Rediscover

The darkness flew past us. People sat apart, mostly silently, some sleeping, their heads resting serenely against the glass; others stared into the nothingness, unmindful of the gentle swaying and the muffled pounding of the rail on tracks. I was listening to myself condemn Free Thinking. I had several such recordings on my Ipod on subjects diverse—this was the most recent and therefore, by default, my current favorite. The metro stopped briefly and the doors opened to nobody. That was expected—it was 10 45 and this was the last metro.

Children laughed in my ear—my recordings were not mere commentaries, drab and monotonic. A lot of work went into them. There was, firstly, an idea, which was the basis of the whole initiative—usually a twisted take on something common, sometimes pointedly hilarious and often implausible, other times serious and even highly debatable; then there was the background score comprising of variants of a basic tune and other sounds. The tune was “composed” by yours truly, aided by a music-maker software and an able, finished musician-friend of mine; and the other sounds— children laughing, or the buzz of the marketplace, or the sound of gunshots—were all painstakingly chosen to add dramatic effect. In most cases, the end product was nothing like I had envisioned it in the beginning: reality, I had long before discovered, is harsh. But, I kept at it—the joy was in the process and though disappointing, I was quite fond of my recordings.

My compartment was near-empty: a group of tired-looking men in suits and red ties sat on one end and, involuntarily, a frown crossed my face. A little away, a family of three, carrying baggage that could have been a lifetime’s worth, huddled together—the kid sleeping on the mother’s lap, who seemed wary. I couldn’t get my eyes of her silver bangles for some reason. There were others—an old, bearded foreigner, who seemed so completely at home that a surge of strong jealousy arose in me; a few seats away sat a tall man, with a pointed nose and a flat head, who reminded me of a grown-up Suppandi; and diagonally across, sat this man in reading glasses, notebook and pen on his lap, staring curiously at me. I stared back for a moment—he didn’t look away, but a slow smile spread across his face, extending from his lip to his nose to his eyes, like a ripple on the water surface. I liked the smile, but I didn’t want to smile back. So I looked away.

Empty stations and billboards and neon lights whizzed past us. I was listening, distractedly, to me lecture on “Everything but 42” (a pathetic attempt at dark humour).
I looked around: a couple of unrecognizable faces, who I hadn’t noticed enter, sat apart, one listening to the FM on his phone; Suppandi-head had disappeared; the woman with the silver bangles looked more relaxed; out of the corner of my eye, I looked at the man with the reading glasses—he was apparently poring over his notebook—I could see, even from where I sat, that the page was blank; he noticed me looking at him and immediately threw a quick smile and asked:
“What are you listening to?”
“Um .. Nothing” I said, unplugging my earphones and immediately switching playlists.
I don’t talk much to strangers. I don’t talk much to anyone anyway. I like my silences.
He walked across, sat by my side and said, gesturing towards my Ipod:
“Can I listen?”
I didn’t refuse. It didn’t seem right to do so.
He let me hold the Ipod, sensing my insecurity, and simply plugged the earphones in his ear.
“Whose voice is this?”
“John Lennon”
“John Lennon definitely wasn’t around when Twenty20 began” he said laughing.
“I know” I said, wondering if he was in the habit of making random statements.
“So?” he asked, one eyebrow a couple of notches above the other.
“So?” I muttered, wondering what was happening.
“So, whose commentaries are these?”
And that was when it dawned. I was aghast. My playlists hadn’t switched; I had just moved onto the next recording. That was not Lennon he was listening to sing, but “Dislike”, my theory on dislikes and why it is necessary for all of us to have strong ones (Twent20 figured prominently on my list of strong dislikes)
“That is .. my friend” I said.
“He’s good” he said and went back to listening intently.

I sat there, looking at him, trying hard not to look as though I was trying to gauge his reaction though that was exactly what I was trying to do. I had never shown my recordings to anyone—like most things in my life, it was intensely personal and completely worthless, embarrassing even. Yet, here I was, sitting by this random stranger, studying expectantly every expression on his face. I could hear my voice crackle through the earphones. And despite the screeching and the chugging and the relentless stream of instructions of the monotonic voices from above (Any unattended baggage can be a bomb; Please do not forget to take your belongings; Don’t talk to strangers), I could hear every word of what he was listening to.
He had an intelligent, expressive face—much like an academician or an artist: most of the time, as he listened, it was engrossed and serious, eyebrows knit, foreheads creased; but every now and then, the lines smoothened and he let out a chuckle or smiled knowingly; he caught on, very early, to the cold, biting sarcasm, characteristic of well-hidden anger, let loose in the privacy of these recordings, and I could see he quite liked it; and when it finished, four stops and seven minutes later, he was smiling and I was flush with inexplicable excitement.

“You are a smart fellow” he said and added, eyes twinkling, “And you’ve got a nice deep voice”
“Thanks” I said, a little embarrassed by the praise and at being seen through so easily.
He looked up to check where we were and continued:
“And the music? You composed it too?”
“Well, sort of. With a little help” I said.
He was clearly impressed.
“Young man, two things .. lighten up a little” he said, and added with a wink, “And lie more convincingly”
The metro was slowing down now, breaks screeching, and he got up. I got up too, out of politeness and also because I knew no one would take my seat.
“I am a writer” he said, moving towards the door, “And I thrive on such chance encounters: you’ve opened up quite a few avenues for me”
“Pleased to be of service” I said, smiling broadly. It had been ages since I had flashed a smile like that at a friend, let alone a man I had known for barely fifteen minutes, and added, “Maybe you should write a story about me sometime”
“Maybe I will” he said.

The doors opened to nobody, the robotic voices had a fresh set of instructions ready; he stepped out gracefully, hands wrapped around the blank notebook and turned around and waved.
“What’s your name?” I shouted and waved back, suddenly remembering to ask; the doors would shut any moment now.
“Gaurav” he said, “better known, in the literary world, as ARG”
The doors shut; the name registered though.

The metro gathered speed; the station lights had their moments, before darkness engulfed us again; And for some reason, I felt extremely light.

And I was riding from darkness to light.

The Automaniac

It was late-evening, the light was fading. The sky was a grim grey-brown, as it had been all day. It being Sunday, there was little traffic on the road—cars and bikes zoomed past him, the odd bus trundled by; few autos chugged past noisily, but they were mostly taken and did not stop despite his repeated signaling; a bullock-cart, full of fresh manure, passed him, leaving a trail of obnoxious smell behind; He walked around in circles, getting increasingly impatient, muttering to himself to stay calm. And then, he finally saw an auto that was passenger-less: he jumped down the pavement, onto the road, in its path and swung his hands frantically. It stopped.

“Where to, sir?” the auto-wallah asked, grinning. And the man noticed he had no incisors.

The man hesitated, before he said:

“To the Market. Er... How much?”

The auto-wallah gave a demented, tooth-less grin yet again, and declared:

“Sir, you will give me fifty rupees”

That was nearly twice what he thought it would cost, but he simply got in quietly.

With a single hard tug at the lever, the engine spluttered and coughed into action. The rush of the wind stung so hard that the man hugged his jacket and drew his bag closer to him. He noticed there were three decorated rear-view mirrors, one on either side of the windshield, and one on top, just below the picture of the Goddess. In every mirror, all he saw was different bits of the face of the auto-wallah: the mirror above showed his forehead, mostly dominated by a bright-orange tilak, and a portion of his curly, messed-up hair; the mirror on the right showed one side of his two-day stubble and one red, kohl-lined eye; the other side, showed the other half of his face, a black birthmark on his cheek, lips more grey than pink. In the mental picture he made of the face, putting together the pieces in every mirror, the auto-wallah looked like a lunatic.
“Do you like my auto sir?” the auto-wallah asked suddenly.

“Um?” he said, looking at the mirror on top, at the red-eyes that were trained on him.

“Auto .. Like? You?” the auto-wallah asked again.

“Its nice” he said, pretending to look around.

The auto-wallah let out a shriek of laughter and abruptly sobered down and asked in a soft, toneless voice:

“Only nice?”

“Very nice, sir. I meant very nice” he said hastily.

And thanks to one of the rear-view mirrors, he saw one side of him smile.

They were still twenty minutes away. He just didn’t like the way the journey was going, but he held his calm.

They stopped at a signal. A bus tanked next to them with a loud hiss, and a gust of welcome hot air blew from its exhaust; the buzz of still running-engines all around irritated him; a beggar-boy, carrying his little sister went from one tinted window to another-- finally one opened and sent a jet of red-paan that the boy did well to dodge. Presently the boy came up to him: he looked away and refused. The auto-wallah gave the boy a ten-rupee not and said menacingly, looking at him through the mirror:

“Sir, don’t you have to give this boy ten rupees, too?”

The man briefly considered abandoning the auto and bolting, thinking this was the devil that had, perhaps, come to give him some sort of a warning.

But he simply took-out a ten-rupee note from his wallet and gave it to the boy.

The light turned green and they were away, again.

“Can you sing, sir?” the auto-wallah asked.

“Um .. Me?” he asked and instinctively, held on to his bag even more tightly.

“Yes, sir”

“No, I cant”

“Eh?”

“I can’t” he said a little loudly, trying to make himself heard over the din of the auto.

“I am not deaf, sir” the auto-wallah said sternly.

“Sorry” he muttered.

And they both stayed silent, before the man noticed the reflection in the mirror lighten as it broke into a smile. He relaxed slightly. The auto-wallah said:

“I’ll teach you a song, sir. Sing after me”

“Um .. Ok” he said meekly.

And the auto-wallah broke into a joyous cacophony: it spoke of the greatness of the country, of the mountains and the rivers, of the Gods and the Kings, of diversity, of unity, of tolerance and kindness and of course, of love. With every line he repeated, the man grew tenser. Sweat beads formed behind his ears and rolled down his cheek; his eyes grew steely and dark much in contrast to the auto-wallah, whose blood-shot eyes moistened with feeling and he looked like a sad, mad man.

When he finally reached the Market, the man nearly jumped off the auto. His hands shivered as he fumbled with his wallet, before dishing out a hundred-rupee note and said “Keep the change”. The Auto-wallah gave him one last tooth-less maniacal grin of gratefulness. He ran, as fast as he could, in the direction opposite to that of the Auto. And then he heard it and he stopped and relief flooded him. He smiled, slid his hands into his pockets, whistled a soft love-song and walked on. In a few hours he’d watch it all on TV, reporters scrambling to get a shot of the debris of the Auto that carried the bomb (his bomb in his bag!) that rocked the Market and shocked the nation ..

Patchwork Prabhakar--2

Continued from here
Seven
Rakesh returned to a tense hostel. There was tension everywhere—he could feel it in the way the watchman stared at him an extra second longer than he usually did; he could feel it in the way the dogs moved about silently, stealthily as though they were afraid of something; he could feel it in the wind—the way it blew, he couldn’t quite say what, but he thought there was something sinister about it; and as he entered the gates he saw it.
There were policemen and that made it obvious that there had been a fight and considering the size of the crowd, it must have been a big one. There were groups of boys standing in circles buzzing like bees, murmuring, whispering; and in the middle, there was the most important group—the principal looking as dead as ever, the Superintendent of Police speaking inanimately but firmly, the Warden looking sleepy and lost, and the President of the Students’ Union.
Rakesh, his eyes elsewhere, walked straight into Bharat, a tall, sturdy friend whose rather purposeful (and angry) strides were abruptly stopped by the collision.
Bharat swore.
“Sorry, sorry” Rakesh hastily apologized, one hand raised and then looking around, he asked “What happened here?”
Bharat swore again and then asked angrily, “Where the fuck were you?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, mother-fuckers: go back and fuck your prostitutes, don’t come here. We don’t need you people who can’t come when called. There’s a fight going on, and there’s no one to from our side …Where were you?”
“Actually, the signal’s very weak in the hospital and we left in a hurry … “
“Oh! So, nowadays, you do it in the hospital too, eh?”

Rakesh held his calm, and before Bharat could add anything, told him the whole story: how Prabhakar had come to them in the morning, looking a little scared and asked them if they could find people to donate blood for his father. ‘Or you could come yourself, you know’ he had added (‘Hope and fear make a very strange mixture. Strange but potent. When a friend of mine in college once asked me something, a little scared, but with a lot of hope, I had to contend with a whole waterfall of pity!” he’d say often) They had gone, seventeen of them, to the hospital, getting stuck first in a traffic jam and then later in the form-filling. It had taken them four hours for the blood-drawing session to begin. And all the while, Prabhakar and his brother ran, from one doctor to the other, from one room to another, to the laboratory, to the nurses, to pay bills, to collect receipts and submit forms. Prabhakar was resolute, never once breaking down and displayed the same odd dark humour that his mother did (‘I cant go and see my father like this, he had said with a sad smile, when the doctor had told him that his father was stable, but not out of danger, ‘I’ve grown so pale and white that Papa will think only I’ve donated all the blood’)
And when he was done with his tale, finishing off with how Prabhakar chose to stay back with his father and keep him company, the two stayed silent, listening to the perpetual buzz of the students and the crickets around.
“And what about you?” Rakesh asked eventually, “What happened here?”
“Oh, nothing. We just really missed our Ahimsa-preaching peace-maker Prabhakar and to show how badly we did, we fought one another”

Eight
Kapil scanned carefully the throng of people boarding the train. Most of his job was done: he had supervised the chart-making process; overseen personally the loading of the rice-bags in the goods compartment; counseled the engine driver and members of the pantry car; reported to the station master that all was ok. All he had to do now was sit as comfortably as he could manage on his rickety chair, drink his tea and wait till the train left.
He continued looking around: a porter carrying five bags scurried past him, an oldish couple trying hard to keep pace; the lock-seller walked around, crying his wares, trying to tempt a group of college-students into buying one from him; an old, scrappy man just sat on his suitcase on the platform, tiredness etched in every line of his face; and then he spotted a porter and two young men, who first put a wheel-chair, and then carefully, and after some maneuvering, carried an old, frail man into the compartment. The porter came back for another round and he loaded what seemed like some kind of a machine into the train. Kapil was intrigued. He called his assistant and asked him to check what those men were up to.
Two minutes later, as he watched the youngsters (who looked like they hadn’t slept in days) bid a worried goodbye to a couple of women, the assistant came back and reported:
“The old man is dying. And he wishes to die in his village. His youngest son, who looks like he’s just entered college, told me that. Apparently, it’s costing them a fortune to just keep him alive and they’re very very worried he’ll die in the train”
“And what if he does?”
“They’ll travel with the dead body, what else?”
Kapil was disgusted and he made no attempt to hide it.
“What’s with the machine?”
“It’s keeping him alive … “
“These people, I tell you. Taking all that trouble just to fulfill a senile man’s wishes … “
His assistant didn’t hear him finish. The train blew its horn just then.

Nine
In my three years in the hostel, two things stand out about the months of March, April and May: the scorching heat and the constant fear of exams. I remember, that year, the summer was particularly harsh; people walked around dressed even more sparsely than professional wrestlers; coolers adorned every window; the humidity was terrible; and worst of all, I was addicted to alcohol then.
I took alcohol breaks both before and after each of the three sessions in the day: the morning, the afternoon and the night. But, this story is not about me.
I had just finished an exam and didn’t quite know what to make of it. Staring at the question paper, and thinking, and wondering when I’d get back to my room for my drink, I walked towards the hostel, when my phone rang. It was Prabhakar’s brother. Prabhakar didn’t own a phone then, and his brother mostly called at his roommate, Pratik’s cell, but he was in an exam. I, his senior and mentor, was second in line. “Hello” I answered the call.
“Hello, Prabhakar hain?” he asked.
“No, he’s not with me now but I am going to the hostel and he must be in the mess. I should be with him five minutes … Anything important?”
“Can you ask him to give a missed call when you see him? It’s urgent”
“Ok”
And he hung up.
I wondered what it was now. The previous night at around ten’o’clock, he had called. Prabhakar was sleeping: he insisted on waking him up, only to ask him if he had an exam the next day and then wished him ‘best of luck’ when he had already done so in the afternoon. Prabhakar slept odd hours during the exams: he slept after dinner, at around eight and woke up at two in the night. Then, he studied all the way up to the exam hall.
I walked into a near-empty mess—most students had an exam at this time. There was yellow dal and French fries—dry potato-strips that had no taste at all. I spotted Prabhakar sitting alone in a corner, playing with his spoon and the rice, his mind evidently somewhere else. I sat beside him, put my phone in his hand and said:
“Your brother wants you to give him a missed call”
Prabhakar immediately did.
“Hello … Abhi? … Ok, can’t I finish my lunch? … Alright, I am starting now”
By the time the conversation ended, his hands were sweating. The colour had drained off his face. He just sat there, at the mess table, not saying anything, still as the mountains for what must have been a minute, but seemed like an eternity. I asked him, hesitantly:
“Anything important, Prabhakar?”
“I don’t know, sir. Brother wants me to come over, right now. He was saying something about booking a train-ticket …”
And then we both knew it, and without saying it, he had finally mustered enough courage to face it. I put an arm around him, and he stood up abruptly and said:
“Bye”

Four days later, when he came back to give his last exam, Prabhakar described the proudest moment in his life: the time when many, many people from different villages, hundreds of kilometers away come to pay their last respects to his father. “He was a very good man” he said, with no tears or sorrow, just a heart bursting with pride.

Ten
I met Prabhakar just once thereafter. I had already graduated (with a first division) by then and was working in Bombay. Never one to be ever able to resist the advent of the Delhi winter, I took a couple of days off to visit the city, now covered in a blanket of pleasant chill and bathed in mild sunlight during the day-time. The rickshaw-ride into the University, late one evening, was particularly refreshing: the rickshaw-wallahs wore thick sweaters and turbans in colours ranging from the jarringly jazzy to the expressionless dour; students sported jackets and sweaters, hands in their pockets and walked briskly; the trees seemed rejuvenated by the winter wind—they danced with a new vigour; the sky was a mélange of orange and blue—it was the best that Delhi could produce, and coupled with the winter’s magic, it was fascinating; the moon was pale and crescent-shaped and the first star appeared in the horizon.

I smiled at the watchman as I entered the hostel gate and he looked at me for a second longer than usual—he hadn’t seen me in three months and I attributed it to that. The pink bougainvillea still spilled over the walls like overtly gracious hosts, falling over each other to welcome everyone who entered, and as I entered the second, smaller gate that led to the main hostel building, all was a little too quiet and I realized that something was not right. Then, from somewhere, first came a thwack. It was audible, but not very loud, because it was so far away—had I been there, on the first floor, then it would have resounded. It was followed by a roar of tremendous pain—someone was hit and hit hard. And the rest of the hostel was calm, no one made a noise.
And then I heard foot-steps coming down from the first floor, tap-tap and then the plonk of a stick. In the semi-darkness, a figure emerged on to the corridor, carrying a stick nearly two feet taller than him, walking like some demonic warrior. And slowly, the shuffling of feet, students filing in, mostly first years, on the corridors above, all deferentially watching the stick-man walk. Not one talked. It was Prabhakar. And I waited for him to come to me. As I watched him walk with the stick, taking long, but calm strides, I knew there was something about him that had changed. He walked with tremendous confidence, he seemed nobler. He smiled when he saw me: and in that smile, I saw traces of his innocence, but it was shadowed by something more powerful, something commanding, something responsible, something the old Prabhakar never had.
And he said, “Hello Sir”
I embraced him like brothers do. And I looked pointedly at the stick.
“Oh this!” he said, following my eyes and looking at the stick, “Now that I am a senior, I sometimes have to take up the task of keeping peace in the hostel … that’s all!”
Death scars: sometimes irrevocably, sometimes in small ways.

Patchwork Prabhakar-- 1

(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.

Inheritance

Father would turn around and beam at him. And then, instantly, recognition dawns—he knows, he knows-- his expression would change faster than the colour of the rare sapphire sky during the monsoons. He, meanwhile, would continue to grin in the same lopsided manner, and his father would beckon him to his side, looking away to hide the tears that pour harder than the monsoon shower, down his dark cheek. He would walk; his eyes filled with pride, his expression unchanging, and bury his head into his father’s chest. And a bear-hug would follow, and his father would say, between innumerable chokes, “Thank you”
The boy crouched by the river and gazed below at his reflection. The water was blue, the blue of the sky above, the blue of his mother’s sari in the photograph, and green, light-green as the highest of leaves on the tallest of trees, the sun illuminating them with its brilliance; the river bed was golden, glimmering in the light of the sun; Few tiny fish glided leisurely, hardly bothering where they were heading; the river moved even slower than the fish, so slow that snails could wade against the current, so slow that it could have just been asleep; and the river snored softly as it lumbered along, taking with it the mute talk of thousands of its inhabitants.

A falling leaf pirouetted in mid-air before landing with the grace of a princess where his eyes were in the reflection—sending tiny, dancing, concentric, ripples before the current coaxed it move ahead. He smiled at his image in the water and saw his lips let out a sigh, slightly annoyed. It had always been that: “You look just like your father”, a pause, and then “Especially when you smile”. And he would feel a shot of pride, like the time when he caught his first multi-coloured butterfly, and he would beam—showing his crowded, overlapping teeth, that sprouted like coconut trees on the coast, each heading in a different direction—another father-side inheritance. His mother had left him with only her ears—giant, round ones that made his father good-humouredly suggest he dress-up as Gandhi for Independence Day. Everything else was his father’s: deep-brown, wide eyes, long, thin nose and crowded jaws.

He smiled again his signature smile; he saw his father smile at him from the river. He grimaced. It seemed pointless, but he would not lose hope; never give up. It was for his father— the one man who he wanted to be most like; the man who lost his cool as often as snowfall on the ghats; whose words were sparse but weighed and could never be wrong; whose velvet humour was soft: gentle as his laughter, softer than his nature; whose love for his son was mirrored only by his son’s unqualified love for him, like reflection of images on crystal-clear river water.

The whimsical wind picked up, messing up his hair, loosening his collar button: the photograph fell off his fluttering pocket. It was older than he was. At the edges, it was frayed and stained a dull brown. Dressed in a striped dull-orange cotton shirt that he still faithfully wore, his father had more hair, and try as he might, he couldn’t spot the grey hairs along his sideburns that he had almost presumed his father had been born with. He seemed to have been caught at the wrong moment, for his calm eyes were unfocussed, staring at something above the camera, and his mouth had curled itself into an ‘O’.
His mother was staring straight at the camera, her palm carelessly placed on the hand her father had set on her shoulder. Her eyes radiated exuberance—a passion for life itself—that made even her striking blue sari pale into insignificance. And she smiled her one-sided smile, far more to the left than the right—her lips inverted, red twin rainbows of happiness that had been abruptly cut short at one side; one eyebrow raised higher than the other; a single bridge of glee linking her nose to her highly curved left-lip.

It was his mother’s smile that had brought him to the river—a smile that, but for in photographs, he had never seen; a smile that he knew only he, who had more of her than anyone else, could reproduce; a smile he knew his father deemed priceless; a smile that he had vowed to make his own in a span of two weeks—by the 15th of February, his father’s birthday—and he had barely a week left; a smile that he would gift to his father—his most special and best birthday gift ever.

And amidst the river, the trees and the hills, for a full week, he smiled. From noon, after school, to dusk, he would sit amongst them toiling, practicing, replicating—the wind made the trees rustle and applaud in encouragement; the hills seemed as enthralled in his attempt as he was, sharing everything with him—echoing with his laughter and his frustrated cries; the river played its part, trying to stay as calm as ever, his toughest critic, imitating his attempts: he watched, with time and intense practice, in astonishment and ecstasy, his father merge into his mother in its clear water—he saw his right side sit still while his left lips curled exaggeratedly, his eyes brighten up, lit by the intensity of his desire, mirroring his mother’s zeal; a single linking line of joy that his father never called his own surfaced like a welcome guest on his left cheek; and by weekend he got his eyebrows to dance, although unpredictably.
****

The room was fairly dark, angled yellow light seeped in from the neighbouring room through the half-shut door. The constant screeching of insects from the garden trickled through the closed windows. A lizard fell from the wall onto the floor with a muffled thump; bedcovers ruffled. The boy couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t sleep. His mind raced as he played time and again the scene in his head—he saw every single moment in stunning clarity, his own practiced calm and his father breaking down: pride and jubilance etched on every line in his face; he fidgeted and shook in his bed; his heart thumped louder than a thousand falling lizards; a practiced, fixed smile was planted on his young face.

And the clock struck twelve times.

He jumped off his bed and kicked-- his bed-sheet landed virtually five feet away from where he lay. And he paced into the light and immediately shut his eyes, unable to bare its glare. In a few seconds he grew accustomed to the brightness, and made his way silently to his father’s study-cum-bedroom, all the time making sure he was smiling the right way. He sensed the presence of several colourful butterflies in his stomach, his head swam with excitement. And with a knock, he burst into the room smiling and bellowed “Happy birthday!”

Father turned around and beamed at him. And instantly recognition dawned for the expression on his face changed faster than the colour of the rare sapphire sky during the monsoons. He, meanwhile, continued to smile in the same lopsided manner as father beckoned him to his side, his face hardened, inscrutable. He walked: his eyes full of pride, his expression unchanging, right up to his father, expectant, excited. And Father grasped him by the shoulders and shook him roughly, trying to wipe the frozen smile off, and when he couldn’t, slapped him hard on his cheek and screamed “Get that thing off your face! She’s gone!”

Playground of Fear

“Will it fall today?” Arun asked, squinting at the tower and trying hard to conceal the half-smile that threatened to lighten up his bony cheeks.
“I am not too sure. I saw it wobble a bit, just before you came” I replied very seriously—I was a far better actor than he was.
We stood in silence, our small palms shielding our innocent eyes from the blinding radiance of the blazing sun, gazing intently at the top of the telephone tower that bordered our playground—a thousand feet up in the sky. A little behind us, over fifty rough, loud boys ran behind a tattered football, their bare feet untroubled by the rocky, red earth; Another half a dozen or so tried keeping pace with the crazy, swirling wind as it blew up minor dust storms and carried junk with it; And the cows rested lazily in the corner by the shade of the few trees that braved the summer heat—their tails languidly swatting flies.
“Oh”, said Arun eventually, nudging me with his elbow, the mirth in his voice as clear as daylight, “I think it just shook! Did you see that?”
I caught his eye and we both broke down laughing, clutching our tummies…

“This will be our last ride” I say, looking at the sky. Massive dark-grey clouds loom large over us like the demons straight from the epics.
“Why?” he asks, turning up to look at me. He tightens his grip over my fore-finger
“It looks like its going to rain” I say, averting his gaze.
He looks up too and scowls. From the corner of my eye, I see him open his mouth to say something, but he thinks the better of it. I am relieved—no moan of protest.
“Okay”, he says, “but I want to go on that one, again” pointing at the Giant Wheel.
It is now my turn to hesitate and restrain from objecting. The Giant Wheel, with its ever-rotating, dangerously swinging compartments, instils in me the same amount of fear as a pack of menacing stray dogs in an abandoned alley in the night-time. I can already feel the butterflies in my stomach, the dizziness in my head and the sensation of my digestive tract doing a complete nosedive when I look at the view from the top. I try to think of an excuse, but one look at his shining, excited eyes and the expectant smile on his adorable face puts an end to any such thought. I steel myself. It takes a brave man to accept this, but, when it comes to most things in life, I am a coward…
We sat on the sprawling branches of the almost bare tree facing the deserted playground. It had been a good two hours since the ‘long’ bell, signalling the end of school, had gone. The boisterous footballers had all gone; the cows, now undisturbed, leisurely grazed on the large patch of knee-length wild weeds at the far end. I bit into my twenty second bogari, a small, yellow-green, wild-fruit who’s English-name I still don’t know, and smiled—it tasted better than my twenty first.
“Want to see my latest?” he asked and paused to send a shower of seeds flying to the ground, “I added the finishing touches in maths class today”
I nod my head vigorously, my mouth too full to answer.
He tugged at a branch a little above us, and his bag came sliding down directly into his outstretched arm.
“This one is for you” he said and pulled out a giant chart-paper, “It’s about our big dream!”
Arun was a natural at art—a prodigy. His style was unique—easy, flowing, a touch lazy and he commonly flaunted a disregard for conventions. His eye for the smallest of details, even at that tender age, was unparalleled.
What he showed me that summer afternoon is probably the clearest image from my childhood.

We walk past the merry-go-round, with its array of swaying animals and blaring music, and I hold back for a moment. He jerks at my finger and quickens his pace—his eagerness evident with every passing step—he is almost hopping now. I am resigned to my fate…
And that is when I feel it drizzle—a tiny, cold drop lands on my neck and trickles down my spine. In seconds, I can see droplets silhouetted against the black windows of the House of Terror. I hear it drum softly against the pile of asbestos sheets that lay disowned by the pathway. I can smell it in the moist air, on the wet earth. I smile. His face contorts.
The picture. It was the playground. On the bottom left corner is a hysterical kid, the terror in his eyes palpable, running for shelter with his arms spread out. Following him are hordes of other children, all clad in khaki shorts and loose shirts, panic strewn across their faces. A cloud of dust, emanating from the epicentre, obscures the row of trees bordering the playground, though their hazy, crooked outlines have a sorry tale to tell. The entire right wing of the school-building is gone—a few loose bricks lay scattered around. And in the middle of the scene of destruction, like the fallen giant Ghatotkacha on the battlefield of the Kurukshetra, the tower lay, its intricately done design gone partly haywire by the fall and its various long metallic, silver interconnections dangling dangerously.
The sky is still a clear blue. The yellow sun still smiles. And somewhere above, I spot the spiral, white trail of a jet plane. And I can’t help smiling when I catch sight of the two of us, obscured by the dust, perched on the tip of the fallen tower, beaming like we had just fulfilled a long-awaited dream—like we had scaled Everest.
“It’s simply amazing” I finally said, eyes still scanning the picture intently, savouring it’s complex, unique beauty. It had colours splashed lazily all around and yet, there was an attention to several small but significant features; It was weird and fantastic, yet completely realistic.

It is pouring now. We run past the Ferris wheel. He stops jumping into every puddle in the pathway, pauses and peers at the colossal structure through the downpour. His head is turned away, but I know the expression on his face—the beautiful, sad eyes, the agony of the weight in his throat. I don’t want him to linger on and quickly grab him by his shoulders and we sprint towards the temporary shelter, a huge tent where several others, many thoroughly drenched, have gathered.
“I heard you are leaving for good” Arun said, matter-of-factly.
The local bus-stand was alive with the chatter of dozens of school children, their vocal chords not in the least affected by hours of exercise from dawn in class.
“Yes. Bangalore. In a week’s time”
He smiled and a comfortable silence followed. I wondered when we had met the last time: a month ago? Two months? We had been slotted in different classes for almost a year and naturally, we had drifted apart, immersed in our own worlds.
“Have you sketched anything…” I said, and paused mid-way, for just then, my bus spluttered to halt with a huge hiss.
“I will miss you, man” he said, and we shook hands and I hopped onto the bus. I would miss his openness, his subtle humour, his brilliant sketches. But, the bond we shared was special—our love for each other would not be affected, in the least, by the infrequency of our meetings.
I found a seat by the window, and waved to him.
He waved back, and said something, and laughed. I laughed too, though I remember not registering a single word of what he had said for the engine of the bus had switched on just then. I stuck my head out of the window and waved until the end of the road after which we turned the corner and he was out of sight.

He is slightly pacified now, munching away on the muffin I buy at the hastily set-up, makeshift counter, now hidden by the multitude of people cramped in the shelter. His eyes are still red, his cheeks swollen, and his smile hidden. I turn away, and my eyes move from person to person, sight to sight—a group of rowdy college boys create a ruckus so loud that the incessant patter of the rain is forgotten; an old couple try their best to keep their grandson from running into the rain; a bony stray dog contently rests by a boy, sitting on a ragged cloth spread over the wet, muddy earth. A book is propped against his jutting knees, and his hand works furiously over it. It’s the boy who catches my attention. My eyes refuse to budge.

The last I heard of Arun was a while ago from a common friend, who lived in the same town where Arun and I grew up. Tales of his dramatic walk out on his parents, who refused to respect his passion for art, branding it ‘impractical’ and ‘unaffordable’, had long reached my ears. It turned out, unfortunately, that he was a complete failure, for he neither had the money, the clout, nor the resources to back his talent. “All he does now” said my friend, shaking his head in sympathy though I suspect he had derived a considerable amount of pleasure in telling the tale “is drink, drink and drink. I sometimes hear him walking past my house late in the night, screaming, ‘I am a genius! I am a genius’”
I sat with my head buried in my hands, not uttering a word. Tears threatened to pour down my unshaven cheeks.
“And did you know he got married?” he continued in that same tone of casual nonchalance tinged with phoney compassion, “It was a failure too! She walked out on him, when he could no longer support the three of them—yes three! He has a son” I found my blood curling and my sorrow turned to rage-- an intense hatred for my friend who was no longer able to restrain the excitement in his tone. And yet, all I did was to bury my head further into my hands, and allowed him to continue, even though every cell in my body ached to have a go at him and shut his mouth forever. When it comes to most things in life, I am a coward…

I stand behind him with my son, peer at his sketchbook that rests against his knees and watch his hands go magically over the page. He doesn’t notice me. The dog has, and it looks at me wearily through the corner of its eye. He is sketching the scene that lay outside: an amusement park deserted in the rain, in the darkness. It’s a tough task, and yet, he manages it with the ease of a pro—somehow, the rides ranging from the merry-go-round to the Giant Wheel swaying ever so slightly in the wind, the rain, the woods that lay behind, and most importantly, the darkness all seem to stand out, yet complement each other like an ensemble, each unique, nonetheless, together and dependent, creating a special aura. The dog whines, and he gives a start and immediately shoves his book into the worn-out bag slung over his shoulders. His eyes are alert, as he scans the crowd. Sure enough, a woman arrives busily and he immediately stands up.
“What are you doing here?”
“Nothing… Just looking at the rain” he says, and I spot him wink at the dog, with the tiniest hint of a smile, and suddenly his face looks vaguely familiar.
“Looking at the rain” she mimes unbelievingly, “Do whatever you want, as long as you don’t take out that stupid sketchbook of yours and waste time drawing. I don’t want you ending up like your father: drunk, jobless and poor”
He doesn’t respond, but simply follows her. The dog follows, wagging its tail. I see them receding and have this insane urge to stop them, to ask the boy to show me more of his sketches, to ask him who the father is. I think I know the half-smile; the long, slender fingers; the insatiable passion for minute details in sketches. Drunk, artist father?
‘What are the odds?’ whispers another voice in my brain extremely unconvincingly and a part of me knows it’s only an excuse…
And suddenly, I realise they are gone—lost in the crowd, swallowed up by the darkness. And somewhere inside, I am happy they are gone. I am not heartless. I am only afraid that my pure, innocent and open memories of a friendship that stood for eternal youth and hope might be ruined if I do come across this drunken failure of a man. He is a man I do not know, I cannot love. I am afraid of him. It’s the fear that gives me a sense of relief and prevents me from acting… for when it comes to most things in life, I am a shameless coward…

Candle In The Wind

He gripped the handle-bar and guided the rickshaw through the tiny gap between the pavement and the string of other cycle-rickshaws with an ease that, for the inexperienced eye, could have been easily mistaken for recklessness. As the road curved and widened, he hopped onto the pedal, and with one Zidanesque step-over, put his right leg on the other pedal across the bar and perched onto his seat. The rhythmic creaking of the chain soon prevailed over the cries of the other men—their voices, some hoarse with the shouting, seemed to fade away.

By the time he was half-way through, sweat dropped from his body like water from ice-cubes in the open. Tiny sweat beads on the back of his neck glistened and shone like miniscule gems—his shirt was completely drenched. He crouched, drawing strength from every muscle in his thighs and gritted his teeth in grim determination. The traveler in the back bobbed along like a cork in the sea, immersed in his own sea of thoughts. The rickshaw-wallah pedaled along, his breathing growing heavier with every yard.

And suddenly, he felt he could go no more. His old bony limbs, unable to bear the strain, gave away. He got off the rickshaw and panted loudly; his head cast downwards, towards the ground, white hair shimmering in the afternoon sun, hands still on the handle-bar. As the breathing slowed, he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He turned his head, slowly as ever, and found the passenger who quickly thrust a 20 rupee note in his hands and walked away. He nodded his head ever so slightly as a mark of acknowledgement—it was the most he could do then.

******

With his turban rolled up into a pillow, he lay down on the pavement, below the peepal tree, watching the fine sky from between the leaves. The incident earlier that day had left him a little shaken—but he guiltily admitted to himself that it was not unforeseen. He had been working for too long and age was no longer on his side; nor was the weather. The sun seemed hell-bent on sapping the little energy his frail body could store up. His tired eyes blinked slowly a couple of times, before they gave in and closed.

A world was shut out, but another opened. The smell of bhel puri wafted from the chaat shop across the road; the odd crow let out a shriek from above; cars and bikes, few at this time of the day, honked as they passed—motors on full throttle; students from the college ahead chatted noisily, as they walked by; children, from the small colony of workers that had made the pavement their home, cried—only to be hushed and pacified by their mothers; and the radio from the paan-shop, for a welcome change, hummed a lullaby. And this world too slowly faded away to a more interesting one of dreams and fantasies….

He woke up when he felt someone tug at his moustache. Two small, fragile palms ran over his unshaven cheeks. He liked the easy, simple gestures—one that could come only from a child—but pretended to be flustered as he rolled over, his face turned away; eyes tightly shut. The hands now were placed firmly on his shoulders as they tried, in vain, to turn him. He grunted and rolled back to face the child. The hands clapped in glee and a pure, innocent voice cried in victory. There was a quick shuffle of tiny feet and he felt a near-weightless body bounce up and down his stomach. Eyes still shut; he mumbled and grumbled, apparently annoyed but, playing his part to perfection, much to the delight of the child.

It all stopped as suddenly as it started. He no longer heard crisp, dry leaves crack under the shuffling feet; nor did he feel the child jump; he just felt a head placed, sideways, on his chest and a body on his stomach that rose and fell with his breathing. He put his hand affectionately over the bare brown back of the boy. And for those few moments he felt happiness that relieved him of all pain; that made him forget all that had passed since dawn.

This was how they lived—the rickshaw-wallah and the child from across the road. They never came across each other at any other time of the day; their conversations were muted; their eyes rarely met....
******

A week had passed and the old man found it harder and harder to go on. He dreaded the day for it brought nothing but pain; he dreaded the nights, for the pain drove his sleep away. Incidents like the one earlier were becoming more frequent and not all passengers were considerate. Several refused to pay and he had to go on an empty stomach to compensate. Hunger, fatigue and a sense of world-weariness overcame him.

The future looked bleak. He couldn’t stop riding the rickshaw—he had been doing it since he could remember and if he did stop, he would rot away to death—alone and unemployed. He couldn’t think of anything else he could do to earn and he was too old to learn something now. But, it was high time he moved on. And as he lay down under the tree, musing thus, staring at the sky that looked like twinkling stars between the leaves, a small smile lit up his lips and he closed his eyes…

The child crossed the road and positioned himself by the old man. He grabbed the silver-white hair and messed it up; played drums on the bare chest; bounced away on his shrunken stomach. He got no response. He stopped, and put his head on the old man’s chest. With every passing moment he pressed his ear, harder and harder, against the body. Much later, with a shrug of his shoulders, he silently walked away; his brows knitted in a frown.
He tugged at his mother’s sari, and when she refused to respond, bit her knee. She let out a wail and asked, harshly, “What is it?”“The tabla is not playing inside the old man’s chest anymore"

******

The old man had moved on to a better world. A world of wider roads and lesser motor-vehicles; of polished rickshaws and pleasant weather; of untiring bodies and customers who didn’t bargain; of free, delicious bhel puris and silent afternoons; a world where children remained children and never grew old; a world where the nasal singer didn’t scream through the radio from the paan-shop every time he wanted a nap and some peace….

Riots

The night wasn’t silent; the streets weren’t dark. The lights weren’t put off, the owls weren’t hooting. The moon hid behind dark grey clouds as if unable to witness what was happening below. Dogs howled; women and children cried. The earth shook, unable to bear the weight of the stampede above. The wind whooshed past at a frightening speed carrying with it the dust, the flames, and everything else that dared to cross its way. Pandemonium prevailed.

It all started with the sound of footsteps. A group of people, all hooded and armed, galloped across the street. Then came an ear-piercing scream and the sound of wreckage. A house was blasted open and set on fire. Within minutes, chants were heard and someone sobbed loudly. More people, all armed, arrived.

And in the midst of this chaos, beside a heavily paan-stained wall by the street, he lay down. He could hardly move, and yet he tried.
"Help me" he screamed.
But there was too much going on, too much noise. And each man had his own life to take care of.
'Help me" he cried again, his voice now going down a few decibels. He could feel the darkness engulfing him, his life slowly ebbing away.

They moved through the panicked crowd with unusual finesse, cutting across people like a scissors through paper. They were all armed, as if forewarned of the likelihood of something of this sort happening and they were all similarly dressed. One of them spotted him, lying beside the river of blood that now flowed by the street and alerted the rest. They waltzed across the crowd, against the flow of people, and made it to him.
"Baba" said one of them, the moment they reached his side, kneeling by him.
He opened his eyes. There were 6 of them; all wearing grim yet determined faces. He couldn’t smile, but there was the slightest shake of the head.
"Baba, what is your name?"
The question brought him back to his senses. Everything came into focus just then. He stared into those deep-brown eyes that reflected the dancing flames all around, and realised that it was now a matter of life and death. He thought he spotted a streak of greying hair below the hood on the lower parts of the jaw and the cheek and with that much of a pause said,
"Abdul. Abdul Khan"

They immediately rose, eyes showing not any hint of pity for the man through whose stomach was pierced a bloodstained sword. As swift as ever, they turned and merged with the crowd not once looking back at the blood splattered shirt or the almost-still body.
"Bastards", he bellowed after them," the name is Hari Gopal".
But they had gone-- gone too far away and he was left all alone.