlike yourself. What's the matter?'

'Everything is fine. Don't worry. I am ok. Let's meet. Can you do today?'

'Ok. How about 9 o'clock at the What If bar?'

He paused for a second. It was three years since he last visited the What If bar. It used to be his favourite place - once, his hunting ground.

'I will see you at the bar.'

He got up and pulled a pair of denims. He wore a deo, cleaned his specs and donned a tee that said 'I belong to Me'. He got to the elevator, and then the car, and sped away towards the bar.

It was ages since they got together. Best pals they were at one point. Perhaps they still were - he wasn't too sure. Friendship is like a well oiled machine. You oil it, it runs fine. You stay away from it, it rusts. But the beauty is, he thought, that with them, the idea of 'distance' was non-existent. It did not matter if they never spoke for 6 months; it did not matter if they did not meet for 1 year (or even longer); it did not matter that he never invited him for his anniversary party; it did not matter if he ducked his way out of the uni reunion - friends, like them, were inseparable. For they had travelled far and wide, together, for years. There was something permanent about them - the sort of permanence that he missed in his life. Questions were never asked. Conversations poured like aged whiskey.

He parked in the shopping lot and started walking towards the bar. As he entered he looked around to see if S- had arrived. He checked his watch. It was 9 o'clock sharp. He was never late. But S- always was. So he sat at the bar and ordered himself a large JD with coke - 'On the rocks please, and please get the coke separately. Thanks!' Both of them loved JD and coke. It was 'their' drink. The taste reminded him of times well spent.

He checked out the women as he waited at the bar.

S- walked in and nodded at him. S- was always like that. No hand shakes, no hugs - just a look, or a simple nod. He came and settled himself.

'New glasses huh?', he said with a tinge of smile.

'Yeah. Some passions die hard.'

'What are you having?'

'Same old, JD and coke.'

He smiled in approval. 'Can you get me another of his drink please?'

'Don't you think this place has become really loud? When was the last time you were here?'

'Yeah, now that you mention...It's been a while.'

The waitress got his drink - 'How many?', she asked pointing at the ice bucket. 'Five please.'

She dropped the cubes, winked at him and went away to serve another customer.

'CHEERS brother - to us!'

They raised a toast.

'So tell me, what's new?'

'Guess who I met today?'

'Who?', he said, with a disgusting look (how would he guess)!

'V- was at my place couple of hours back.'

S- was silent. Then he managed to say - 'V-???'

'Yeah. It was good to see her.'

'What the fuck does she want?' He was always like this - aggressive and protective at the same time. He knew what she had done to his friend. He knew that his friend was at fault too, but he chose to side with his friend for he never liked her to begin with...

'Nothing. She is working here. Divorced. Perhaps, just thought of getting in touch.'

'Is her divorce the reason why she was here to meet you? She wants to get laid, does she? Or does she want to ruin your life all over again?'

'Oh come on dude, it's not that.'

'Then what is it bastard. Explain. I am not liking where this conversation is going...'

'Relax. We ain't thinking of getting back together or anything. Just good to see her man. Lot of memories came back. Some good one, some bad ones - like Denver would say!'

'Keep it to that. Keep it in past tense. Unless of course, you have fallen in love with her all over again.'

'No, no! Nothing like that. It's hard to explain. Look, you know we were made for each other. We loved each other dearly. But then, something went wrong. Circumstances. For that you can't just blame her. She played the whore. I played the dog. That does not take away the moments away.' As he was saying this, he could feel a lump in his throat.

'You getting emotional about it?'

'No. I am not. I won't. I don't look back, you know that. People I uproot, remain uprooted forever. Good, bad, ugly - that's how it is. I just sometimes wonder, what if we had opened a dialogue? I mean, I tried on several occasions, but she was closed, in her shell. And finally, when she turned around, it was too late for me. But I honestly feel bro, that if we had tried to talk to each other, a lot of boundaries would have dissolved. Things could have worked out.'

'Yeah, and I could have been the freaking Queen of England, and you could have opened with Sachin Tendulkar. So what dude?'

'Nothing. Just a tingling sensation somewhere in the corner of my heart, that I failed. And nobody wants to look in the mirror everyday and hear himself saying LOSER.'

'Look, I seriously don't understand why you are revisiting your past, especially when you don't plan to undo things.'

'It's not in our hands S-. We cannot undo. There is a set of circumstances in which we operate. I am not saying destiny, but we are bound by circumstances. Perhaps, we bring it upon ourselves...but after that,we don't have much of a choice. Given the circumstance, communication was ruled out. We then chose to go our ways. That my friend, is the fact and this is the way it will remain.'

S- was quiet. He had finished his drink and ordered for two repeats.

After taking the first sip, he spoke:

'Life is not the boardrooms we frequent. We don't have weekly meetings to take stock of emotions, successes and failures. There is no boss sitting above you to warn you of a crisis. So, the point I am getting at is that you got to move on. Don't get stuck in thoughts. You wooed her. You won her. You lost her. It's over. Why are you behaving like an infant who has just realised that his dear toy is in pieces? Whatever I know of you, you still have your head on your shoulders. You have a rocking career in front of you. Why put unnecessary pressure on yourself?'

'I know what you mean. I am not putting pressure. But in life, it is not always so easy to just 'move on'. Life moves. You don't. Often. Almost always. You move when life choses to move you. From one square to another.' [to be continued...]

I.1

She stood silently at the door. She was wearing a crisply ironed Saree. A coy expression on her face - eyes sparkling.

'*****!' she exclaimed - she was simply so elated to be at his doorstep.

They hugged each other. She smelled beautiful.

What is it about human smell? Why is it so unique and everlasting? Why does it stick onto you after decades? The sweet, beautiful smell.

'Did I make you wait for long? I am sorry. Let's go. But before we do...'

They kissed each other.

Now that was in flashback.

Present tense:

She came in. He made her a cup of tea. They sat, silently, without a word. Yet, her eyes, her eyes gave it away. She never knew what being quiet was all about. She was this bundle of energy, always smiling, always talking, always indulging in expansive gesticulations. But today she was quiet.

Is it because the number of years that stood between them were far too many? Had age overtaken emotions? Did the present suck her past? How could she change so much?

She wore a red tee with a pair of blue jeans. She had definitely lost weight ever since he saw him. There was a certain calmness in her eyes now. As if the world could move at its own pace, and she in hers...

After a while she asked:
'So how have you been? What are you doing these days?'

He did not hear. He was still thinking about how he bumped into her on The Magic Roundabout. She was walking towards him and he was praying that it was not her. When he looked away from her, as she was about to walk past him, she stood right in front of him, staring him in the eyes (she was always daring).

'I am good. Been in Mumbai for six years now.'

The last time when they met was at the bank. She had come to make a demand draft and he was waiting in the other queue. They never spoke. Both were angry. Both ashamed at themselves. For not being able to make it work. Guilt percolated lot later. Memories were flooded with beautiful times. Times that his wife would keep to herself. Times that he could never blurt out, even when he was sloshed. Times that made the man he was today.

'I have thought of dropping you a line so many times but I kept holding back.'

Why dammit - he thought!

'Why? Still mad at me?'

'No. Can't be. But still hurts.'

Her ego was hurt. Not her. Her pride took a beating. She was thrown out of the house. Just one of those maddening acts which you keep regretting and carry to your grave.

'I am sorry. I should have listened to you. I thought you were just trying to gain too much control.'

She laughed out loud.

'Can you ever be controlled *****?'

He kept quiet and looked at her - his eyes pregnant with regret. If you knew him, you'd know, he was hardly the kind who nurtured regrets and lived in the world of 'Only if...' But her loss stung him. Not then. But years later. He realised his mistake but it was too late. They say it's never too late to find a newer world. They are wrong. You can't turn back time. You can't fold up life as if it were a scroll. You move on with life. Life moves ahead with you.

'So how are the kids?'

'I don't have any. We broke up two years later.'

'I am sorry to hear that.'

'Don't be. It's alright. Serves me right. I was an idiot to run after money. I thought the diamonds, and the expensive wine would make a fairy tale ending. I was short-sighted.'

They both were actually. Why on Earth would they have parted otherwise? The issues they had could have been resolved with dialogue. But his pride took over hers. And love was too prematured. Does love mature over time, or do people?

'So what are you upto these days?'

'I am working with an NGO for slum children. Since I don't have any of my own, it really feels cathartic to spend time with them.'

They had thought of the name of their first child. It had to be around a 'fruit'. The fruit of their love you see...love that never to be.

'Do you want to have some french fries?'

She loved f.f. She was crazy about them.

'No thanks. I better be going. It was really nice to see you.'

'Why so early?'

He used to say this every time they met. Some habits die hard.

She smiled. He still could not believe the change in her.

'We'll meet up another day. You need to tell me what's happening in your life.'

Nothing, he thought.

They hugged each other. She smelled the same. They held on to each other for a while. Her breath on his shoulders.

She broke the trance. Farewell glances were exchanged. She left him at the door. He went inside and cried. In pursuit of happiness, he had traded peace. He was paying the price everyday of his life.

[to be contd...]

What do you do when you greatest fear comes alive? You duck? You refuse to see it? You face it?

What if things weren't this way? What if happy endings made way into our lives from the pages of fairy tales? What if the road to Rome went to Paris? What if the road less travelled led to nowhere? That makes sense, doesn't it? The road less traveled is because it does not lead anywhere. Dumbo!

After having won you tell me that it does not matter. I was fighting the damn battle for you. And now it does not matter? I could have spent my time otherwise then...

How easy for you to shrug your shoulders, how trying for me to try and shrug! How easy for you to own up to yourself, how trying for you to include me! How easy for you to make plans excluding me, how trying for me to keep you out! How easy for you to say he is yours, how trying for me to let go off him! How easy for you to say she don't matter, how trying for me to reconcile the differences! How easy it is to widen the crack, how difficult it is to conceal! How easy to turn around and pretend to sleep, how difficult to cry silently.

I do not where to look now. Which way, except inside. Inside takes me away from you. I hate looking inside. I want to run on auto mode. Being on auto mode makes me happy.

Someone once told me that wisdom was to be found in silence. Silence irks me. Silence intrigues me. Silence gets on to me. Silence is not me. I am not me. Not this me.

* * *

Now onto some sunshine stuff. And I am stuck at wondering what to write or where to look for inspiration? Life's been slotted into a routine. I hate routine. And as He would have it, spontaneity is a luxury I cannot afford. Why, I hear you asking me? Because the risk-taker in me died long time back. Then, I had the fire in my belly - now I don't. Or may be it's dormant. I don't know.

I wonder what I should do. Will the Hills help? Can friends be trusted? I am looking around for that one moment when I can be myself and let myself loose. Unleash the monster in me. Bring out the kid. Bugger the man. But where? when? and most importantly, in front of whom? The lines echo in my head - 'Ke more phirabe onador e/ ke more dakibe kaache...'

I tell myself in these times, that this too will pass. Just that, I don't how the wind will smell when it finally blows the pieces away...will it rain? When?

I want to be the editor of a women's fashion magazine. Don't ask me why 'cause I don't know myself.

I want to go away to the Hill. It is the only place that stills me. Everything inside me calms down.

I want to make a movie. On women - fallen women, angels, housewives, working women, corporate snooty, hip cat, mothers, lovers, betrayers - faceless, nameless, countless women. Their lives. Untold stories, unacknowledged sacrifices...

I want her to come back soon. I feel empty. A weird sense of incompleteness. A state of being.

I want to quit. And I want to start all over again.

I do not want to do the PhD anymore...it's a dream that will remain unfulfilled - without regrets.

I want to run to the Hill. Until I find myself. And then, vanish...into oblivion...lost in the crowd. I don't want to fit in and I don't want to stand out. Enough of this.

I want to drink. To my failures. For I have learnt from every single one of them.

Dont expect any structure today.

Dont expect seamlessness. Today is not the day.

I read that time = a moment in which things happen. But how do we explain memory? If my memory is a thing of the past then how come it confronts me in the present and stands between the future and myself?

I feel miserable today. A dear one is leaving the country. Going far far away. Leaving a void. Haven't felt this sad for quite some time now. Some fucker is playing 'I am leaving on a jet plane.'

Signs.

I wonder why people are irreplaceable? What is it that they leave behind for you to crave? Why is 'distance' and time and space matters of such importance? Isn't everything about energy and matter? Quantum physics? If they have cracked all the formulas of being why are questions still unanswered?

"Ami baadi. Ami bibadi. Kothao udhao aporadhi..."

Let's raise a toast. To the hours and hours of sheer indulgence. To consumption and absorption. To sharing. To knowledge. To your unmatched skills.

To the halo that I see behind you.

It was a Volvo bus. The ones that I had never seen before in my life. The night was cold and I was waiting at the bus stop with another 3-4 people to start my journey...

The bus came on time. We boarded and I sat by the window seat (I always loved to, not anymore). I had a spanking new SONY walkman. Pure white with the logo in blue. The sound quality was amazing. I had only one cassette on me (a deliberate move for me to absorb everything that the songs had to offer). The singer was Lucky Ali.

I listened to it as I was heading back home after 2 years. From the land of the unknown to a place where everything was familiar. Dad called once and asked if the bus came on time and if the flight was on time...

I re-discovered Lucky Ali today and the same album that got me goosebumps. Aks. I find it difficult to articulate the experience. Everyone was sleeping in the bus. It was around 2 in the morning. We were on the motorway. It was chilly outside. And of course, the perpetual rain. And in my two ears, a portion of India. My culture. My own. My language. My music. Reaching out to me. 'Dil ka kaina sun...'

I use to shut myself out while travelling back to India. It was, on hindsight, perhaps my way of 'preparing' myself to head home. I always feared that India, on return would shock me. That I would feel out of place. That I had integrated myself with British culture and that I would end up belonging to no-where. I was later told by Ma that Dad feared the same thing about me...but alas the last time we met, he was happy that I still had India in the core of my being. That I was still his son. And not some sorry half-firang with a pseudo accent...

I am feeling all those emotions today. As I head towards home the parallel belies irony. There is only person to meet now. No anticipation. No excitement. Just the quiet sense of comfort of getting back home. Of seeing a few familiar faces. That's all.

Yet, the bus ride, the rainy dawn, the gleaming tail lights of the cars, the speed of my anticipation, the smell of culture and the need to go back to one's dear ones eclipses all thoughts. Some memories never die. Some moments remain trapped, frozen, forever. Thank God, nobody can take it away from us. The ones that really create the tingle inside you are almost always inexplicable. They just remain. They are and will be.