(this is a two-part story. both parts are done. i've found it hard to split it into two, but it just is too long for one blog-post. this part may thus seem very random and directionless. part two in three days.)
One
With his pant nearly up to his chest, his striped-brown shirt buttons all open and hanging loosely showing a neatly tucked in off-white bainan, Prabhakar was quite a sight; he looked quite like a Bihari version of Rajni Kant in Batshah (where he played a super-hero auto-wallah). On the sprawling lawns that the lay outside the hostel, Prabhakar walked with a half-swagger, one that didn’t seem put-on and yet had no trace of arrogance, swinging his arms and smiling broadly at those who passed by.
Kansal stared at him, chuckling to himself, and asked:
“Is he a first-year?”
They were sitting on the cement-seats that were reserved for seniors. They were at one end of the lawn, allowing them a proper view of all those who walked in and out. Another year had just begun; the air was still and heavy; the election was what was heavy on everyone’s minds.
“Yes; proper Bihari” said Kunal.
“Bulao usko, maather chod. Oye, FIRST YE—“
“Arrey, let him be: he’s a nice, simple guy. And we have better things to do than rag a first year”
Kansal still looked at him longingly, like a hawk’s eyes stalking its prey, and he asked:
“Kaam karega?” (Will he work for the party?)
“Pucca. Its in his blood—he’ll be one of our best supporters”
“Naam kya hain?” he asked.
“Prabhakar”
“Pra-bha-kar” he said, rolling the word in his mouth, and smiled.
Two
It was on the banks of the River, sitting in the shade of her favourite mango tree, was where Prabhu found his mother. With one hand, she held the veil of her Sari and with the other she threw pebbles at the river. The pebbles bounced once, twice, even thrice sometimes on the water-surface before sinking: she didn’t have to think to cause multiple ripple-centres with the same stone; she had been doing that since she was five.
As he reached by her side, he noticed her drawn face. Unnatural worry-lines punctuated her face as though someone had drawn them there with a pencil. He put a hand on her shoulder, she turned around, looked at him, smiled weakly. She placed her own hand—the one that held the veil—on his, and turned back to the river, continuing to throw the odd stone listlessly.
“You miss him badly, don’t you?” he asked.
She didn’t say a word. She simply looked up at the skies and sighed. A few stray strands of her hair danced in the wind.
“Oh, Prabhakar” she said to the Sun, a pale shadow of its summer-self, weakened by the continuous downpour and hiding behind clouds of dark-gloom, “You hide just like my Prabhakar”
And in spite of himself, Prabhu smiled.
Three
Savitri flipped through news channels, lounging on the sofa.
Nuclear Deal. Click. Nuclear Deal again. Click. Tata. Click. BREAKING NEWS: The Lord Ganesha’s idol drinks milk again! Click. Nuclear Deal again, again. Click. BREAKING NEWS: ABVP wins University Elections! NO Click.
She paused, and her fingers ran over the remote, but didn’t press any button: she wanted to see this. A vast number of jubilant students were sloganeering and carrying out a victory procession as a harried reporter tried to scream over the mad din they were making. She didn’t notice the reporter nor did she hear what she was saying for all she wanted to see was if she could spot Prabhakar in the crowd. She didn’t and she continued flipping channels, but her mind was now elsewhere.
Prabhakar came over every weekend. She liked him and in him, she tried to see a younger version of his oldest brother, her husband. And she loved what she saw—there was innocence, so much of innocence that she was always afraid he may be taken for a ride; there was exuberance; there was wonderment with the way the city worked; there was honesty, but most importantly, there was joy—a happiness and freshness that went with him wherever he went, whatever he did.
And, sometimes, very rarely, she saw him do what she thought was impossible: she saw him take his brother back in time—for Prabhakar would break through that tough and world-wearied exterior that he put on and make his brother forget, ever so fleetingly, the fact that he had a family to start, but didn’t have enough money to do so. With his stories of their village, and their trees, their rivers and hills, Prabhakar would not just entertain them, but also briefly ignite a dreamy spark in his brother’s eyes; and before they knew it, they would be laughing away, lost happily in the alleys of memory tinged by the halo of nostalgia.
Four
“I love you!” she whispered into his ear, smiling.
They were sitting in Ram’s car, her head resting on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around her body.
He smiled and sighed. And then, he said teasingly:
“Love is a sacrifice, a compromise and one mustn’t let oneself be corrupted by the influence of the other without discovering himself first—for, it is only when not in love, and not plagued by thoughts of the other does one get to know himself and if one falls in love too early, then you might end up never knowing the real you”
“Did you make that up just now?”
“No, a friend of mine told me. In Sanskrit first, then in chaste Hindi”
“I can think of a hundred ways to rebut that statement of his, but not one in Sanskrit”
He smiled and nodded. She kissed him on his cheek, then shut her eyes and asked:
“Who is this friend?”
“Prabhakar: he’s doing a Bachelors in Sanskrit. People say he knows more of the language than half his teachers … Sometimes I wish he was good at something else: what is the point in being a genius at a dead language?”
“Well … maybe he just has to do it … When Radheya went to fight the Kurukshetra-War, he knew he was the best, and yet he knew he would die. That didn’t stop him from fighting, did it?”
Ram’s face screwed up in concentration and he finally gave up.
“The analogy is just too convoluted for me”
“I think it doesn’t fit in there” she said with an irresistible mischievous twinkle in her eyes and he kissed her …
Five
“Prabhakar! Prabhakar!” Rakesh shouted, pounding the door and panting loudly.
His heart beat rapidly, as much from the exertion of running all the way up those stairs as excitement. He heard the door latch click open, and as soon as the door swung open, he shouted:
“You’ve topped the college – “ and he cut himself short, for it was not Prabhakar, but his roommate who opened the door. A little groggily, Pratik, the roommate, said, between stifling a yawn:
“He’s not here. He’s gone to the hospital—his father’s been admitted”
“What?!”
“No, no need to panic. He’s just having some trouble with his liver” he said, rubbing his eyes and continued, “Nothing serious”
“Oh, ok … But, please do tell him he’s made us all proud—he beat the second-best by twenty marks! The teachers think he’ll top the University in his final exams!”
“Oh, wow!” Pratik croaked and then his eyes lit up like those Chinese fire-crackers as he added “I’ll get to drink again today! Ah, free alcohol!”
Six
His eyes darted up, then down, then up again, then down. His left hand was perpetually in motion, his right hand supported a note-book that lay open on his thigh; the pencil his left-hand held seemed to have a mind of its own as it moved seamlessly over the book. At first there were just lines: long, firm lines outlining an elf-like face with big ears and a pronounced chin; the hair was cut short, short enough to be prick-y, but not quite enough to be the latest fashion; and then came the features—and the lines curved and danced and grew shorter and softer. No, it was not a soft face—far from it—the eyes were bright, the nose was long and big, the lips were a pale pink and thin, the eye-brows a little bushy. The features were hard, and yet there was something delicate about the face—it was a beautiful sketch.
“Who are you drawing?” she asked
“Hmmm?” he said, adding the finishing touches, not taking his eyes off the book for he had seen enough of the face to draw it from his head.
“Who are you drawing?”
“Ah, done!” he said and neatly tore the page off and gave it to her. “Here, this is for you”
She studied the picture carefully and smiled. He was really good at sketches and she liked this one a lot, but she asked again:
“Who is this?”
“That guy there” he said, pointing to a person who was frantically gesturing and firing-off instructions to a group of seven-eight people around him.
She thought the resemblance was remarkable.
“Why does he look so worried?” she asked.
He sighed and said: “Everyone has problems nowadays ya …”
“He’s …” she said and waited, staring hard at him and trying to get the right word in her head, “gawky”
He didn’t think the guy was even remotely gawky, but he didn’t tell her that.
One
With his pant nearly up to his chest, his striped-brown shirt buttons all open and hanging loosely showing a neatly tucked in off-white bainan, Prabhakar was quite a sight; he looked quite like a Bihari version of Rajni Kant in Batshah (where he played a super-hero auto-wallah). On the sprawling lawns that the lay outside the hostel, Prabhakar walked with a half-swagger, one that didn’t seem put-on and yet had no trace of arrogance, swinging his arms and smiling broadly at those who passed by.
Kansal stared at him, chuckling to himself, and asked:
“Is he a first-year?”
They were sitting on the cement-seats that were reserved for seniors. They were at one end of the lawn, allowing them a proper view of all those who walked in and out. Another year had just begun; the air was still and heavy; the election was what was heavy on everyone’s minds.
“Yes; proper Bihari” said Kunal.
“Bulao usko, maather chod. Oye, FIRST YE—“
“Arrey, let him be: he’s a nice, simple guy. And we have better things to do than rag a first year”
Kansal still looked at him longingly, like a hawk’s eyes stalking its prey, and he asked:
“Kaam karega?” (Will he work for the party?)
“Pucca. Its in his blood—he’ll be one of our best supporters”
“Naam kya hain?” he asked.
“Prabhakar”
“Pra-bha-kar” he said, rolling the word in his mouth, and smiled.
Two
It was on the banks of the River, sitting in the shade of her favourite mango tree, was where Prabhu found his mother. With one hand, she held the veil of her Sari and with the other she threw pebbles at the river. The pebbles bounced once, twice, even thrice sometimes on the water-surface before sinking: she didn’t have to think to cause multiple ripple-centres with the same stone; she had been doing that since she was five.
As he reached by her side, he noticed her drawn face. Unnatural worry-lines punctuated her face as though someone had drawn them there with a pencil. He put a hand on her shoulder, she turned around, looked at him, smiled weakly. She placed her own hand—the one that held the veil—on his, and turned back to the river, continuing to throw the odd stone listlessly.
“You miss him badly, don’t you?” he asked.
She didn’t say a word. She simply looked up at the skies and sighed. A few stray strands of her hair danced in the wind.
“Oh, Prabhakar” she said to the Sun, a pale shadow of its summer-self, weakened by the continuous downpour and hiding behind clouds of dark-gloom, “You hide just like my Prabhakar”
And in spite of himself, Prabhu smiled.
Three
Savitri flipped through news channels, lounging on the sofa.
Nuclear Deal. Click. Nuclear Deal again. Click. Tata. Click. BREAKING NEWS: The Lord Ganesha’s idol drinks milk again! Click. Nuclear Deal again, again. Click. BREAKING NEWS: ABVP wins University Elections! NO Click.
She paused, and her fingers ran over the remote, but didn’t press any button: she wanted to see this. A vast number of jubilant students were sloganeering and carrying out a victory procession as a harried reporter tried to scream over the mad din they were making. She didn’t notice the reporter nor did she hear what she was saying for all she wanted to see was if she could spot Prabhakar in the crowd. She didn’t and she continued flipping channels, but her mind was now elsewhere.
Prabhakar came over every weekend. She liked him and in him, she tried to see a younger version of his oldest brother, her husband. And she loved what she saw—there was innocence, so much of innocence that she was always afraid he may be taken for a ride; there was exuberance; there was wonderment with the way the city worked; there was honesty, but most importantly, there was joy—a happiness and freshness that went with him wherever he went, whatever he did.
And, sometimes, very rarely, she saw him do what she thought was impossible: she saw him take his brother back in time—for Prabhakar would break through that tough and world-wearied exterior that he put on and make his brother forget, ever so fleetingly, the fact that he had a family to start, but didn’t have enough money to do so. With his stories of their village, and their trees, their rivers and hills, Prabhakar would not just entertain them, but also briefly ignite a dreamy spark in his brother’s eyes; and before they knew it, they would be laughing away, lost happily in the alleys of memory tinged by the halo of nostalgia.
Four
“I love you!” she whispered into his ear, smiling.
They were sitting in Ram’s car, her head resting on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around her body.
He smiled and sighed. And then, he said teasingly:
“Love is a sacrifice, a compromise and one mustn’t let oneself be corrupted by the influence of the other without discovering himself first—for, it is only when not in love, and not plagued by thoughts of the other does one get to know himself and if one falls in love too early, then you might end up never knowing the real you”
“Did you make that up just now?”
“No, a friend of mine told me. In Sanskrit first, then in chaste Hindi”
“I can think of a hundred ways to rebut that statement of his, but not one in Sanskrit”
He smiled and nodded. She kissed him on his cheek, then shut her eyes and asked:
“Who is this friend?”
“Prabhakar: he’s doing a Bachelors in Sanskrit. People say he knows more of the language than half his teachers … Sometimes I wish he was good at something else: what is the point in being a genius at a dead language?”
“Well … maybe he just has to do it … When Radheya went to fight the Kurukshetra-War, he knew he was the best, and yet he knew he would die. That didn’t stop him from fighting, did it?”
Ram’s face screwed up in concentration and he finally gave up.
“The analogy is just too convoluted for me”
“I think it doesn’t fit in there” she said with an irresistible mischievous twinkle in her eyes and he kissed her …
Five
“Prabhakar! Prabhakar!” Rakesh shouted, pounding the door and panting loudly.
His heart beat rapidly, as much from the exertion of running all the way up those stairs as excitement. He heard the door latch click open, and as soon as the door swung open, he shouted:
“You’ve topped the college – “ and he cut himself short, for it was not Prabhakar, but his roommate who opened the door. A little groggily, Pratik, the roommate, said, between stifling a yawn:
“He’s not here. He’s gone to the hospital—his father’s been admitted”
“What?!”
“No, no need to panic. He’s just having some trouble with his liver” he said, rubbing his eyes and continued, “Nothing serious”
“Oh, ok … But, please do tell him he’s made us all proud—he beat the second-best by twenty marks! The teachers think he’ll top the University in his final exams!”
“Oh, wow!” Pratik croaked and then his eyes lit up like those Chinese fire-crackers as he added “I’ll get to drink again today! Ah, free alcohol!”
Six
His eyes darted up, then down, then up again, then down. His left hand was perpetually in motion, his right hand supported a note-book that lay open on his thigh; the pencil his left-hand held seemed to have a mind of its own as it moved seamlessly over the book. At first there were just lines: long, firm lines outlining an elf-like face with big ears and a pronounced chin; the hair was cut short, short enough to be prick-y, but not quite enough to be the latest fashion; and then came the features—and the lines curved and danced and grew shorter and softer. No, it was not a soft face—far from it—the eyes were bright, the nose was long and big, the lips were a pale pink and thin, the eye-brows a little bushy. The features were hard, and yet there was something delicate about the face—it was a beautiful sketch.
“Who are you drawing?” she asked
“Hmmm?” he said, adding the finishing touches, not taking his eyes off the book for he had seen enough of the face to draw it from his head.
“Who are you drawing?”
“Ah, done!” he said and neatly tore the page off and gave it to her. “Here, this is for you”
She studied the picture carefully and smiled. He was really good at sketches and she liked this one a lot, but she asked again:
“Who is this?”
“That guy there” he said, pointing to a person who was frantically gesturing and firing-off instructions to a group of seven-eight people around him.
She thought the resemblance was remarkable.
“Why does he look so worried?” she asked.
He sighed and said: “Everyone has problems nowadays ya …”
“He’s …” she said and waited, staring hard at him and trying to get the right word in her head, “gawky”
He didn’t think the guy was even remotely gawky, but he didn’t tell her that.
1 comment:
I like the description of the drawing you gave. very imaginative as always.
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