Father of Son

Mile after mile I followed, with skimming feet,
After the secret master of my blood,
Him, steeped in the odor of ponds, whose indomitable love
Kept me in chains.
— Father and Son, Stanley Kunitz

When Samar and his family first moved to Lucknow in the summer of 1995, they stayed in the almost decrepit ancestral home in Ismailganj, much to the consternation of all the family members. All, except Sharmaji. He probably thought it would help build their character. And if walking in the suffocating heat of the Indian summers through makeshift brick lined roads that perennially smelt of filth and sewage were any judge on the subject, everyone certainly built a lot of it. Enough to last a lifetime, it would seem.

Ismailganj was, in most places, hardly more than a collection of hurriedly put together shacks. At night, if there were no blackouts, the light from the bulbs would be so dim that even the shadows started playing around on the walls. (Samar believed that the sugar mills in the vicinity were thieving defaulters who were responsible for this unfortunate condition.) There was no running water and hence the needs for the daily ablutions were met by the in house hand pump. It was assumed that the weekly bazaar at Chinhat would cater to all other essential and not so essential requirements. If the lack of amenities that had been previously taken for granted suddenly became a little too conspicuous in a life that had not yet grown accustomed to it, nobody said a word. Out of fear of undermining one’s character.

In the beginning, it was all quite romantic. At least for Samar. He enjoyed bathing under the village hand pump whenever the prudish neighbours wouldn’t shoo him off. The idea of teaching English to the villagers every weekend at the sarkari school also seemed quite poetic. However, when the reality of the situation slowly but steadily started sinking in and it no longer remained possible to ignore its unpleasantness, everyone pleaded with Sharmaji until their eyes turned red. He did relent eventually. But some part of his will died with that consent on that fateful day. He never bothered to lecture them again on the art of simple living. Ignorant of all such undercurrents, the kunba gathered its belongings in a truck and moved to a more ‘civilised’ part of the city.

It is not the kind of place you can easily find anymore. The ambitious network of flyovers that is a part of the Lucknow Bypass has all but swallowed the small villages that lay on the outskirts of the city. What was left of it was poached by real estate hawks who suddenly woke up to the fact that land value would soon skyrocket. Farms that hadn’t been tilled in years were sold off at throwaway prices. Those who refused to relent were conveniently silenced and have now become part of the local folklore. Everyone knows how easy it is to twist the arm of the law in this part of the country. But alas, some just don’t see it coming. Sharmaji got a stay order from the court to ward off the authorities and clung to his dear life. Samar still believes he found God at the same time.

Posh colonies for high ranking government servants, huge malls with multi-level parking, cineplexes screening the latest Hollywood blockbusters, and fashionable coffee joints with posters of American rock stars on their walls now pockmark the Trans-Gomti area. The new middle class prosperity has at last come home to Lucknow. This is probably as it should be. The world seems to be engaged in a constant struggle to renew itself and hold onto the past. When one cares to look at it that way, regret and nostalgia seem equally futile. The past does live on, though, in people and their cities. One only has to look over one’s shoulder in order to realise how hard it is to deny or let go of it.

Having held his fort when the landowners in and around Chinhat were being hounded by the property dealers, Sharmaji had finally been convinced by Samar’s mother to sell the house in Ismailganj. For some reason, Samar’s presence was necessary for the deal to take place and that is why he had been asked to find some time to visit Lucknow. Memories known to have been ignored and forgotten suddenly came flooding back. He remembered how Sharmaji used to make his weekly pilgrimage to Ismailganj to ask after the tenants there. How he insisted on cycling to the place because it reminded him of his school days. How Samar felt like a stranger in his own home whenever he was required to be present there for the Diwali puja. And even though such thoughts made some part of him feel uneasy, he looked forward to the trip.

~~~~

Samar knew he had touched base with familiarity when he found a school named “X. C. Lent Academy” sharing the same geographical space as “The Piccadilly” – one of the two five star hotels the city boasted of. When he overheard a co-passenger using the term dabang in order to describe the local petrol station mafia. When he could safely tell one road from another. The city had changed definitely. From the last time he had visited it. And though it tried hard to project an image of normalcy – through flies swarming over sweets being vended on the occasion of Janmashtami, through garage mechanics haggling over five rupees with Honda Splendour owners, and through unending lanes of CNG auto rickshaws queuing up for fuel – the discrepancies became evident soon enough.

A new government some months ago had brought about a revolution of sorts. Monuments and statues proclaiming the greatness of the party leaders had sprung up all over the town. Money that could have been used for flood relief was being used to erect monstrosities like Parivartan Sthal Dwar and Samta Mulak Chowk. The Chief Minister’s birthday was an event that most people (common junta and bureaucrats alike) dreaded. Not without reason. Every government institution was supposed to offer a peshgi on the occasion. Cases had been reported of sacks full of cash being delivered to the CM’s doorstep. Samar ruminated over the thought for a while. But his mind wandered off towards less pertinent subjects. At least ones which wouldn’t make a difference to the bigger scheme of things. That seemed a comforting occupation for the meanwhile.

He had always found resonance within this city. It seemed to reflect all the changes he had undergone. It did not mirror them. But the symphony was a secret that was known to both of them. The fact was evident in his love hate relationship with its lethargic and lonely afternoons that brought his life to a grinding halt, almost without fail. In the unending source of inspiration that it had seemed to become. In more poetic moods, he had made himself believe that the city had become a cornerstone in his life – a steady anchor in the ever meandering scheme of things. And now, when his home had finally assumed a new image, he wondered how long he could refuse to don his own mantle. One such empty afternoon had caught him unaware and silently posed a question which he had been avoiding answering.

Sharmaji was a man who preferred to keep to himself. So much so, that even his own son could not claim to know him better than any of the umpteen relatives who never got tired of commenting on his aloofness. He had grown up knowing both a shameful struggle for existence and the reassuring stability of the Indian middle class. Often lost in contemplation, he appeared to be the kind of person who saw the world in black and white instead of varying shades of grey. Having responsibly spent his life in the well worn Hindu grooves of studentship, marriage, and late-life detachment, he eagerly awaited the final renunciation of all his duties. It was a well known rumour in the family that his yearly donations to Ramakrishna Mission, under the pretext of helping build a library, were merely a preparation for the final phase of his life.

For as long as Samar could remember, his father had preached, and stood by, his unrelenting ideals. “Your desires can be endless, but your needs are so often limited,” he used to keep on telling his unmindful children. One of the few men who followed more than they preached, he was the father figure you needed but did not want. The one who taught you the importance of character when all you wanted to do was soak in the pleasures of life. The one who dwelled upon the goodness of an undemanding life while you prayed to God for a car, a telephone, a house, and more. The one who would ask a seventeen year old to read passages by thinkers like Dayananda and Ramakrishna. And the one who lent his character to yours without even making it apparent.

When young, Samar had sometimes vowed that he would never grow up to be like his father. Each time he was denied a special birthday dinner, he would curl up in his mother’s lap and make imaginary promises to himself, repeatedly reaffirming his conviction in them. Perhaps he was naïve enough to ignore the changes that his heredity had made certain. But his denial – a defence mechanism in response to his lack of will to fight the obvious – had protected him from realising the implications. Now that he could no longer retreat back into his shell, he tried to trace the roots of the personality that was gradually becoming his own. He wanted to gather up the pieces before it was too late to even question them.

Samar could not decide what was more surprising – the realisation that he had become so much like his father or the fact that he had been trying to fight and deny it for the better part of his conscious years. The answer, he felt, would go a long in way in helping him come to terms with his own identity for he had often felt that he was living someone else’s life. One he wouldn’t want to be in but was required to by some unknown force of nature. Caught between these two worlds, the consequences had sometimes proved to be quite disastrous. He realised that putting an end to this internal conflict would not only help him in charting the course of his future, but also in accepting the consequences of his indecisive past.

One evening, as the family sat around the dinner table, the subject of the property deal came up. Between mouthfuls of boiled torai and rice, his staple diet during the Monsoons, Sharmaji explained why Samar’s presence had been necessary. “Tumhare naam ki registry hai,” he said matter of factly. “I was hoping that someday you would perhaps come to live there. Humne khud ke liye bhi yahi socha tha. But it seems out of the question now. So keeping the house doesn’t seem like the advisable thing to do. Such is life. There is no use in struggling against it all the time.” He did not speak again until dinner was over. As he prepared to retire for the night, he came to Samar’s room and sought to assuage his sense of righteousness, “Chinta karne ki zaroorat nahin hai. You should not feel bad about this. It is all going to be for the best. Kal court chalna hai yaad rakhna. Jaldi pahuch gaye toh jaldi sab kuch nipat jayega.”

That night, as he lay tossing and turning in his bed, Samar pondered over what his father had said. He tried to gain some insight into his words, as if expecting them to shed their cloak of ordinariness and somehow enlighten him. If only words could come alive to tell their story! Finally, giving up any pretence to sleep, he went outside for a smoke. A thunderstorm in the evening had bathed all the leaves in fresh colours. Glowing silently in the diffused light of the street lamp, they seemed happy on getting their dignity back. A gentle breeze had picked up its pace and was trying to alarm them into doing something irrational. Lightning in the distance was followed by the ceremonial crack of thunder. Then without any further warning, it started to drizzle. His cigarette was put out by the first few drops and then slowly he watched the rain pick up momentum, lurching and splashing over his naked feet. As nature played out its games for its own amusement, Samar knew what he had to do. Outside, all was chaos; but inside, he was feeling quite calm.

Inspired, yet again, by The Romantics. Damn, I feel like a broken record.

Monster's Ball

In medieval England, prisoners awaiting their execution were known as 'monsters'. The night before their sentence was carried out, their jailers would hold a feast in their honour as their last farewell to the world - the Monster's Ball.

“He likes to sketch these days. It calms him down. But he won’t let you look for he is not too good. He hasn’t had the time to learn it properly. Well… here are the cigarettes. If you could stand back…”

She nodded. The gates opened as a switch was flicked, and she stepped inside the cell. It was small and warm, in such sharp conflict with the monolithic, imposing architecture of the rest of the compound. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim yellow light and as her mind made a mental note of the fact that despite appearances, he had still managed to cling onto his whims. The walls – grey and bleak on their own – were plastered with colourful knick knacks – postcards, newspaper clippings, posters, and some photographs. He had even scribbled at a few places – quotes from books, lyrics to his favourite songs, and some tacky one liners. The bed was made, and neat. The flip flops in the corner were perfectly aligned with the margins of the tiles. A few books from the library were arranged meticulously on a small stool. The order missing in his life had found home within these four walls. And, she noticed, there were no mirrors.

He looked haggard for his 39 odd years. But a strange inexplicable wisdom shone in his eyes. Wisdom much beyond his years that he seemed to have paid for with the limp in his left leg, the crow’s feet around his eyes, and the disconcerting wheeze in his breathing. Other subtle, more dangerous signs of this deal were beyond the scope of a superficial inspection. His hair was short and the absence of any grey streaks seemed to be the only sign belying his real age. If he was surprised at having a visitor at such on odd hour, he did not let it show. Special occasions can call for some special allowances, after all. He put down the book and looked expectantly at her. He looked calm, as he had been sketching faces all night.

“Your cigarettes. I thought you might want to have some. These are the right kind, I suppose? The guard told me you haven’t smoked in quite a while. It’s good, you know. Better late than never.”

“They are perfect,” he said, lighting one up, very slowly and deliberately. He took a long drag and closed his eyes. “So, what brings you here tonight? I thought we were done for the day.”

“I thought as much and I had meant to sleep well tonight. But after seeing you in the morning, I had this nagging feeling that I needed some closure. And well, if it doesn’t happen now, then you know... ,” she was now speaking very hurriedly, almost skipping over her own words in order to get to the end of them. “You were always so foolish to fall for mysteries. Such a childlike enthusiasm for them. So much for all the talk about wisdom. A living oxymoron, if ever there was one. It went to your head. All of it. The talk about life, ideals, sacrifices… Oh dear, I am rambling.”

“Now, now… hold your horses, will you? A wise man must always be a child at heart. Don’t you agree? How would he ever know what he has given up? But I must confess I am surprised. You come tonight to talk to me about contradictions? That would be a first.”

She shifted uneasily in her corner of the bed. She had been pretending to straighten out a few imaginary creases in her skirt, trying to grant some semblance of order and dignity to this meeting and the fateful hour. They had seemed very disobedient and were causing her considerable distress. Her feminine grace still had its private moments though she tried to make it appear otherwise. The fidgeting had caught his attention and he had smirked, being reminded of how she had had the habit of twirling her hair in loops whenever she was agitated. “Still twirling,” he thought to himself. But the act had caught him off guard and his smirk looked sinister, almost diabolic, in the half light. She caught a glimpse of it and shuddered inside. A deep breath helped her regain her composure.

“No. I came tonight because I needed you to tell me something. You have become so habituated to weighing pros and cones, as if the urge to act on impulse is almost dead. But before I get carried away and learn your bag of tricks, I must succumb to my instincts. Why did you have to go away?”

“I did not just go away, it was for a reason. Not yours obviously, but mine.”

“No, no, no. That’s all behind us. An act of passion, a lapse of reason, or a willful act of weakness – I am not concerned with that. Why did you have to go away from me?”

Lines from a favourite book suddenly came to his mind. “The past is too much a part of the present to be analysed with any degree of accuracy. It does live on, in people and their cities. One only has to look over one’s shoulder in order to find how hard it is to let go of it”. He thought about digressing then laughed away his own stupid thoughts. More than anything, he did not have the strength to say anything that did not feel absolutely right. This was his ball and he laughed some more, almost choking on his own epiphany. She appeared nervous finding him hysterical but her manner was poised. Her eyes, though, gave her away. They seemed to be suspended in misery, ‘like unshed tears on a brimming eyeball’. Finding her thus, he felt a sudden surge of vicious, uncontrollable grief and felt like submerging himself in it. But years of patience had taught him how that never helped. He knew that now and so he decided to allay her fears and put her mind to rest.

“There, there. I don’t exactly know. But I am thinking… trying my best to come up with the right reason.”

“You can try to be evasive but you know very well that I was all but dead to you long ago.”

“You put it too harshly. That was never the case. To a certain extent, it is my mistake that I decided to keep you in the dark… I know, I know, that was something you did not want. But I couldn’t bring myself to do otherwise. After all this time, having expected you to pour over every possible option, I thought you would have worked it out. Well… uh… I felt intimidated by you.”

Silence.

“You seriously expect me to believe that? How could I… you are dodging it again, aren’t you? What good is going to come of it now? You have this prison of your own making. You did this! You have been either forgotten or ignored. You will be dead tomorrow and no one will even know. And you still have the pluck to just leave me in the dark.”

“You can still sound cruel when you feel like it. Never mind. Hmm… I am not being evasive. I… You will have to take my word for it. You did scare me. There was always so much of life around you. In you. And there was so little of it to keep me company. I could have tried grabbing it with both hands but I had this weird feeling that most of it would still manage to get away. It was as if the best I could do was be a mute spectator. I felt incomplete… insecure maybe. How could I offer you any of that? I did not want to imprison you in the fortress of my insecurities. I was… it wasn’t a pretty place. I tried to reason with myself that I wanted the best for you. But, you already know… there is no point in lying now. That was just a means for keeping guilt at bay. Not that it worked for me. Not that it worked for you either.”

He was not used to providing explanations. Particularly ones like this. The ones that portrayed him in such light. It had taken a considerable amount of effort to so. Even tonight. He sighed, waiting for her to respond, but looked away. He felt strained of all will and he knew he wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye. A part of him wanted her to just accept his reasons and leave. But another wished she would unburden all her grief and get rid of its baggage.

“I could believe you. But that can only mean I will come to hate you. And I don’t want that weight on my conscience. You… your reasons… they sound very alien. They are not you. You could have tried.”

“Tried with you? Felt complete? Who is being poetic now?”

“Yes! Yes. I guess that would have been one way of going about it. But you were such a quitter. Whatever happened to ‘Oh, I am so strong, I can take anything’? You wanted to be wretched all the time and so you never tried otherwise. You stupid reason is just an excuse for not trying hard enough.”

She was livid. Her eyes had been a warm ocean of unhappiness just moments ago, willing to confine within their folds everything and anything. All transgressions and every mistake. But they were blazing balls of fury now, spewing betrayal, hate, and, of course, hurt. Her eyes – they had always been so vastly human, capable of reflecting the inner depths of her soul. He could see that now. And he missed that.

“I did not… I… I am sorry. That is all I have to offer you now. I would try harder if I could go back in time. If nothing else, I could be stronger and more humble about it. It’s a pity I never got around to inculcating the virtues I needed the most. But all this is wishful thinking. I might have learnt from my mistakes. But I do not have the luxury of reliving them. You do not. It’s history. You have your present now.”

All this was said with a lot of pauses and repentant sighs in between. But his words were genuine and determined. The effect of was not lost on her and she calmed down, her mind somewhat at ease.

“I can not forgive you. But you never needed my forgiveness. Even now, you don’t. But I am glad I know now. That is reason enough for this unpleasantness. And I hope you will take it that way. I don’t know what this’ll do to me… I won’t be left wondering. But I must leave now. He said we have just one hour.”

“Huh… oh, yes you need to go as well. Could you… better be on you way then.” He added as an afterthought, “I think we’re going to be all right”.

She smiles, but does not reply. A few minutes later, she got up and kissed him on the forehead. As she crossed the pale yellow line that marked the boundary of the cell, she said softly, “You mean to say you will be all right”.

Bad Nerves

Partially inspired by the real-life experiences of some larger than life characters.

The woebegone LML Vespa was coughing out ominous looking fumes that would have put the snot-nosed tempos of the city to shame. It presented a funny sight on the city streets, wobbling and gasping its way to glory – a perfect postcard for the dysfunctional capital. The dirty green shade of the scooter had been a bright parrot green at the time of purchase. On being questioned about his aesthetic sense, Ritwick’s father had used some of the choicest cuss words and remarked that the ‘lovely’ colour would spruce up the dreary atmosphere at home. Nobody had dared question his artistic acumen thence.

Years of misuse and negligible maintenance meant that grime and soot had settled in every nook and corner of the contraption, not only depriving it of any bright colours but also the least amount of dignity. Even traffic policemen seemed to be wary of stopping the lumbering beast. The license plate had all but fallen off and one would be hard pressed to make out any of the numbers or alphabets. It seemed as if they had once gone for a ride with the wind and had never quite managed to make their way back. Every now and then, the engine would sputter and threaten to give out. But a quick shift to neutral and a gentle reassuring tap on the side seemed to put it back in high spirits.

The famed transportation was now used only for dubious purposes. Only last year, after a bout of drunken revelry, Ritwick had expressed his desire to march to Sitapur on foot, and then proceeded to enlist Shlok in his cause. Several alternatives and negotiations were bandied back and forth. Eventually, Shlok managed to convince him to ride the Vespa instead. When the battered vehicle gave out just outside Janakipuram, hardly ten kilometers into the momentous journey, Shlok had breathed a huge sigh of relief and thanked his stars several times over.

Both of them had walked back home at 4 in the morning, leaving the scooter to its fate at an all-night dhabha on Kursi Road. (But not before they had regaled the proprietor with their sorry tale and engorged on some mutton kebabs). Next day, his father had made Ritwick lug the piece of junk all the way to their home. Thereafter, he had never expressed any desire to march, on foot or wheels, whenever he was drunk. Today, uncomfortably perched on the weather-beaten seat and brows furrowed in deep concentration, he was on his way to Shlok’s place in order to put another one of his harebrained schemes into effect.

“Today is a special day, boss”, Ritwick beamed as he daintily parked the Vespa outside the brown gates.

“Bakwaas!” Shlok brushed him off. Despite his promise to stay away from Sitapur, Shlok had learnt to be suspicious of his bright moods ever since the fateful march had failed to materialize. The Vespa had only added to his misgivings today.

“Boss, dheeraj rakho. You will know. I got the Vespa. Get dressed. We are going to get some action.”

Shlok first raised his eyebrows in exclamation but then let out a sigh in defeat. He knew the stubborn pig won’t listen. Besides, there was no harm in getting some fresh winter air. Soon the sun would be out and the dust and grime that had settled down due to the mist from last night would be stirred up again by automobiles jostling for space on the narrow Lakhnavi roads. There was nothing left to be done. So he put on his jacket and rode pillion while Ritwick zig zagged through the congested by lanes of modern day Avadh.

They took the Barrage route out of Gomti Nagar, past the architectural monstrosities that Mayawati had constructed in and around Ambedkar Parivartan Sthal in honour of every living and dead Dailt fellow she knew. Shlok noticed that they were making their way towards Old Lucknow, past the wistful window shoppers in Hazratganj, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the entire market was being renovated, much in the fashion of its more famous counterpart, Connaught Place. The racket made by the construction workers did not seem to be dampening the holiday shopping spirits of the seasoned Lakhnavi shoppers either. They were all pretty much unperturbed.

The Baradari was festooned in gaily coloured ribbons to celebrate some Deepak’s birthday. Little bratty kids in fluorescent costumes could be seen being chaperoned by their harried parents. It was quite evident that the poor relic of yore had come a long way from hosting lavish dinner parties and solemnizing nikaahs for the erstwhile Nawabs. As if in cruel irony, the Kaiserbagh traffic also made sure that the once spotless white monument was now slowly turning into a sorry shade of dirty brown.

Once they were past the wide avenues of Parivartan Chowk, the traffic became a lot worse. Soon they were milling through the insane chaos of Aminabad – the real shopping district of the city – and Shlok couldn’t help smirking at Prakash Kulfi. The proprietors of the original falooda kulfi in Lucknow leased out their premises to the Defective Sari Sale people every winter. They made money not only from their name but also their place – hapless kulfi aficionados invariably ended up buying a sari or two in search of the phantom winter kulfi. The sight of a toothless peanut vendor shook him out of his reverie and he thought it wise to seek a fraction of Ritwick’s attention.

“Kahan le ja rahe ho suar?” he shouted over the wind.

“Hein? Patience, boss, patience”, Ritwick replied over the deafening din of horns. As he narrowly missed plunging headfirst into a rickshaw puller who had decided to execute a Main Hoon Na style stunt, Shlok shouted “Ghusand” while suggestively waving his fist back and forth.

The Lucknow beyond Aminabad and Chowk had remained persistently elusive for Shlok. When young, he had never bothered to explore the parts of the city known mostly for their morgue vans – the words Laash Ke Vaaste emblazoned in bright colours on each and every one of them – and brothels. And now, with most of the jazzy malls, coffee shops, and à la mode joints coming up in the Trans-Gomti area, especially Gomti Nagar, the lure of the real heart of the city had faded further. On one occasion, in search of the original Tunde Kebab outlet (contrary to popular opinion, the Aminabad one was the second in line), he had ventured deep into that uncharted territory. However, he had managed to get lost just as quickly and had to make his way back without the mysterious kebabs. The memories of that fateful day came flooding back and presently he enquired of his chauffeur:

“Tunde ja rahein hain kya?”

“Ha ha, no! Something even better than Tunde!”

The cryptic reply shut Shlok up for the rest of the ride. Meanwhile, Ritwick would stop every now and then, enquire of a place from whosoever he could lay his eyes on, nod his head in a knowing fashion as the deluge of instructions came pouring forth, and then try to follow them to the best of this ability. This continued for some time and before long, he stopped in front of a building that seemed remarkably alien for its surroundings.

Instead of cramped aisles that were packed with parked vehicles, this house was located in the midst of a huge garden. A gardener was pottering around the lawns and occasionally pruning the roses. The building looked huge in comparison with its stunted neighbours and consisted of three floors. There was no address plate or any other sign that could help in identifying it. It seemed as if people got around to that place entirely by means of secondary navigation. Ritwick seemed satisfied with the look and feel of it and said slowly, “This is Madame Sophie’s place. The finest spot for tits, chudai, and glory in all of Lucknow!”

Shlok looked as if he had just been slapped for breathing too loudly. “What! What the hell is wrong with you? What made you think I would want to come to a brothel? Are you fucking insane?”

“Bhosdi ke, don’t act so innocent. It’s not like you’ve never fucked anyone whose name you did not know. It may be stuff of the past. But don’t get preachy on me. You told me you were missing out on all the action. So I thought to surprise you. I have already made the bookings here. The time’s been paid for. With my money. So you can jerk off in a room if you feel like it. But you are coming inside and not leaving until I am done.”

The sudden outburst from a usually jovial and amenable Ritwick caught Shlok off guard. He needed to reevaluate his strategy/assault. He reasoned that he could always just sit and wait! Besides, he was already fascinated by Madame Sophie and her operations. So with his conscience sufficiently guilty free because of his ignorance of the deal, he grumbled a bit about family, respect, and changed ways, before following Ritwick inside.

During the short time it took to walk from the verandah to the main hall, Shlok had already come up with an image of Madame Sophie. Sitting on an old fashioned diwan and smoking a hookah, she turned out to be every bit the brothel mistress he had imagined her to be – very much Madame, though hardly Sophie. Years of vicarious exposure to villainous vamps of Hindi movies had created a likeness that blend in perfectly with the uncomfortable dignity that seemed to exude from Madame Sophie. But, to her credit, it was difficult to tell if she was imitating art or if art had imitated her.

The hallway on the ground floor was some kind of reception area where Madame sized people up with her experienced eye and then offered them services based on her acute appraisal. Both of them were spared the screening process since Ritwick had already made an appearance before her and sorted things out. A few vicious looking men loitered about, trying to look busy doing absolutely nothing. Amidst all this apparently displaced commotion, Madame Sophie looked completely at home and the only odd thing seemed to be her name. Sophie? “It must be courtesy one of her lovers” Shlok quickly concluded.

Seeing them enter, she nodded ever so slightly and gestured to one of her minions who bowed deferentially and went inside a room. Shortly, five young girls dressed smartly in churidar salwar marched out in single file. This was when Shlok noticed the first aberration. Unlike their celluloid counterparts, the girls did not look distraught or defeated. They were actually quite cheerful and their smiles seemed genuine. At least on the surface. “Maybe it’s not as bad as people make it out to be”, he reasoned.

~~~~

“Boss, look at the size of tits on that one!” Ritwick whispered, suddenly finding himself preoccupied with the mammaries of a certain girl introduced as Shailja.

“Will you cut out the boss crap? I don’t want to look like I was the one who dragged your sorry ass out here. Just pick someone and get this over and done with. I am going with that one. What was her name? Reshma.”

“Ok, already. No need to get all worked up. Just let me know when you are done. Behenchod, you don’t make it any easy, do you?”

~~~~

Reshma turned out to be a feisty little thing and, for a few guilty seconds, Shlok felt sorry for his friend. Despite all his prudish indifference, Shlok had let out a sigh of disappointment on hearing her name. He was expecting something a bit more clichéd. Like Malati or Chameli or even Rani. And though be bore this silent grudge against Reshma before they’d even exchanged a word, he let himself be led away from the hall by her. He wanted to find out more about her. Or so he thought.

Soon they came upon a dimly lit looking corridor with several doors on either side. A dull brown carpet was spread along the length of the passage. ‘Things are beginning to look up now’, thought Shlok. The upper floors seemed to be straight out the set of a seedy Bollywood movie with an even sleazier name like “Kanti Shah ke Angoor”. A fearsome looking pimp sized him up. He was wearing a checked lungi over a worn out vest and chewing on his paan very slowly and deliberately. Every now and then he would spit out the crimson coloured juice into a vase kept in the corner. After what seemed like an eternity, he let out a disapproving grunt but let them pass anyway. It was clear that Mr. Pimp was not paid for a lot of things, least of all his opinions, dressing sense, or cultural etiquette. Madame waged a lonely battle in those spheres.

Reshma led him to the third room on the right. Number 214. Despite its tiny size, it was garishly decked up in every kitschy colour one could think of. Shlok felt blinded by all the mismatched furnishings and felt like ripping off the red curtains and the velvety bedspread. But he inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. All this would come to pass. When he opened his eyes, he found out that his consort was quite adept at getting rid of her garments. She giggled for a second seeing the surprise on his face but through that involuntary action she unwittingly conveyed that she was new to the whole shebang. There was still a hint of a sparkle in her jet black eyes, although it seemed to be waging a lost battle. Her carefree demeanour further unsettled Shlok. “Too casual”, he murmured.

“Kahan se ho tum? UP ki hi lagti ho”, he asked.

“Baat karne ka Madame ji extra paisa leti hain.”

“Madame se baat thode na kar rahein hain”, he replied, trying to act smart.

“Aapke dost ka bahut bada dil nahin hai. Sabse sasti service hai. Chhatri hai?”

“Chhatri? Oh, condom. Haan hai”, Shlok said as he fumbled around for the pack Ritwick had slipped into his pocket as they had entered the hall. “Tum log nahin rakhte?” he quipped after sometime.

“Rakhte hain. Kuch special chahiye?”

She looked expectantly at Shlok, expecting him to take off his pants any moment now and passionately devour her. Or something to that effect. That stare seemed be sizing him up in order to decide which pose would cause least amount of discomfort to her and provide optimum satisfaction to him. But he did not get the chance to find that out. The thought of a strange naked body gyrating to the rhythm of his own made him sick to the stomach. He did not know why since, as Ritwick had mentioned earlier, all this wasn’t exactly new. He made an effort to touch her breasts, if only to prove to himself that this bizarre uneasiness was not caused by what he feared. But he could not bring himself to do it. He clenched his fists in despair, let out a defeated sigh, and just sat there. Reshma, understandably, looked surprised even though she had had her share of eccentric clients. After a few minutes, Shlok quit fighting the feeling and felt better. He hugged the girl he was supposed to have had coitus with and said something that sounded vaguely like “Badhiya hua”. Thereafter, he rushed across the corridor, down the steps, and across the hall, to the place where Madame Sophie held court.

“Madame, uss chutiya ko bula dijiye.”

If the suave Madame Sophie was surprised at the use of such vulgar language in her presence, she did not let it show. A minion was nodded at and he proceeded to do the needful. As an afterthought, she invited the unrefined gentleman for a round of hookah. Maybe he would learn something. The gentleman could not have asked for anything better to occupy his time with while he waited for his friend. He took a long drag at the pipe and let his worries scatter away with the bhang laced smoke.

~~~~

“What happened, boss? You came faster than a Hindi film rapist. A case of bad nerves?” Ritwick enquired of his partner in crime.

“Nah! Just that of a lonely wife, I guess”, Shlok smiled and motioned him towards the scooter. “I am driving. You can enjoy the view”, he added. If nothing else, he owed him a ride.

That night, as he shared the bed with Akanksha, he managed a smile. “Vespa,” he mumbled, before drifting off into a drugged sleep. And that's all.

~~~~

Footnote: “That other girl, or other women, -- whatever -- I mean, I was thinking that they’re just fantasies. You know? And they always seem really great because there’s never any problems. And if there are, they’re cute problems like, you know, we bought each other the same Christmas present or she wants to go to see a movie that I’ve already seen, you know? And then I come home and you and I have real problems and you don’t even want to see the movie I want to see, period. There’s no lingerie and --”

“I have lingerie”

“Yes, you do. You have great lingerie. But you also have cotton underwear that’s been washed a thousand times, and it’s hanging on the thing and they have it too. It’s just I don’t have to see it because it’s not in the fantasy. Do you understand? I’m tired of the fantasy because if doesn’t really exist. And there are never really any surprises, and it never really --”

“Delivers?”

“Delivers. Right, I‘m tired of it. I‘m tired of everything else for that matter. But I don‘t ever seem to get tired of you. So—”

-- Rob Gordon, High Fidelity.

All the Missing Heartbeats

Disclaimer: Turned out way more abstract than intended.

“I am missing heartbeats, Madame”, he said in his usual laconic style, much to the surprise of his unlikely companion. A look of un-dawning comprehension on her face made him to add to the all-conveying remark. (Though it hardly served any purpose, as she found out soon enough).

“Not that I am complaining of course. I have often skipped them in less careless moments and swallowed an odd one every now and then (in not so careless ones). But I am bit concerned now. My years are advanced (I don’t look the part, na?) and that gets me all worked up, you know. These greying, falling hairs and the failing memory. Before too long, I will be gone. All these heartbeats – I wonder where they are. I wish I could have at least saved them up in a jar or something like that. It would have been my museum of broken beats. Out of rhythm and isolated from one another. Still alive, but only just. A tin can of olive oil would have been just perfect. A gusty wind bellowing the sails of a ship on its cover. Don’t you think? An old man’s tool for retrospection when his grey cells begin to fail him. Ah, memory! How I thought it would never desert me. But I am talking words right now. You tell me. What’s bothering you these days?”

Akanksha had been quiet today. She feared that she understood less than what she didn’t. (But wasn’t that always the case?) So she swayed on her feet, shifting her petite frame from one side to another, and made weird noises every now and then, as if her intellectual capacity was somehow linked to her bowel movements. He had, however, been his brilliant self – unconcerned, absorbed, rude, intellectual, and arrogant – just the way she wanted him to be. He had grumbled while rolling his cigarette and had smiled when he finally got to smoke it.

“Didn’t you have a notice board for all those skipped heartbeats? A thumb-pin on it for each of them missed or skipped? I recall several colours and faces on that board. You never got around to giving me all the details though. I might not be too good with numbers or dates. But I remember conversations pretty well. And by the way, why would anything bother me? Someone has been putting ideas into that big head of yours. I am quite happy and content ji.”

The premature grey streaks in her hair belied her age. However, and he wondered often if that was true, not her wisdom. He did not fail to notice, either, how simple she looked. No makeup to botch the unmade eyelashes. No fancy colour ruining the dull shine of those softly pink lips. No mascara or kajal masquerading as a grace for eyes that did not need any. “She has been brought up well, this girl”, he thought. He smiled at the thought and coughed a bit before speaking.

“Yes, I do remember that. But although you remember my words, you confuse the context, darling. And I agree the difference is subtle. I appreciate your confusion. Those pins were for all the worthwhile things in my life. Days, dates, events, people, and kisses. Milestones in an adventure, slowly unfolding in front of open eyes. Yes, I had my fair share of all of them. Hey, I still have my eyesight intact……I can see you shaking that head in that very condescending fashion. Can you stop smirking? Please? The board is still there….do you see it in that corner of my room? Yes? Good. I want you to take it with you when you leave today. Ok?

I have lived a life in each one of them. What? Oh, what else? Those darned pins! If I were you, I would do well to make sure that I have scores of those pins on my board. For you can go on eking an existence for eternity. But when it has all come to pass, the crux, the gist of it, it’s there on that board. And if you don’t have enough of those pins dotting your life-scape, in varied colours, textures, shapes, and with so many different flags, you begin to realise it was just not worth it. That’s what I think. You tell me. What’s bothering you these days?”

He had mastered the art of being elliptical without sounding evasive. Akanksha had just gotten used to it by now. It came to her as second nature. It would have been terribly difficult to suffer him otherwise. Suffer, mind you, and not endure. So deftly ignoring any uncomfortable questions, again, she decided to ask some of her own – precisely why the reason why she was enduring his capricious mood.

“Tell me more, O wise one. What are these heartbeats you talk about then? Not the time you had that massive heart attack I am sure. (Dirty looks from him ensue). Not even that lady after which you made my folks name me. Oh, or can it be? Is it Akanksha? Mom?”

“Don’t be this foolish young lady”, he snapped. “It doesn’t befit you. And what is much more important, it does not befit me. To even think of it. Stop butting your head against a wall. It is not going to do you any good. You’re not going to wring out any scandals from me. Not now. Coming back to your stupid remark, I can’t have anyone stealing my heartbeats that easily. Not when I know I am not going to live to see my 40th year. But all this wisdom does indeed come in hindsight. Anyway, where was I? Yes, those heartbeats. As I said…well….or did I? Oh, whatever. These damn beats. I don’t even to talk about them. You tell me. Why are you bothering me anyway?”

“Huh? Didn’t you agree to have me here today? Don’t you go about making lame excuses. I deserve something better than that. And no matter how grouchy you act today, I am not leaving without your abstruse answers. Trust me on that one.”

“Fine. Have it your way then. Don’t tell me later I did not warn you. Well, I lost them all the while. They say I am dying now. I have been dying all this while. I missed them each time I was happier than I should have been. Each time I loved more than I was loved. I lost so many of them when I met Him. In dreams and for real. There were times when I was tested, and failed gloriously. Several gone down the drain each time my ship was raided by pirates or sunk by marauders. When I was alone when I should not have been or when I climbed too high on my pedestal of ideals. Times when I glowed in the warmth of success and smiled too much or hoped too much. And also times when I was flying in and out of clouds, insomnia, reality, and perception. But surprisingly, I lost them while I was enamoured by Knowledge, the single most captivating of all my love affairs. I still believe the docs got it all wrong there. It’s not possible, no? You’re shaking your head again…..

It was all involuntary, you must understand. Even when I gobbled them whole, it was more often than not in reflex. A heightened state of existence, working for and against me alternately. I would have been a bit more careful had I known they would run out too soon. Not that I am complaining of course. I don’t have any regrets….just look at my board. I just wish you could have been wiser for all that I have been through. Decide what’s important for you. Existing or living. Heartbeats or thumb-pins. Often, you will gain both. Sometimes, as I have come to realise, you can lose more than you win. But, but, but, looking at how things are going for you, I don’t think you need all that gyaan. Not from a doddering shaky senile old man anyway. You tell me. What’s bothering you these days?”

“You really get a kick out of all this, don’t you? Distorting reality and crafting a dream world to explain your inadequacies? Your thumb-pins were your heartbeats. They are all the same. Giving them different names won’t suffice to undermine the failures or advertise the successes. You should be giving proper due to why you got what you got.”

“I would have thrown any other person out of the room by now. But you’re my weakness. And I guess you already know that. Well, there comes a time when fact coalesces into fiction. You start living your dreams while reality fades into sub-conscious. However, until that time arrives, you need to distort, this reality as you call it, in order to stay sane and alive. Beats, pins, or whatever name you give them, you need to make a choice and stick to it. I made mine. You don’t find me complaining. I knew it all along. And they tell me I am dying now.”

Persistence of Change

The journey proved to be tedious, and certainly a lot more demanding than expected. Shlok was visiting his parents after three years. A lot of water had passed under the bridge during that time and he was apprehensive of what they would make of it. However, in spite of the concerns, he looked forward to losing himself in the familiarity of the place. That was reason enough to endure the revolting smell emanating from the compartment’s toilet and the bawling kids (to indifferent parents) on the lower berths. The couple had tried engaging him in an insipid conversation and he had very deftly manages to spurn all their advances, much to their disappointment.

He still travelled in sleeper class, though he could now afford the luxury of the AC compartments and their pretentious denizens. Somehow, the lack of refinement kept him on his toes. Reminded him of where he came from and what he had set out for. And as always, he kept to the upper berth for most part of the journey, sleeping through most of it. Sometimes, when they would catch his fancy, he would listen in to snippets of conversations happening all around. Other times he would try to read something or leaf through old letters and postcards. The lush rustic countryside and the regal Aravalli ranges on the way back had been wowed over several times. They failed to interest him now.

What seemed like an age back, Shlok had left home with no clear idea as to why he was doing so. College was over and had left behind several unanswered questions in its wake. Not to mention the insecurities and fears that they brought along as baggage. Plagued by an indecisive mind, he hoped to find the answers to at least some of them before it was too late. In this quest, he had given preference to action over planning and thought over action. Several wise people had shaken their heads and suggested some other approach. But a whimsical temperament had made sure that all advice fell on deaf ears. It was not that he did not give a damn. He tried not to.

His parents were a silent witness to everything that went on. But him being so far away, they thought it was all probably just hearsay and hoped that Shlok was more in control of his senses than it was appearing to be. Like they had decided to close their eyes, and were willing everyone else to do the same. Sometimes, they would make a big issue out of an arbitrary decision that he took. But sooner or later they would mellow down, afraid of distancing him in the process. All healing would come naturally is what they had thought. Or so they had planned.

So while other people of his standing became successful and their mothers gloated over their burgeoning salaries, Shlok took up odd day jobs that prevented his from doing so. And while his friends found their soul mates and made marriage plans, he indulged in every vice under the sun. Drugs, brothels, alcohol, the works. For no apparent reason than to try all avenues of hope. And hope is often a dangerous thing. It would have been perhaps better had he got addicted to one of them. That would have necessitated a drastic response and a fresh start. But he never did. So the questions lingered behind. And so did the ghost of the person he once was. A mind boggling potpourri.

The means changed and he took to travelling to remote locations, spending whatever he would save from his meagre earnings. Sometimes he would set out with nothing more than a towel in his backpack. A desire to suck the marrow out of life, as Thoreau might have said, and leave it devoid of any trivialities. He stayed at ramshackle hotels and often fell sick during the course of his escapades. The destinations changed but the travelling continued. He thought that if he visited places were no one knew about him, he would be able to put things in a different perspective. But all this had continued for so long that he had begun to doubt whether such a state was essential for survival anyway. Hence the trip back home. In order to touch base with himself once again.

As soon as he stepped onto the platform, he was swarmed by a flurry of coolies. One of them, bent double with age and wisdom, approached him with dignity and asked, “Beta, samaan pahucha doon bahar tak? Thak gaye hoge safar mein”. The sincerity of his voice, coupled with respect for his advanced years, warranted an equally decent response. “Nahin Kaka, abhi apna samaan nahin uthaenge toh aage kaise kaam chalega?” The old man laughed to this and lumbered away. The entire station had been freshly painted. In betel red and cream. Perhaps they chose these colours in order to hide the paan stains that soiled almost every corner. Perhaps they were just being innovative with their choices.

Soon it was the turn of auto wallas to try their luck with him. But Shlok was in no mood for the luxury of a comfortable ride. He managed to find a square inch of space in a shared tempo and initiated the last leg of the journey. The hoardings had changed. Some new political mafia had come into power and proclaimed the greatness of their leader. Some dubbed Hollywood movie fought for screen space with the latest Bollywood one. Fresh parks and statues had sprung up all over the city, an indulgence it found itself hard pressed to afford. But while the exteriors had become gaudier and flashier, the guts continued rotting in silence. The drains flowed over happily each time it rained a tad too long and the tempos swerved menacingly to avoid the bottomless potholes. Loafers still lounged in the Sun near the Gandhi statue opposite GPO. “People change a lot faster than places”, he thought.

On a whim, Shlok asked the driver to stop two stops before the scheduled one and decided to walk the last kilometre. The road had been freshly dug up to lay sewage pipes and the deluge last night had ensured that he would have to hop-skip-jump his way back. Suddenly, their house loomed large in front of him, almost as if in some B-grade Bollywood horror flick. The road in front of it was fresh and black. A high ranking government official, who had started living close by, ensured that there would always be policemen hanging around. One of them was taking out a golden retriever for a walk. Everything was pretty much just the way he had left it. The only thing that seemed out of place was him. For a moment, he felt uncomfortable entering his own house. Would it accept him the way he was now? Had he changed too much? Too much for the worse? Would they understand what he had been through? What did he go through anyway? His fight had not been any bigger than any of theirs after all.

Knowing very well that he had no need to, Shlok rang the bell. He decided to pretend the part of a guest until it was decided otherwise. The familiarity of people is more easily lost than the familiarity of places. People change faster than places after all. Akanksha had taken the day off to greet her son. She came out to see him. Ritwick had long ago retired from active duty at the power station where he had worked like a drone for 35 years. He was sitting in the veranda, reading the morning daily. Seeing both of them after such a long gap, Shlok felt a sudden surge of emotion. His mother seemed to have aged 5 years in the past three. He could not be so sure about his father. He touched their feet, more to regain his bearings than to seek his blessings. They seemed satisfied. For now at least.

The days at home were just as he had expected – painfully lazy and blissfully lethargic. In weaker moments, he confessed he could get used to that. Other times, he just tried to indulge himself, preferably without any remorse for doing so. He did not try to meet any of his friends. No one knew he was visiting anyway. Not that many of them cared now. Conversations were few and had a habit of dwelling upon touchy subjects. For the first few days, all three of them reached an agreement and refrained from discussing the obvious. But Shlok knew that it had to happen sooner or later. So a week later, over dinner, he touched upon the issue.

“I have decided to explore my options for a couple of years more.”

“Don’t you think you have explored enough? What are you looking for anyway? It’s high time you settled down. Only today, Mrs Sinha was asking about you. I did not know what answer to give her”, Akanksha said between mouthfuls of egg curry she had prepared for Shlok.

“Ma, I can’t be worried about your inability to provide answers to Mrs Sinha. I have my own problems to sort out. I can’t be the way you would like me to be. Like it or lump it.”

Ritwick had hardly spoken a word to Shlok since the time he had come back. Apart from dinner and lunch, they had not spent a minute together. Both of them had accepted this as a necessity to avoid any arguments. However, today, he too decided to speak out his mind.

“There are only as many problems that you think about. What’s the matter with you anyway? You took to drugs, we paid for the rehab. You take up jobs beneath your education and yet we remain quiet. Woh sab to chhodo, you have been visiting brothels. Kuch to sharam karo! Sometimes I get the feeling that my only son has been ruined beyond redemption or reproach.”

“You have changed so much Shanu. I can hardly recognise you anymore”, Akanksha muttered between sobs. Shlok just looked in some other direction, seething with indignation.

“Will they never understand? Or am I trying too hard? Have I been looking through the wrong looking glass? Won’t it all come to pass someday and won’t they all get to laugh about it? Somebody tell me that all this effort has not been for nothing.”

“I don’t know Ma. If you think I would be the same even after all these years, I am sorry to have disappointed you. When parents give their children the right to a proper education, they must be ready to respect their ability to think independently. I am sorry, but I am not the same Shanu anymore. It would be better if you accepted that fact and respected its existence. That way we would all be better off.”

Ritwick almost exploded on hearing his son justifying his actions as something routine and expected.

“Change can be accepted. But not if it comes at the cost of integrity and stability. You have wandered far enough. And enough exploring, as you put it, has been done. Bahut ho gaya ye sab. You should now think about what a decent person your age should be doing. Hum tumhare lakshan aur nahin sahenge ab.”

“Papa, I had never asked you to do so. As I have said before, I will find it hard pressed to lead a life the way you have imagined it for me. All this time I have been trying to find my bearing. And until I have done so, I will do all the exploring I need to.”

With nothing to add to this brazen disrepute of his authority, Ritwick prohibited Akanksha from dissuading their son. They finished the dinner in silence and Shlok retreated to the privacy of his room having done that. The next morning he announced his decision to leave for Nagpur by the week’s end. Aknkasha tried to persuade him from doing so but her attempts were thwarted by her husband’s will and her son’s pig-headedness. Shlok could not comprehend why she spent the rest of the week complaining about her back ache and the absence of discipline at the school. The night he was supposed to leave, Shlok forbid both of them from accompanying him to the station. “It would be too much trouble”, he reasoned with them.

Between tears, Akanksha managed a line which cut through the painful conversations that they had. Or those that had been meant to be had.

“Shanu, humare liye toh tum log hi sab kuch ho. Jo bhi karo, apna khayal rakhna.”

In another world and some other time, Shlok might have laughed it off as melodrama, hugged her, and taken his leave. That night, he just nodded and left for the station. Just before boarding his compartment he smiled. A betel stain now decorated a previously clean corner on the platform. “Maybe places change too. And with them, the way people think about those places.” Thinking thus Shlok shook his head, boarded S13, flung his bag on the upper berth, and proceeded to do so himself.

Crazy Diamond

Very Important: In case you haven't heard Shine On You Crazy Diamond, don't think about reading this post. But, But. You can read this post while listening to it. Not hearing to it. Listening. Get the hint?

I have been listening to Shine On You Crazy Diamond since (which implies on repeat) last night and I actually thought of a story for that song. It primarily dwells upon an alien invasion which overpowered the one on Earth with their superior music. The face-off starts with the aliens challenging the earthlings with a lovely synthesizer sequence, followed by a painful and surreal guitar riff. It is as if they don’t want to subjugate us but simply can not help doing so. The regret in the music is almost tangible and you can feel it on your finger tips if you reach out for the vibrations. The guitar often cries.

There’s a strange console music (one generated by computer consoles) playing in the background all the time, signalling the arrival of someone far superior to us, both intellectually and technically. The paradox of having to do something without even wanting it in the first place is very well represented by the twin sounds of the weeping guitar and the haunting background score. The score is coming from somewhere far away. Light years away. Then there’s the sound of water flowing down in ripples (if you care to hear closely). Music, from primordial times, which has somehow been lost to senseless slapping of electronic guitars and electronica. The entire experience is not overbearing. It’s soothing. Mellow. The aliens finally arrive in their majestic spaceships.

There’s silence for a few seconds. Then we are challenged to combat by a guitar solo. A sign of power. One. Two. Three. Four. We reply to the challenge by intimidating them with the sounds of drums and an impoverished guitar sequence. The aliens call us to a jugalbandi session in order to win freedom and we accept, not realizing that the battle had been lost no sooner than it had begun. The jamming starts and we put up a tough fight. The war cry is oft repeated and put to good use by the extra terrestrials. Sometimes it’s them on top. Sometimes it’s us. Both giving each other the respect that is deserved, and commanded. But, in the end, they are all over us.

Why do we lose? The lyrics come to the rescue. The alien invasion respects the one here but confesses that it has degenerated beyond redemption and must be overcome. That is the only way out. It’s a submission that’s amalgamated with respect. Somewhat like the one between Porus and Alexander. Porus fought bravely and lost. But he was respected as a fellow king by Alexander. The guitar sequence just before the lyrics start almost talks to you and tells the story of a flawed genius. A genius whose tale had been lost in yellowed pages, none being able to tell fable from fact. The snigger just then might be us, still not ready to accept to what is staring right in our face. Hence, the inevitable downfall.

Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun / Now there’s a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky / Threatened by shadows at night, and exposed in the light / And well, bask in the shadow of yesterday's triumph, and sail on the steel breeze.

Come on you boy child, you winner and loser, come on you miner / For truth and delusion, and shine! / Come on you target for faraway laughter, come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!

The stand-off ends with them aliens going back in their spaceships to where they came from. The sound fades away into empty space, with the earthlings eventually accepting their submission with a blues number on a saxophone. It is only fitting that the less advanced of the civilization goes back to its African music roots and signs off with a saxophone sequence. We are done for here. Long love Martians!

So long, and thanks for all the music.

Burn after Reading

A bit about the people. Ritwick stood on the edge of the bridge, with Shlok as a silent companion some distance away. Both of them were leaning over the railing and trying to look brave staring down. For the first time since they had known each other, it seemed as they were enjoying their silence more than any form of conversation. The banter seemed unnecessary and futile right now. Almost as inane as its name implied. The hush approved of whatever was going through their minds. Or whatever was not. The stillness in their thoughts was in sharp contrast with the lovely breeze that tried to push them over the edge. The sun had already set, leaving a dull orange haze in its wake. It spread across the sky in lazy artistic strokes, becoming darker every passing second, and subsuming all other colours with it. Birds and bats were returning to their nests and seemed pleasantly surprised at the unexpected visitors. Smugly satisfied thus, they flew past, suddenly fluttering their wings a tad too excitedly in an attempt to unsettle the unlikely couple.

Now something about the local marvel. Due to some bureaucratic hiccup in the unbelievably efficient government machinery, the construction of the bridge had been stopped just when the other end had seemed within reach. Probably the river had dried up too soon (because of the dam some distance ahead) and the thoughtful engineers decided there shouldn’t be one over a desiccated bed. Whatever happened, the result was what came to be known as “The Broken Bridge” – a somewhat normal construction that ended somewhat abruptly. A derelict signpost at the beginning of the structure and a pile of concrete served as grim reminders of incomplete contracts and satiated pockets. The unfinished project had now become a favourite hunting ground for lovers, dopers, alcoholics, and just about everyone else. As such, police raids were not uncommon. Neither were thefts and muggings.

Back to the setting again. The drop to the unending expanse of mud below was sheer and steep. One could not stand on the edge without feeling a bit dizzy. Although the river had disappeared a long time ago, it had left serpentine trails in the mud in order to remind the visitors of its presence in a time not so long ago. They now served as makeshift roads for drivers who were a bit too adventurous for the normal takeaways. A lone jeep was making use of one the trails, very close to the horizon, stirring up a dirt storm in it wake. Lights blazing, it appeared ready to take the plunge and jump over the edge. The jeep seemed to be the object of attention for both Ritwick and Shlok. They looked at it for sometime, then at each other, and finally smiled, nodding their heads in silent agreement. Yes, both of them were thinking of the same thing. The scene was poetic enough to be the finale of some abstract movie. Not a painting. Not some random poem. A movie it needed to be.

An unlikely company. Undeterred by secondary human presence, a couple came to the bridge at about this time. It seemed as if they had walked the distance. The fellow was sweating a lot and looked like he was in the mood to complain. He was frustrated and sore. It looked like he had dressed up for the occasion. Quite a bit. But now, wet patches under his armpits graced his designer shirt while his red sneakers were dusty and almost brown. The lady in question just smiled serenely and probably tried explaining to him that it was worth the effort. She was fair, very elegant and wore a faded yellow T-shirt with bermuda shorts. A strange form of intelligence shone in her eyes. Hers was the kind of beauty that made you jealous of the stupid bloke who had been lucky enough to have her. You could be satisfied by just looking at her. Shlok sighed inwardly. Ritwick not so inwardly.

At the first sight itself, it had become apparent that there was no pretence in their boldness. They just did not care. So Shlok looked at Ritwick and hinted about giving them the privacy that they deserved. But Ritwick seemed to be in a sour mood himself and decided to stick around. He was not going to let others spoil his moment at the edge. Not if he could help it.

And now the masala. The fellow seemed to have calmed down a bit and was tracing his fingers through her lovely hair as she leaned back. The wind caught a whiff of her smell and carried it to where Shlok stood. She smelt delicious. Like a baby just bathed by its mother. Wet and innocent. They were hugging now. Shlok tried to resist staring at this amorous couple but gave up doing so. They did not mind, he eventually decided. He was softly speaking something into her ears and she was smiling while nodding her head. The earrings jingled in appreciation. The eyelashes blinked in sarcasm. And the eyes shone at the prospect of a scandal. She was not looking at him but through him, as if her sight could pierce through flesh. As if its insight was something tangible. The lone jeep caught her attention as well and for a moment her forehead was lined with furrows. But then she was herself again – smiling, nodding, jingling, and listening. He, on the other hand, had ceased to inspire any observation long ago.

Then in a swift smooth motion, she brought his lips to hers. As if taking control from him. And they kissed. It was not the embarrassed kiss of lovers hesitant about their intentions. But the passionate kiss of two people who knew what they were doing. He had his eyes closed. But she had them open, as if she wanted more; not just satisfied by the taste of his sweat on her lips. For a second she glanced at Shlok and in that second it appeared that she was proving a point to him. That she had taken the plunge and chucked all the inhibitions circumstances had imposed on her. There was the slightest smudge of a smile on her lips as she looked away, and locked her lover in an embrace. The world had shrunk to the space between their arms.

The sorry departure and just a hint of philosophy. Ritwick and Shlok mutually decided that they had enough. They tip toed their way back to the bike and started on their way back, leaving the lovers still entwined in, well, love. The area around the dried river bed was pockmarked with ravines and scrubland. The trees and bushes were a dull shade of green because of the dust that had settled permanently on them. There was a strange brown haze that hung in the air. It dulled everything with its suffocating presence. Restricted vision. Prevented thought. It was hard to take away one’s mind away from it. But if one tried, one could find beauty in the stunted shrubs. Find hidden patterns in the ravines and listen to them telling stories of floods that gave birth to them. But only if one made the effort to look beyond the permeating dirt. If and only if.

Riding back home, it seemed as if too much life was running through their veins. Too much of it going to waste. The stillness in thoughts had been somewhat replaced by the tiniest question. Well, several tiny questions in fact. All of them connected. All of them vague and futile. Where they looking too far ahead into time? Was this vision of the future somehow preventing them from making the best of now? Was it preventing from appreciating the wrong kind of beauty? Were they making a dash for the wrong finish lines? Would it help if they too shed their inhibitions and risked it? Gave it a try just once? Not a long time back, Akanksha had chided Shlok for romanticizing and dramatizing everything. “You think too loftily”, she had innocently remarked. If it was a personal obsession, why then was Ritwick suffering from a similar turmoil? Even if just for those few moments. Something can not be wrong with everyone. Not everyone can lust after the same sinful (or was it simple?) pleasures.

Back in his pigeonhole, Shlok smirked at the irony of the words that were exploding from a house nearby. They hung in suspended animation and mocked his thoughts as subtly as possible.

Oh, it's a mystery to me
We have a greed with which we have agreed
And you think you have to want more than you need
Until you have it all you won't be free

Society, you're a crazy breed
Hope you're not lonely without me

I Dream of Electric Sheep

Shlok Deepankar walked back to his room. No, he strolled back. His gait seemed relaxed, almost bordering on what cynics would call lazy. The setting sun had painted the sky a bright crimson. The pale white crescent had not yet made its presence felt. But he was not in the mood for romantic musings right now. He had enough for one day. A random book had triggered the wildly erratic thought process. Threads had gone out of control and had necessitated a trip to the cafeteria. A lonely, deserted cafeteria. It kind of reminded me how all of us actually lead our lives. We think we are surrounded by all sorts of people. Feel safe in their hustle bustle. But in reality, it’s just a farce and when the push comes to shove, we must find ourselves alone. Swim against the tide. And fight our own wars. Now that he trudged back, the mental overdrive seemed to be slackening. A toothy grin greeted all those who loitered by, much to their ill-suppressed surprise. Who was this person?

The subtle ambience of Shlok’s room greeted him with open arms. He could not resist smirking. He had been derided, often ridiculed, for his civic sense. It did not conform to the standards of a boys’ hostel. But the aptly aimed sarcasms merely ricocheted off the thick skin he had acquired over the past four years. The spick and span bed sheet had stayed on, despite telling glances from more seasoned hostellers. So had the table lamp. He switched it on and glanced at the neatly stacked novels on his study table. Doctor Zhivago. The Godfather. Shantaram. Hitchhiker. Mocking Bird. Rest. This led to a spontaneous, almost guilty, peek at the dusted editions of Tannenbaums and Deitels lying inconspicuously in the same room. A pair of shoulders was shrugged and some decisions were repented over. Life then continued at the same snail pace.

The semester had already drawn to a sorry conclusion. In line with expectations, plans had been shelved. Decrepit time tables jeered like skeletons in one’s closet. Shlok made a point of making a face at them and then slamming the door shut. A session of customary mourning usually followed. Letting it out always helped. When the scattered remains of wasted opportunities had been gathered and safely stashed away in some nondescript corner, Shlok looked around. It was time for a smoke. Ritwick, his partner in crime, had left for home for the last time. But today, he was in the mood to light up alone. So he did.

As he did so, he decided to play Floyd. He had been holding back from listening to any of their Music. It did things to him. Strange inexplicable things. He had not wanted any of that. But today was different. The random book and the ensuing trip to cafeteria had already ruled out the possibility of any constructive work. Moreover, he wanted some inspiration. Some silver lining. The smoke got to his mind instantly. The words were in perfect tune with his mood…

From morning to night I stayed out of sight
Didn’t recognise what I’d become
No more than alive I’d barely survive
In a word...overrun

He flicked the ash. It seemed to have a mind of its own and the light weighted particles flitted in and out of the yellow light like moths drawn to the flame of a dying candle. When they were tired of all the games, they flopped down on his table in exhaustion. He blew them away and smiled as, this time, they disappeared without a trace. Even the smoke came to life and flew around the room, exploring all the nooks and corners like a curious child. It clouded his senses faster than it usually did. Floydian melodies, combined with the intoxicating influence of the first smoke, hit him like a sledgehammer. There were goosebumps and he decided to relent for the first time in several weeks. He decided to be weak. He tried reigning in the tears, but the voices told him otherwise. So he did not and they, in turn, made his eyes look almost poetic. Like the ones in a water colour painting. The ones brought to life by a struggling artist.

Look at him now
He’s paler somehow
But he’s coming round
He’s starting to choke
It’s been so long since he spoke

He heard someone knock on the door. For a second he contemplated getting up to get it. Then realizing the state he was in, he decided otherwise. This war was his and if he let anyone into his mind now, it would mean staying this weak even after. So he got up and lied down on the bed. Ignoring the hammering on the door. The words were still floating in the air and seemed to mind their own business…..

And with these words, I can see
Clear through the clouds that covered me
Just give it time then speak my name
Now we can hear ourselves again

Against all regulations and rules that he tried to adhere to, Shlok decided to dream. He saw sheep. Yes, electric sheep. So many of them. All looking alike. They were jumping over the fence of a barn in order to graze the grass in the meadow that lay beyond. They bounced along, happy in each other’s company. Unmindful of the sheep that had stayed back. Or were too afraid and weak to jump over the fence. He could see the want in the eyes of the sheep that stayed behind. Even in the dream. They looked at their fellows grazing gaily, lost in the pleasures of the world and oblivious to everything else. It was almost pathetic to find them this way. So pitiable and full of self-loathing.

But then he saw something else. Something unnerving and encouraging at the same time. Amongst the ones that were still in the barn, there was a group of sheep, no electronic sheep, which stood out. They had refused to follow others not because they could not, but because they chose not to. On a casual glance, they seemed like a bunch of haughty arrogant electric woolies to Shlok. But this was his dream. And so he decided to draw closer and observe them a bit more closely. It was then that he found that they were neither haughty, nor arrogant. They were original! They had decided to swim against the stream, even if that meant ridiculed and jeered at. Even if that meant not being able to graze the lush, delectable grass in the meadow that lay beyond. Even if that meant being isolated not only from others, but also from each other. Even if that meant facing failure, as the other electric sheep had come to define it. In time, the others would realize. That not only does the grass on the other side always seem greener; but that one must always find oneself on the side less green. As of now, they were content in their solitude, silently biding their time.

When Shlok was done with the dream about electric sheep, he knew he would be okay. Stronger, better. And yes, okay. With a sigh, he adjusted the pillow under his head again. And drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Alphabets and Underscores

Ritwick lay stark naked on his bed, the sweat persistently clinging to his body. The fan was idle. He hated the noise. It distracted him. Disillusioned by the silence, however, he stared at the ceiling and then his chest. In quick succession. The ceiling was devoid of any features except for the lone lizard that was chasing itself in never ending circles. Bored by the monotony of its uninspired regularity, he had found solace in the fact that the hair on his chest had somehow begun to trace an abstract Ganesha, and felt better because of it. It made him believe that he could be a better man. Better, yes, and special. Made him believe that he could resist the temptation to give in and the tedium that would entail.

A lone beam of sunlight suddenly managed to evade the fortification Ritwick had set up and lit up the dust motes in the room. Earlier, they had been dancing around in the room, happy in their conjoined obscurity. Now, they scurried about in mid air, ashamed at their sudden nakedness and the immediacy of its unfamiliarity. The abruptness of the intrusion upset Ritwick. It reminded him of the ease with which a lone thought had suddenly made him so restless and weak. So he got up to tame the rage of the sun by means of the thick curtains in the room. Having successfully done so, he even switched on his table lamp to prove this point to no one in general. He flopped down on the bed and closed his eyes. This time he did not try to sleep. It had started with him meeting her the last time for the last time….

Akanksha had looked singularly sensual wearing the nose ring. And the mole on her exposed shoulder had only served to arouse him even more. A few wanton curls got caught in the gentle breeze and streaked across the skies like black thunderbolts in a summer storm. She seemed mellowed and quite, hardly a shadow of the playful thing he wanted to remember her as. He remembered that her lips had quivered when she said “Hello”, as if weighed down by the enormity of that meaningless word. The word itself, having fallen off the edge of her lips, had left the slightest smudge of lipstick on her face. He had thought about wiping it away for her. But had decided otherwise. It was not yet time.

Meanwhile, Ritwick had shifted his frame one foot to another, trying to ascertain his stance on them. He wanted to be with her. But he was not sure of anything else. Or what that would mean. The only thing he was certain of was the alarming regularity with which his insufficiencies plagued his relationships with the few people he deigned to talk to. The morbid desire to turn his life into one long dream sequence. The vehemence with which he had begun to detest the conventionality of a routine existence. The apprehension and nervous was palpable. Yet both of them chose to ignore it. It had hardly been a month since they had confessed their feelings for each other through some awkward modes of communication. The novelty of the entire thing had fascinated them. More him than her. And in a time when everything else seemed to be going against plan, her un-proclaimed affection became the bubble that shielded him for life’s disappointments and claimed control over his consciousness. What he did not know was that it made him soft as well.

Ritwick had been unable to fathom her thoughts that day too. Even when everything necessary had already been said and done. Her feelings had always been the crossword puzzle that was just a bit too complex for his mental faculties. And her subtle signs, if any, were wasted on him. Just like her sarcasm. Both of them felt for each other in surprisingly different ways. And expressed it in even more contrasting ones. But what he could tell was that there was a nervous excitement that hung around them like an adoring cloud. It was evident in the way he found her face very simple and graceful. Graceful, not beautiful. It was evident in the way he found her stealing a glance at him when he was pretending to be lost in thought. It was evident in the way he loved her while trying to distance her from him at the same time. As if he wanted her that way but knew it could not be so. There was a certain common longing in the association. But he attributed it to the freshness of their romance and made himself believe it would lose its sheen with time. Exactly like the cynic in him would have him believe. Ritwick. He was like putty when it came to tragedies.

Looking back now, he could tell that she too was a romantic who had been so far trying to pass herself as a cynic. She was a lot like him. Akanksha. The signs had begun to show. He could tell that. But unfortunately, with the gradual telling of a lie, he had begun to believe in it too, while she was probably just getting there. So while he pondered over the temporary nature of their relationship and its pitfalls, she longed for him in a manner that had previously been alien to her. “What if their relationship consumed them? Left space for nothing else?” thought he. The temptation to give in and strike a compromise with life had become too overpowering to be ignored as a passing emotion. Failures, if any, would only precipitate the downfall of their ambitions. What with love being there to save the day. It was almost as if he had started fearing something being too good for his own good.

Akanksha and Ritwick. They were these two weirdoes who had come together in order to feed on each other’s excesses. They were proud, arrogant, and ambitious. But with a twist that was unique to both of them. Unfortunately, they were hopelessly in love. Ritwick was afraid that with time, both of them would pull each other down. Keep each other from becoming what they could be. He feared that it would be easy to get lost in the meanness of routine when love is all you have. And it becomes all that you desire. He knew, what with his indecision plagued mind, that it would be too easy to give up. And then repent over it when it all too late.

But this was only the good part. What he was really apprehensive of was the fact that, fearing such consequences, he would distance himself from everyone (and everything) important and begin to revel in his misery. Again. And that too at a time when she had just begun to teach him that it was not imperative that it be that way. The more he thought about it, the more he believed in it. Her memories would suffice. The scars would have surfaced anyway, had he lingered long enough. He knew he had it in him. The ability to poison anything beautiful and glorify the pain when it has shrivelled up and withered away. So he wanted to leave before the venom began to creep into their alliance. He felt selfish thinking so. Now when he knew she needed him more than anyone else. Now when he knew that a lot of alphabets that needed to be said had been replaced by underscores. Now when he knew that he had begun to find happiness in her and not himself. These were the first signs. Telling ones too.

But while he wallowed in self pity, he wished that perhaps it could be worked out. That they could learn from each other’s excesses instead of stumbling because of them. The hope made him weak. It was a sickening feeling. So, Ritwick opened his eyes and resumed his fascination with his Ganesha. However, when even the holy one failed to capture his interest, he tried to find whether he could cloud his senses with smoke. But none of this helped him take his mind away from what it had decided to dwell upon. So, he began writing her a letter. In his mind. Still stark naked. The sweat still persistently clinging to his body.

PS – The phrase Meanness of Routine is attributed to Krishna and the Horny Hippo. Thanks.

Through the Looking Glass

They sat in silence, viewing the world through their individual looking glasses, and contemplating on what greeted them on the other side. A smoke had been shared just a moment ago and both of them had kept themselves busy trying to blow rings at each other. But now, when just the smell lingered around, they did not know what to do with their hands or minds. While Ritwick lay on the bed staring at the wall above, Shlok smiled goofily as if a long lost memory had suddenly found its way through an unknown recess. The duo seemed to be walking through the same corridor, albeit in different directions, peering through each keyhole at leisure, picking up lost pieces, and trying to recreate something that had happened a long way back in time. Surprisingly, not even a trace of worry distorted the expression on either face. It seemed conspicuous by its absence, and they did not talk about it, lest the unwanted guest make a sudden appearance.

There was just a hint of a breeze and the curtain on the door quivered when caught in it, the yellow flowers on it appearing to be daffodils “fluttering and dancing in the breeze”. The ceiling fan was idle and two of its blades formed a smiley that conveyed its sadness at being singled out. The radio-clock played an instrumental number from an unknown Satyajit Ray flick that seemed to have been made for the occasion. Ritwick hummed along, oblivious to his pathetic attempt at impersonating the tune, while Shlok tried his best to ignore him. A solid rectangle of light filtered in through the lone window in the western wall. The window seemed to be greeting the sun’s dying rays, politely bending them to suit its own whims. So what bathed the room was not a fiery white, but a mellow mixture of yellow and red, almost maternal in its feel. The motes danced around in the pale yellow radiance and traced out abstract patterns while doing so. Needless to say, the room on the terrace was almost perfect for imaginary afternoon philosophical sessions. And so they did. In other words, I made them do so.

“We do not believe in consequences anymore.”

Shlok propounded this while still smiling goofily and so the effect of the observation was lost on Ritwick. Ritwick, in turn, continues staring at the wall for sometime before giving his two cents.

"For the record, I believe you have copied that line from somewhere. However, I will ignore that for the time being. I understand your need to temper your actions with purposiveness. For some time now, I have feared that my actions do not have any consequences. Sometimes, I almost detest it when people like me, people who have been more fortunate than so many others, trivialize everything in life. Everything has to be associated with being cool, hip, fun, and all things cooler. I guess you have only taken this abhorrence of carelessness to a higher level. Didn’t you say something about deciding that whatever you do has to have a certain purpose or consequence to it? But does that mean we deny ourselves every other pleasure in life just because of its inconsequentiality to others? I will confess that I do not propose a solution to this problem. But my instincts still shriek that a balance can be struck somewhere in between. Can’t we be selfish and selfless at the same time?”

Shlok stifles a chuckle and stops staring at the wall above. Instead, he occupies himself for sometime by observing the two lizards on the western wall, the one with the window. They had emerged out of their secret lairs early (the sun had still not set) and seemed to be engaged in a furious round of courtship. Somehow, their love and hate relationship seemed to symbolize everything that was going on in his life as well. Finally, when Ritwick had started fidgeting at his indifference, he carefully crafts his reply and tries to make it as abstruse as feasible.

"Consequentiality is definitely a way out. The efficacy of all actions lies in their impact on others. Didn’t we read about Gandhiji’s talisman in our NCERT books? Weigh our actions and see how they affect others? I think the idea is to detach your self to the extent where you may love all, and enjoy all. There is neither pain there, nor unhappiness. You might say why bother about all this. But to me, the otherwise is tantamount to cheating my purpose. I am afraid, my friend, that there is no middle path of indulgence. You can be either happy or sad. Indifference is the best lie that we craft for ourselves. It helps us in getting by that sense of guilt that’s innate in all of us. It helps us in believing lies like ‘we can be selfish and selfless at the same time’. It helps us in ignoring the consequences of all our actions.”

Ritwick looks at Shlok as if he had been slapped for breathing too hard. However, he regains his senses and finds something to say.

"Isn’t that taking things a bit too far? It is a liberating experience to give in to our weaknesses sometimes. Not everyone can be a Gandhi or Amte. Not everyone can be a Mahatma. You are becoming increasingly inflexible in your thoughts and actions. Why don’t you experiment more often? Not just with relationships and people, but with your ideas and opinions as well. Just let it go and enjoy being weak for some time. I have visited those lands and it was a welcome experience.”

Shlok smiles serenely and says, “That’s how I have come to look at things. I am afraid that retracing my steps is not a luxury that I can afford. But we are talking nonsense. I must not make you think anything. What about love and girls? What’s your take on them? I know you are not homosexual.”

Although Shlok had raised this subject as a mere diversion, he knew that Ritwick’s understanding of the subject would bring him one step closer to comprehending what went on in his friend’s mind. Ritwick, on the other hand, was oblivious to all such underpinnings and plunges headlong into his narrative.

"Do not blame me for philosophizing, I know that’s you forte, but I guess getting to know about love is more important than being in love. The rush that you get out of anticipation can hardly be matched by fulfillment. I fear it becomes a downhill ride from there on. I even read a piece about this in that zany tabloid that people call a newspaper – The Times of India.”

Shlok can not come to terms with Ritwick’s understanding of ephemerality. Trying to think several things at the same time, he looks out the window. The sun has almost set and soon the mosquitoes would be swarming the place. So he gets up and switches on the bulb, the artificial equivalent of the orb which had just breathed its last. As he proceeds to close the door, Ritwick continues his line of thought.

""Do not get me wrong, but I find it hard to believe that something as fascinating as love can actually last long enough. I believe that the phase we call ‘being in love’ lasts for just one-eighth of our lifetime. Let me put this in a more familiar perspective. It’s merely a three hour movie in a day long extravaganza. What do we do with the remaining 21 hours? Mope about how we wasted every other opportunity chasing that one dream? Look for something better in all the remaining places? Believe me, but it’s most important to find what makes one really happy. I think it’s the only thing that can turn the 3 hour movie into a day long festivity. It’s the only thing which can make other experiences complete, and make them last. Everything else falls into place then. But most of us never get there in one lifetime. So it’s a bit of a predicament, like everything else.”

"So, if I have understood you correctly, you do not believe in the entire concept and would rather stay away from it?”

“It’s not that simple. It’s not just black and white I presume. Normally, people end up falling in love mostly due to lack of choice. In a perfectly normal relationship, without any labels mind you, they end up giving each other so much of themselves that even the prospect of staying apart seems an impossibility. On the other hand, giving up more, without adverse repercussions and without altering the very nature of the chemistry, appears just as unlikely. People are often consumed by the other person. Love, and a lifetime of it perhaps, seems the only way out. In a way, it is the malaise and the cure. And we never read the symptoms right. So it doesn’t matter if I believe in it or not. Doesn’t matter if I want to it or not. There is no running from it. It will end up coming back to me. For better or worse I do not know.”

"That’s an interesting line of thought. Love is due to compulsion eh?”

"Please don’t make it sound derogatory. It is one of those things I still want to believe in. And you are making my entire understanding of it sound profane.”

"Not at all. Your thing about losing a part of ourselves to the people we love is quite intriguing. Because the only escape from that is detachment. And hence the paradox you see. Love seems a way out. But would you risk it? Would it prove to be your undoing? The realization that your happiness is inextricably intertwined with that perpetual fear of misery.”

"So what do we do Shlok? Do we deny ourselves the fleeting pleasure for fear of the pain we might have to endure later? Do we do that and isolate ourselves from even the momentary blip of happiness? I understand that is painful to be possessive about things that have the downside of not lasting forever. But does anything really last? Is it easy to let go? These things might be better understood if viewed from a different perspective. Because the one we posses is grossly inadequate. And so I go on for now. I cling to my possessions, thinking that some of them can last. Baah. But I am rambling again.”

Shlok shifts around on the bed and turns to face Ritwick, who is now sitting upright on the carpet.

“Keats gave us two important thoughts: ‘Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder’; and also ‘Ignorance is bliss’. As long as we our sufficiently ignorant, we tend to stick to the pretence that meets the eye. The idea is whether we wish to be joyous in our ignorance. If that be it, then I have nothing else to say. If not, then maybe you should ask yourself whether you want to continue this slumber of never ending dreams. It’s more comfortable then, isn’t it? To be asleep and be fed with an imagery of permanence: your dollops of utopia?”

Ritwick racks his brains in order to comprehend Shlok’s discourse in its entirety. When he fails spectacularly in doing so, he does what only he could – come up with an example of Shlok’s philosophical ramblings from popular fiction.

“It’s like the Matrix isn’t it? We are happy as long as we are in this make-believe world of the machines. But as soon as we are granted freedom from that slavery, we realize how the decision to break free was not as easy as it had seemed. Cypher’s actions capture this dilemma very effectively. Once he has seen the ‘real world’, he wants to return back to his matrix. To his well paying office job. To his fancy dinners. Ignorance is bliss as you say.”

Shlok couldn’t help smiling at this unlikely analogy. He tries to weigh it against his own statement. But then decides against it. Both of them had had enough for a day. And it was beginning to show.

"Yeah, right. Somewhat like The Matrix. But I guess its time for dinner. And I can hear your Mom calling us downstairs.”

As is expected out of such conversation, both the pseudo-intellectuals dwelled more upon the questions which were never asked. Nothing substantial is expected to come out of the conversation. For what Morpheus called the “real world” tends to downplay dreamers like themselves. In all likelihood, they will go back to living their lives in a manner which would be the exact opposite of their ideas and opinions. But change can only come in minute quantities. We do not live in an age of revolutions. They are a thing of the past. The very fact that this conversation dwelled upon a subject like this is, is an improvement. I am sure they will work something out.