The Radiowalla

The Sun sulks gloomily behind the clouds, prowling far beyond similar looking drapes and windows, its powerful strides now like a ritual dance that has lost its function. The gaze of its tired eyes has grown so weary behind the bars that when it finally pierces the darkness of a lonely room, nothing seems to change. Almost. A sigh escapes its lips, plunges across a distance of a hundred million miles, and dies a silent death in two lonesome brown eyes, eyes now numbed to nuances by many endless nights of restless and anxious slumber. The dying breath of this wistful sigh lights up the dreams in these lonesome brown eyes. Earlier, they had been prancing about, shimmying to the groovy beats of a suppressed desire, happy in their conjoined obscurity. Now, as they scamper around scared, ashamed at their sudden nakedness and the immediacy of its unfamiliarity, a formless memory disturbs the treasured comfort of a sound sleep.

“Kinaare door hote hote bahut door ho gaye. Paani ki chhapaakon ki awaaz bhi doob gayee.”

Samar rears his head from his pillow, like a dog looking up from his bowl. He strains his ears to determine the reason for this rude awakening but no culprit presents itself. The dreams have abandoned their ship and simply vanished into the uncharted waters of his unconscious mind. Disgusted, he pulls the blanket right over his head in a desperate attempt to salvage the wrecks of those half dreamt dreams that had been so unceremoniously scuttled by their cowardly captain. His eyes are all scrunched up due to the effort of trying to remember. But uhun, nothing. As he relinquishes his vice-like hold over his mind, the formless memory casts a silvery shadow on the canvas of his imagination. Was that it? He lies motionless beneath the sheets, like a sniper stalking his target. He dares not breathe too loudly, lest he warn it of his presence. But wait, what’s that? What strange presence lurks around the corner?

“Dil mein aise sambhalte hain gham jaise zewar sambhalta hai koi. Toot gaye, naraaz ho gaye.”

The invasion of his senses commences without so much as a warning but the look of comprehension in his eyes speaks of relief. Of course. It’s a Sunday today and he can hear The Radiowalla playing his favourite audio cassettes on the ancient 2-in-1, the last surviving relic from his college days. It’s only purpose in his little room was to serve as a reminder of an era he supposedly remembered but was unable to recall. As time drags itself forward, rising and falling to the rhythms of this lazy summer afternoon, The Radiowalla waits for this fluid memory, shimmering and changing its form as effortlessly as dreams slipping in and out of consciousness. And while The Radiowalla’s gaze expectantly pierces the walls of his room, searching for a connection that has probably been buried beneath several layers of regrets, Samar settles down comfortably in his bed, honoured at being granted audience with this elusive companion.

“Haath se angoothi utaari, wapis kar di. Baahon ke kangan utaare, aur saat pheron samet lauta diye. Lekin woh, woh baaki zewar jo dil mein rakh liye, unka kya hoga?”

Mohammed Rafi’s haunting voice fills the corridor, creeping and curling around corners, fighting admirably for breathing space with the soulful strumming of a guitar. But then Kishore Da starts crooning in his inimitable voice and everything else dims in comparison, as if paying homage to the undisputed master. When the song ends, The Radiowalla switches the 2-in-1 to radio mode and finds Love Guru doling out relationship advice to a heartbroken lover who has recently been spurned by her beloved. He and Samar listen patiently to this Love Doctor, searching for clues to the solution of their own tragic love lives. But the Love Guru’s cheerful rant only serves the purpose of disillusioning them. Fortunately, his banter is cut short by The Radiowalla’s impatience. He twists the knob, searching for some long lost program on the shortwave channels but waves of static flood the corridor like an angry tide. A little disappointed, he slips the cassette back in and they listen to Gulzar’s commentary on a favourite track, both of them quiet, but not quite alone.

“Ye fursat ruki hui nahin hai. Koi thehari hui, jami hui cheez nahin; ek junbish hai, ek harkat karti hui kaifiyyat.”

A memory is too vivid to be confined by the limited scope of a letter or a song. It’s an experience in itself, a private story that hasn’t been yet articulated into words. It is like a flowing stream that can be described only when it has been allowed to run its course. The Radiowalla had been trying to find the missing parts, hoping that their sum would translate into something he had lost to the pages of time. But in his moment of enlightenment, when he had first glimpsed the sensual dance of a hushed whisper, Samar realised that memories are much more than just the sum of their parts. He considered sharing this epiphany with his estranged neighbour but he knew his borrowed wisdom would be wasted on the resolve of The Radiowalla. Besides, what about the weekly trips down memory lane? Would they persist despite this setback? Would The Radiowalla still cling to the parts or would he set out on a quest in search for their sum?

“Ye ladi hai lamhon ki, jhaalar bana li hai iski. Kabhi pehan leta hoon, kabhi utaar deta hoon.”

What heady trip, you say. What psychedelic high, you ask. Bhupinder’s luscious voice finds its way around the narrow passage, caressing every nook and corner in turn, pleading and cajoling with Samar’s unconscious memory, eventually evoking a steady stream of vignettes from his past – a blissful summer afternoon spent sleeping under a mango tree, a tense cold winter night on the terrace, a wet evening beside his window. Alone, they would have been reduced to being ornamental reminders of some eventful days. But together, they overwhelm the senses, projecting a black and white movie on the backdrop of his mind’s eye. A movie that is as much a part of the unforeseeable future as it is the jewel of a forgotten past. Samar immerses himself in this experience instead of trying to hold onto it and a sigh of gratitude for The Radiowalla escapes from the most jealously guarded depths of his heart.

“Ek roz zindagi ke roobaroo aa baithe. Zindagi ne poocha, ‘Dard kya hai? Kyun hota hai? Kahan hota hai yeh bhi toh pata nahin chalta. Tanhayee kya hai aakhir? Kitne log toh hain, phir tanha kyun ho?’ Mera chehra dekh kar zindagi ne kaha, ‘Main tumhari judwa hoon. Mujhse naraaz na hua karo’.”

Then all of a sudden, as if the elements were conspiring to tease these unlikely friends, it starts to rain as Sheila begins gyrating to the rhythms of her Jawani. The sky grows darker still under a blanket of rain until the weather-beaten Sun is no more than a half forgotten memory itself. The Radiowalla, as surprised as Samar, sees this as a sign from God. So while Samar shakes himself out of his reverie, Sheila’s suggestive singing is cut short by an impatient groan from The Radiowalla. It is believed he still adheres to his ritual every Sunday, waiting patiently for his own private moment of enlightenment. Waiting patiently for his songs to commence their erotic dance.

Owed to: The Panther, Kishore Da, and of course, my Radiowalla.

Memory Mines

The past several days have been spent in stepping over several of the memory mines that had been planted a few ages ago. They were both familiar and alien. Some welcome, some not so. Few balmy, while most listlessly nostalgic. In the process, some new ones were also planted for future reference. They will prove to be like milestones in my life, amplifying the whispers when they become too weak to be comprehended. Rubbing in the wounds just when they have begun to heal. Blowing air over the cinders just when they have begun to die out. At least, that’s the idea.

Visiting home was like getting in touch with oneself, all over again. Being haunted by old fears, reveling in the familiarity of known furniture, getting ridiculed by well-known faces (and surprisingly not minding it at all), fretting over the same insufficiencies, and basking in the glory of a now alien success. What struck me as the most peculiar thing about my place was its absolute stillness. The afternoons seem to be so lazy that time itself appears to be dilating. I can look out the grilled windows and still see the banyan tree across the road, holding its ground. The leaves have been mostly shed. The ones that do remain offer a shade that is as inviting as an age ago. Yet, as before, the invitation remains unaccepted. Irony almost stands personified.

The pin drop silence is often shattered by the occasional horn of a passing motorbike. But that seems a part of the scheme of things. Not something incongruous. The motes dance around in the sunlight that has managed to escape the umpteen curtains in the room and trace abstract figures on the carpet. Dad leaves his things lying around in the same careless fashion. On the other hand, Mom gathers them with a recognizable unease that borders on being labeled comical. And while the friendly (albeit a bit mysterious) neighborhood dhobi continues to occupy the same nook in one of the streets of Vishesh Khand, the ghar-ke-diagonally-opposite-paan-wallah refuses to budge from his favorite spot on the main road. (Rumours abound that several young helps in the locality have fallen for him and, in turn, fallen from the grace of their employers. But that is way beside the point.) Things are best when familiar and better when rustic. Yes?

But even in the stagnation of the place, change is managing to keep up. There is this new shopping complex nearby which seems to have become the one stop destination for my mom’s provisional needs, from internet to raita masala, hair cut to plastic glasses, from betel leaves for puja to desi eggs for the yummiest omelets, and from Cetirizine to mosquito repellents. Then there is the mall close enough which, like a modern mela, is gheraoed every evening by an alarmingly high number of Lucknowites in halter necks, tank tops, and jeans. Often, there is a desire to become a part of the milling numbers and pay homage to a borrowed culture. But I try to reserve that opportunity for desperate times.

Closer home, I notice that the color of the walls has changed. Some lamp shades now add to the décor. The number of plant-pots in the garden (and around the house) has increased alarmingly and it’s slowly becoming difficult to maneuver your way to the door without knocking off some of them on the way there. The television has been moved to my room which means that I won’t be spending my nights in the dining room, watching late night movies on HBO. The in-house-temple, though, occupies the same reverent position in an auspicious corner of the house.

Bosky sleeps where Buddy used to spend her lethargic after-hours. He looks just like her, albeit the color and the size of course. There is the familiar patch of black skin over the eyes and the mole on one of the cheeks. Discipline in his life is conspicuous by its absence and its lack doesn’t fail to elicit a mention from Mummy every now and then. I take a liking to him and tickle his tummy just like I used to pamper Buddy. He rolls over and allows me to indulge him.

When rifling through the cupboard for some old paperbacks, I chance upon even older grade reports. They came in various colors – pink, yellow, white, green, and even blue. Regrets flare up with an alarming ease. Even now? Their persistence is both, surprising and pathetic. But I smile soon enough and disarm them. The art of doing so demanded nothing less than perfection (in indifference), something which had already been attained by means of relentless practice over the past four years. After all, we don’t want to live in an age gone by. We want to dwell upon it just long enough. Leaving that aside now.

The cupboard is a veritable treasure house. There is this box with all my sports cards, cricket paraphernalia, knickknack, odds, and ends. The green polythene bag with the precious letters still intact. They reek of the years spent in carefree abandon. I move on. Next up are the paperbacks. Ones Papa bought for me each time he went on a field trip to break stones and dig for exotic minerals in remote corners of Bhutan. They are all in there – Hardy Boys, Harry Potter, Sinbad, Scooby Doo, and even Jules Verne and Swiss Family Robinson. Some of the thick, hard bound Reader’s Digest volumes (purchased after much persuasion because of their sky-high prices) have been pored over zillions of times, their facts and figures all memorized long ago. I turn the pages, but then soon shut them, lest a reverie start in mid afternoon. There are several other mines waiting to be disarmed. Moving on.

The photo albums are virtual disasters in the making. Mom can never bear to have a look at them without being on the verge of tears. So I smuggle a few into my room at night and pore over them. The yellow light in the room only serves to help matters. It’s a bit bright for my taste but is still better than the clinical white light of the CFL. There she is. Mom. Cradling a very small version of me in her arms. Dad looks on with an expression of suppressed amusement on his face. They are standing in front of one of the tombs in Lucknow. Amma dotes on each of us in turn while Baba is his reserved self. There is this picture with the entire family in it, all the kids very small and shitty looking, all the parents very smart and proper, and all the grandparents very smug and satisfied. Not much subtlety there either. My sister smiles at me from the confines of a few other sepia colored frames. She is looking silly in almost all of them and I long to tell her that. I long to tell her how much I miss beating her up and getting thrashed in turn. I long for a lot many things but instead prefer giving in to her demands. She speaks in hushed whispers. I just listen.

Her hair is looking so pathetic that I wonder how she agreed to getting a hair cut that obscene in the first place. Then she is racing and finally standing third, just managing to outrun the fourth placed. I see her on the podium (wearing a skirt so long one could almost mistake it for a gown) and smiling, positively beaming as she receives the medal. Often, I see her doting on me on each occasion I cried a bit too hard after bring scolded by Mummy. I see myself sulking in the rain just because she had taken my favorite Mickey Mouse umbrella. I see her holding onto her birthday present so that she was the first person I gave the cake to. There she is, all decked up in a red lehenga and dancing to the tunes of a track from Guide. I see her all dressed up for her first farewell, in the company of friends who are boys and boys who are friends. She is married then, and the distance mellows the discord that had seemed so unreasonable. She has a kid now and seems so grown up and responsible, hardly a shadow of the playful thing I want to remember her as. I see all this and I smile. I see all this and I try. To no avail.

I switch off the light and try to find comfort in Floyd. A lamp flickers nearby and sheds strange shadows on the wall. I try deciphering their pattern for a few minutes, probably inspired by Waters and Gilmour. Then I give up, realizing that even Freud must have abstained from such a pastime. I must be losing it. Why does Lucknow do this to me? Why does it engage me in a conversation that happened so far back in time that even the voices seem blurred now? Why is it so static? Why do I claw at those receding shadows and still strive to derive comprehension in their whispers? Why do those memories never fail to fascinate me beyond reason? Why do I always try to find familiarity in their alienation? Why has it been so hard to let go? The questions never cease to exist and their answers never seem to appear.

As we journey through time, new mines keep getting entrenched. The visit home did not prove to be anything different. New reminiscences evolved and were safely ensconced in the backwaters of my psyche through various means. Possibly for reference in a time less favorable. The gestation period of these memories always follows the same predictable cycles.

When actually living them in their entirety, we hardly notice their wholeness, blinded by a shooting star of the time ahead. Enamored by an eluding phantom. Wanting things we could have now and yearning for people whom we love instead of those who love us. But once there, we can not help but be fascinated by the innocence of the moments we have just lived. Our fertile imagination only assists the process, filling in the gaps in those memories with agreeable details, soothing the transition from now to then. Helping us to dwell happily on the past and always making sure that the present never seems that perfect. This when there and that when here. A vicious circle if you may (forgive the cliché). But perhaps, that is how it is supposed to be. Who knows? All that is needed now is a lazy winter afternoon with the ceiling fan creaking at the slowest possible speed. Rest is, as Barney would say, ‘legendary’. I wish you all the best.

Insipid in Lucknow

Having realized that the love of my life had relegated me to some derelict corner of her affections, I finally decided to affect something substantial with/in my life. I had initially decided to mope about the fateful episode and, in a fitting finale, jump over the edge of a cliff. But wisdom suggested that “The Plan” was not that substantial after all. Junta might have ended up happier or worse still, better off. So here I am, effecting something much more tangible (or not) and writing on a subject that had so far eluded my exceptionally fertile (and potent) imagination. It has a lot to do with a city that has engaged me in a love-hate relationship for the past thirteen (unlucky already?) years. Why the sudden drastic shift in loyalties? Why a monologue about a city hardly anyone talks about? You would ask. I have no concrete answer. Maybe you should blame the Gandhinagar municipality. They don’t have a single cliff in the city. Talk about public interest. Humph.

But be warned! This is neither a tourism advertisement for some godforsaken city nor an egoist passage by a self deprecating android. It’s a bit of both, with a little bit of Chemical X thrown in for special effects. Baah. I will let you be the judge. Let’s get on with the story for the time being.

For the uninitiated – Located in the industrial belt of Uttar Pradesh, Lucknow is a city that is almost as famous for its adaband tehzeeb as it is for the kattatoting university politicians. A city that reeks of filth and sweat during the day but still manages to smell nice (of water melons) if you happen to take a stroll along the Gomti in the night. A breeding ground for politics, where one would find more ambassadors with red beacons than traffic policemen in their ancient jeeps. A culture that totters on an edge, as it blindly embraces an alien cosmopolitan look, while desperately trying to retain its wildly romantic medieval identity. A town that still boasts of chaat shops in every nukkad and kebab counters in every second one. A city that almost managed to kill me on one of its generously potholed roads when I was trying to run away from it. A mentor that has, in return, nurtured my sharp intellect and managed to turn me into a raving psychopath.

Let’s start at the beginning. It’s always the easiest. Hmmm. It’s ironic that my family was never supposed to be in this sleepy town in the first place. Transfer from Bhutan had translated as a posting in Jaipur, a familiar place with familiar faces. However, the government machinery, it seems now, had not been greased properly by means of some liquid assets. So the kunbafound itself searching for familiar grounds in an unfamiliar Lucknow. The buildings were thrice as tall as those in Samtse and the people half as friendly. I hated the place from the very onset. Didi and I had to drop in early so that I could get admitted into some school before all the prestigious ones closed their shutters. I remember Mummy sweating it out, making her pilgrimage to almost every school in town, trying to prove the worthiness of her wretched son by means of all the numbers she could imagine. Sweaty rickshaw rides, arrogant principals, neglected report cards, a flustered mother, an indifferent ass, and the tormenting June heat. That was my first intercourse with the town. It seems a futile exercise NOW. Anyway, I managed to scrape into a decent institution, but only for a year. When the family settled down into a rhythm, I was shifted to a place closer home. Fortunately and unfortunately, it would personify education for me for the next eight years.

My earliest impressions of Lucknow are those of moped (Luna Super to be precise) rides, clinging like a baby langur to my mother’s back. The city, it seemed, had shrunk to the route we followed from home to school. Everything else languished in an alien planet. On-the-way stationary shop (Modern Bookstore) and the friendly-uncle-wallah grocery store encompassed my map of the city. As the moped got promoted into a Kinetic Pride, and then a Kinetic Nova, the routes multiplied exponentially and my purview expanded to include the congested lanes of Daliganj and Dandaiyya, the bustling markets of Aminabad, the glitzy malls of Gomtinagar, the coaching district of Ashok Marg, and the glitterati of Hazratganj. Ironically, the stationary shop is still there. So is the friendly grocer. They obtrude like relics of yore. So I try avoiding them, lest a reverie start. Strangely enough, through their lingering presence, I have managed to see the town evolve from a lumbering leviathan into something more alive, agile, and lively. Pardon the cliché. It’s an old habit, both figuratively and literally. On we go.

It is usually a bit difficult playing the part of the quintessential bookworm. But I handled the responsibility reasonably well. It generally comprised of thinking that all girls got good marks because of favoritism, managing to get a full score in Sanskrit every time, and sucking spectacularly in practically every thing else. Naturally, school years went by in a blur of exams, unit tests, and CW (Class Work dummies). There was just one “Games” session in the week and I vaguely remember gearing up for it from a day before. I looked the part of PT Usha, dressed in my white uniform and shining canvas shoes. Unfortunately, despite the elaborate arrangements, I could score just one goal in all my school years in Lucknow. That was the pinnacle of my athletic achievements. It’s been a downhill ride ever since. (I’ll call it symbolic of my relationship with the city. For the time being.) On all other days, the time table primarily consisted of waking up way too early, gorging on breakfast, classes, recess football session, more classes, home, TV, and HW (Home Work man). One did not have the time and patience to indulge in poetic endeavors and life was, as Floyd would say, comfortably numb. Lucknow had been aptly disguised as the cover of an erotic magazine, intended to be drooled over but never meant to be perused in public.

Summer vacations were a welcome respite from the hectic schedule – time meant to be utilized reading National Geographic in Papa’s library or completing summer projects while watching Power Zone on Cartoon Network. The trivia that I accumulated by means of these banal activities served me in good stead. That is because quizzing was the only extra-curricular activity I excelled in. Apart from sucking royally in the annual day parade that is. I could have won a medal for that achievement on ANY given day. So much so, I was regularly pulled out of the ranks and made to march with the rest of the losers. But we digress too much. Fast forward to other things.

As the famed and dreaded board exams loomed on the horizon, all pretences were shed quickly and tears shed in copious amounts. Life revolved more and more around books and any kind of distraction was considered a taboo. (It’s another story that my adolescent mind found quite a few attractive ones, Elsa Benitez being one of them.) Amidst almost violent trepidation, the monster spared me an untimely death and I lived to see the light of the day. But I was to realize that it was just the beginning. The remaining part of my existence (roughly four years?) in the city was confined to mostly two rooms in two different houses. My “brief flirtatious fling” with Lucknow was in one of these. Secret escapades to the video parlor, splurging indecent amount of money on boy bands, and day dreaming about distant horizons became a part of routine. It was probably then that I began to think on a different scale and frequency and my geography somewhat assisted the subtle changes seeping in. Friends became a lot more important than I gave them credit for and very importantly, a journal became a boy’s best friend. Writing gained precedence over reading and a considerable time was spent in imagining the consequences of a Lucknowite apocalypse. Even girls, in flesh and blood, were considered humane for sometime. Romance, as I see it and as few of you might, was the latest buzzword. But let’s not get mawkish already. There’s an anticlimax coming up (Y).

The last two years in Lucknow were terribly lonesome, and replete with nightmarish fears. Competition, competition, and more of it had consumed every aspect of my already negligible social life. The only discussions that mattered were the ones which had something to do with the direction of tension in pulleys or the IUPAC names of organic chemicals. Support, the kind I desired at least, was hard to come by. Few people consoled. Others inspired. The remaining reprimanded. I tried living up to the expectations, more theirs, less mine. Or so I have led myself to believe. I never got to know whether I met them. I have been asking ever since. Every time, I visit home, I get to know the questions afresh, strengthening the unseen bond I share with the city. It’s immaterial whether I want to shrug it off. It’s as much a part of me as I am hers. And so, as of now, I am trying to resist the temptation.

This sluggish town does not embrace you with open arms. It tries you. Then tests you. And when you have failed in all of your ordeals, it smiles benevolently before letting you cross over to the other side. I had my fair share of such trials and tribulations. And so did some of my friends. It made us saner people, if anything. I still remember one my friends pouring his heart out on a fateful summer night. Kids we were. Boys we had become. Ha ha. One would wonder what role a sleeping town played in the evolution of boykind. But what’s a city if not its people, their ambitions, their fears, and the tale of their triumphs? Someday, in between all the cursing at unrelenting traffic jams in fifteen inch lanes, while snapping at the nearby scooter wallah for drawing in too close, and haggling with the vegetable vendor over a kilo of baingan, I must have realized that I had become such an integral part of the other, that it had begun to affect changes in me. It was precisely at that moment that I contemplated falling in love with Lucknow, hoping my love for her would change me (and her in turn) for the better. There was something pale, prosaic, and insipid about her. I sighed inwardly. The moment passed.

Lucknow has been home for the past thirteen years. The city personifies a lot of things for me. My parents. My first victory. My numerous failures. My solitary soccer goal. My thirteen orange bars. My only crush. My several romances. My best friends. My silent afternoons. My fall from grace. As a foregone conclusion, my story is my city’s as well. It lives and breathes in my toil, tears, and dreams. It has been a witness to my evolution, the wrenching out of all my desires, and a miracle of co-existence and acceptance. As both of us stake claim to an unknown future, we realize these bonds were forever meant to last. For each one of them has sculpted a facet of my personality, distinct and yet a part of the whole. I have, in turn, played my role in contributing in the smallest of ways. Like all of hers, I feign nonchalance and think of moving on to greater and better things. But I shall remain hers, as before. And these invisible ties will keep me coming back, just like the prodigal son, no matter how much of the world I have seen.

Now that I have narrated this strange tale, I would call upon certain unwilling souls to do the same. I, therefore, tag Piper, Banter, and Reader Anonymous. Ha. Ok Pinky. You can write too. But make sure it’s comprehensible.

Repository of Regrets

Akanksha was on deathbed, fighting against the slimmest of odds. Ritwick was crying, expecting that the worst would be over soon enough. While they waited for time to pass them by Shlok fidgeted. He had never faced such a situation before and it opened up a whole new side of him. One he would like to keep under the covers; or if possible, somehow get rid of. He doesn’t want anything to do with it.

There was silence and five people in the room. None knew what to do. And hence, everyone assumed a look of concern. Not a soul knew her as well as Ritwick. Yet fate had thrown them together to mourn a sorrow only one of them had a clue about. The air seemed heavy with morbid anticipation and a plethora of nightmares raped Shlok's mind. “Did they feel the same way? What were they thinking about?” He could not help thinking and each and every one of his thoughts shrieked at him. It’s strange how death can make one realize the fleeting nature of almost everything. He wondered about writing it down and almost immediately, felt so selfish that he was disgusted with himself. He felt like hating himself for it. “How could I even be so? Is that all I am about?”

~~~~

Got the news that Akanksha had passed away. Ever since, Shlok has been walking around. Clueless. Again. The repercussions have failed to notice him in the crowd. The only way in which he is affected by the incident is when he imagines the trauma in context with his own life. There is no other way. “Is that selfish or is that just how we are supposed to be? Sit there with my arms folded and look solemn? Appear sad when I don’t know what I should be feeling like?” Blank.

Even the skies are overcast today. Weird co-incidence. Maybe. Some people are likely to think otherwise. It’s strange how this kind of thing passes on to others. The paltan has been immersed in an eerie silence since last evening. Nobody has been cracking the trademark lewd jokes. All sounds seem to be coming from somewhere cold and distant. They all pretend to understand. But each of them knows better.

It’s difficult to forget things. Every time Ritwick will look at her photograph, a smile will come flooding back and the heart will ache in an inexplicable fashion, almost willing itself to explode. But then the pain will subside. New lovers will be loved. Different photographs will be cherished. And the memory of the dead will be relegated to some unspoken corner, not meant to be disturbed. But as of now, the ache will be fresh and the reminiscences vivid. The mind will question often and the pain hurt more so.

“I think I am too selfish”, decides Shlok. He imagines his life going out of control in the same fashion and is appalled at the ramifications. This is the only way he feels anything. Putting himself in Ritwick's place and fearing the aftermath. His thoughts are spattered with regret and more than once he thinks of breaking the cocoon and saying things before it’s too late. After all, it’s all ephemeral.

Even the smallest mundane tasks seem like blasphemy. One is supposed to wear a mask of misery and wait for time to pass you by. Telling someone about the same seems utterly selfish. Fruits brought from Subhiksha become the portrait of ignorance. There's a tear strained handkerchief too, still wet when he touches it. His mind goes into an overdrive and he notes down everything, as if he had already decided to come back and relive his regrets.

It’s all going to end. They all know that. But the embers will continue smoldering for several months, maybe years. Shlok doesn’t know what to say. Not what to do. He sits there and finds a teardrop finding its way through years of barricades. But it dries up as quickly. Just as the handkerchief on the bed had begun to. Is that symbolic of something? Or was he a fool to think like that?

In Memoriam

Buddy
April 14, 2005 - January 5, 2008

To Buddy, who proved to be a patient and morose listener, if nothing else. To Buddy, whom I now regret scolding each time she tried to eat my hand. To Buddy, for whom the world came to a standstill each time her tummy was tickled. To Buddy, who was selfless as long as food was not concerned. To Buddy, who gave the world seven more reasons to make itself a better place for everyone.

From Russia With Love

This is an impromptu post triggered by a chance letter that reached me this morning. Usually, I would have waited for all my regular readers (heh heh) to respond to my previous post. But, an exigency calls for some unforeseen measures. So on we go.

Letters always have this strange old world charm associated with them. Be it Papa sending you his wishes in the most unromantic monotones. Be it Didi sending you rakhi with nothing but a message like - "Sending in hurry, so unable to enclose chawal". Be it your best friend pouring his heart out. A hand-written account of even the simplest of things can never fail to move you. A smile is bound to grace that grumpy face. A memory is bound to be cherished. And the chitthi is bound to be read again and again.

It doesn't matter if you are the g33k G0d or n3rd p3rs0nifi3d. It doesn't matter if you swear by e-mail and Instant Relay Chat. That little chitthi will transform you (even if it's for a moment) into a teary-eyed fool (okay maybe that was an exaggeration). Like a flash, moments shared together are bound to, you know, just roll off. (Arrggh... I don't have the perfect expression for the feeling!)

We live in the age of emails and teleconferencing. Of flickr and orkut. So what is it that affects us in such a subtle way? Is it the personal touch? Is it the realization that the person took time out especially for you and not just forwarded the season's greetings? Or is it something beyond words? As always, questions like these can only have fuzzy answers. In the end, it's just the feeling. You feel strange (and good). So why the heck worry about the reason?

I, for one, used to enjoy writing letters. Believe it nor not, I used to write letters to my mum, while in school, pleading with her not to send me to that place the next morning. I even used to tell her that I was ready to clean utensils and all. "Mummy I am ready to even mop the floor. But I don't want to study!", I remember writing. Of course I was a lot more stupid and carefree back then. Those letters never fail to break me into peals of laughter even now.

But it's all telephonic conversations and emails now. "The old-world-charm is too slow a way to keep in touch", says the multitude. But it's not too much of a trouble to find time every now and then. On second thoughts, maybe it is. But take the time yaar. You might succeed in making someone smile today. And that is one good deed in your bahikhata. Start collecting the points now

Probation

Well Well Well. It seems that this semester I managed to add another feather to my already adorned cap. After laboriously managing to earn the dubious record of bunking the maximum number of classes last semester, I had begun to think that ‘that’ would be the end of my glorious exploits. But as it turned out, Lady Fortune had other plans for me. Hardly a week into the new semester, I have been handed a Letter of Probation by the DOSA (Dean of Student Affairs) along with 16 other of my batchmates for ragging 5 hapless juniors.

Ragging my foot! If I had been ragging those minions then I would have happily added this letter to my glorious annals. But the crux of the matter is that we wasn’t even ragging those ‘poor souls’. They were just being asked why Zidane head-butted Materazzi. Imagine that! Now do you call that ragging? But the warden and DOSA would not even hear a word from us. They just kept on harping on one damned point. Why had we latched the door from inside! Just a lame excuse, if you ask me. They were already 22 homo sapiens in that cramped room and other seniors passing by might have been tempted to join in the melee. We were actually protecting those bastards. Whatever, man! So much for acting the protector! My name’s there on the notice board now. Will remain there for a week. At least it got there somehow. Even if it is for all the wrong reasons.