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.
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.
