The Lost Key

No one knew how old the village was. Few believed it lived since the beginning. Others differed, but not very much.

The villagers were simple people. They had enough, and perhaps they could have more, but they aspired to want less. When they prayed, they prayed for all. They believed, yet they would urge their young to seek; and the seeker was one who had questions. Sparingly they spoke, and intently they listened. Often they would go to faraway places where nothing was heard except the murmurings of Divine. Once they come back, they would pen down what they had heard.

And their experience would become part of their age-old repository of knowledge that sustained them for eons. They had a veritable treasure - their lore and myths were layered and lyrical, their epics were as vast as the oceans, and their philosophy had depth unfathomed. The books cultivated them, and they preserved their books, in a place securely locked by a key others knew nothing about. Only the villagers had the key; only they had access to the treasure.

In beginning of when the time started to rot, came from the West the barbarians, crossing the river, those who knew neither music nor sculpture. Blinded by the certainty of their faith, they had no eye for subtlety and symbolism. Apart from them, no one expected them, and no one was ready for them. What followed was a chaos unseen by any, and by the time it subsided, the world had changed for ever. 

The village is still there, though it looks very different. Poor villagers, who now speak a strange tongue with considerable difficulty, know that the treasure is still there, but can only peep from outside, for they have lost the key.

Restroom

As I was looking for the medicine I wanted, a salesgirl passed by me. She took a few steps before turning and asking - 

- Sir, can I help?

- Yes, thank you. I am looking for Benadryl.

- There it is, to the rightmost in the 3rd row from top. 

Before I could look in that direction, a voice coming from the other side pulled my attention.

- Why everyone is ignoring me! I am diabetic, and I need to go to the restroom. It has already been fifteen minutes. I can't wait any longer. Can I see the manager?

She was about 70 years old, may be more, with some contraption wrapped around her right leg. With that big a body, life must have been too heavy for her to drag. Moreover, she had a cart to push around, carrying around her belongings, perhaps all her belongings in it. In the cold world out, she was homeless. Her dignity was still there on her face, probably misplaced and certainly wounded. It seemed to me that she had seen better days.

- What's the matter with these guys? They come to our country and get everything. And see how they treat an old citizen! We open our doors for them, and they deny us a restroom! 

Since the salesgirl had left muttering something on her phone, she was talking to me now. She needed to be heard; and she needed to hear someone else.

I didn't know what to do. I looked down. 

- I have used this restroom before. I clean it before leaving, sometimes before using. But they make me suffer. They have no mercy, these guys. I wish someone pees in the aisle. Being a female I cannot do that. But I wish someone did. That would serve them well. 

I wanted to help her but I couldn't. After all I was not the manager. Or perhaps I could. I could have requested the salesgirl to help her. Or I could have helped her with few pennies to pay in public toilet. But nothing occurred to me then. I had been surprised by the situation. 

Moreover, I had my own issues to deal with. I had not found the medicine I wanted. It was late and I had to decide between buying a different Benadryl or waiting for the next day. Right at that moment, I was expected to do the right thing by many people, and I was going to disappoint all of them.

- May be our senator should see this. May be he should see how they treat us. May be he should get the immigration rules changed to filter out people like these.

I took whatever Benadryl there was and rushed towards the cash counter. I had a long list but I was not sure I wanted to buy anything from that store. I stood in the queue, waiting for my turn. There were many counters, but I didn't see a single soul.

My turn came, and the automatons did what they had been programmed to do. 

-  What else one can expect from you! The place you come from is well known to torture people. Now you come here to torture us. What else one can expect from you! 

She emptied herself, but left without relief. The door of restroom remained closed. All of us were helpless. None could open it. 

Watch Man

She opened the door, tossed her bag on the bed, and flung herself on the sofa. As I followed her, she sank within, and her hands rose up to hide her face. Knowing her well, I knew that she would try hard not to lose control. However, her anger steamed out hissing through her breath, and her pain escaped through the veil of her fingers.

Sitting there, I felt like a voyeur, an unwanted witness to something I was not supposed to see. After all, pain is a personal thing. Her pain was hers, not mine. Yet, surprisingly, I could not stand her pain. It seemed to have come between us, alienating me, incriminating me for the crimes I had not committed. It was a difficult situation - I could not help but see her pain, and then I could not share it. I have always believed that there is something intimate about sharing pain. Pleasure is shared with all, but not pain. I just didn't have the rights.

I was obliged to wait.

- Come on, forget about it.

- I have been trying for a long time to forget it.

- May be he was just following the rules..

- Which rules? Written or unwritten?

- What do you mean?

- Leave it, you won't understand.

- Let me try.

- You get a congratulatory salute when you bring in a woman guest. But when the same woman invites you, she gets a stare, and a rule-book.

- Oh come, it's not like that.

But I knew she was right. That's how it was like. There were unwritten rules being followed all over. And we could do little about it. I felt like hugging her to console her. That's all I could do. Or I couldn't do even that. I didn't have the rights. 

Life is a Marathon

"If you want to win something, run 100 meters; if you want to experience something, run a marathon." - Emil Zatopek

Last year, I had participated in the 10K marathon, which is conducted every year in Hyderabad. The spirit of Hyderabad was showing itself even before sunrise. At 5:30 on a Sunday morning, when the only place one would like to be is his bed, there was virtually no place to stand on the Necklace road. People of both the sexes and all ages had covered every inch of the road. The mood was festive and refreshing, and the atmosphere was enthusiastic - as it would probably have been on the 15th August, 1947.

I had completed that run without any problem. In fact, I completed that run with a sprint in the end. When I do that, I feel that the conquest was comprehensive.

This year, last Sunday, I participated in the half-marathon - 21.1 kms.

Like last year, I had made my own set of rules for the run - no water, no walk, and no rest in between. It might sound rather arrogant, but it was not so. Though I concede that it was a little ambitious. In any case, I kept my rules only to myself. To make this all possible, I allowed myself a little leniency - I chose to overlook my speed, or the lack of it. I decided to run, nay jog, slowly. In long distance run, I tactically maintain such a speed that I may not run out of breath. And in doing so, I allow others, including old men and women, to run past me. I don't take hurt usually. I don't feel defeated. In unusual times, I find a ready consolation in the severity of my rules.

As a matter of principle, I would rather keep competition away from the marathon track. Not because I am not competitive enough, which may or may not be relevant to the point, but because I believe that the nature of marathon is primarily introspective, in which the presence of others is merely incidental. Besides, unless I am excited, I do not put too much premium on winning anyway. Especially in marathon, in my opinion, speed shouldn't matter much. All that should matter is running with the spirit of marathon, and taking the pain in the marathon way.

Why do I run? As far as I am concerned, I run because I enjoy running. I love to sweat. If that doesn't sound literary enough, then I have alternative explanation - I run to soothe my curiosity. I run to seek an answer, to probe my perseverance in an optional crisis. I run to try my will and test my endurance - my response to pain, as it were.

As I have mentioned earlier, running is introspective in nature - like praying, or preening. It involves an interview with self. As far as others are concerned, if I ever feel anything for them, I feel a sense of pride. I feel proud of them because I witness each of them fighting his/her case hard against his/her own private prosecutor. At the same time I feel a sympathy for them because I look at them in terms of their pain, and their response to their pain. With fellow sufferers, there can be no rivalry.

*********************************************

The event started at 5.30 sharp from KBR park main gate, and I started with my tried and tested plan. Just a matter of time, I assured myself. The sun was still behind the bushes. Though the sky was clear, and clouds were playing truant, it was a timely and therefore an auspicious start. I was not afraid of getting tired, but I was bit wary of getting bored. So I plugged my ears and played on the music. Don't crib and don't cry, I told my body as I pressed the play button, for I won't be able to listen to you. The finishing line beckoned me. Today was my day.

I jogged slowly through the Jubilee Hills area, without water, without walk, and without rest of course. Many lesser runners ran past me, and I forgave them thinking "Life is a Marathon" and hoping to set the records straight in the last laps with my "eye-opener" sprint. Apart from my plan, I found solace in my imagination.

I imagined myself as an unsung tail-ender who walked to the pitch with a will to save a test. He batted bravely, in an empty stadium, for a lost cause, with an intensity so unfamiliar that it seemed rather grotesque to the onlookers. But he was well aware of his rights, and he had willed to make them wait. He had willed to surprise the dressing room. This day was his day, a hero was about to be made.

Keep watching, people. Keep running, hero.

No matter how ridiculous it was, I was serious about it. I wanted her to be present at the finishing line to behold my post 21.1 kms sprint with eyes opened wide with awe and surprise. However, there was a little problem with that prospect. I didn't want to wake her up. And she had no means to know when she should reach there, unless she was called up and told. But I was determined not to stop for any call, any reason, any excuse, any temptation. "Keep Running", her sms had said.

Unlike last year, there were no rock bands flanking the track, and drumming and singing to boost our morale. But it was still a special event. The policemen were everywhere and the traffic was made to wait for us. On both sides of the road, as I passed the HiTech City, I saw people watching us with amused eyes, unless they got something to ogle at. And there was something to ogle at. I heard that people from many places, especially Bangalore and Bombay, had come only to take part in this event. There were vans and wagons passing by, carrying banners and cheering the runners. There was never so much fun in the run. I was delighted to get so much matter for my next post. Little did I know then that matter was no less tyrannical and no less rapacious than man. It could eat a man alive. I was running dangerously.

"Marathoning is like cutting yourself unexpectedly. You dip into the pain so gradually that the damage is done before you are aware of it. Unfortunately, when awareness comes, it is excruciating." - John Farrington

I wish I knew that earlier. But life is not known to offer any crash couse. In fact, it has a reputation of a strict teacher who tests first and teaches later. After 12+ kms of test, by the time I neared Novotel, I was able to listen to the cries of my knees despite the music plugged into my ears. I chastised myself for the hectic yesterday followed by the half-slept yesternight. To buoy up my spirit, I suspected that it was the crape-bandage that needed to be redone. I slowed but that didn't help me much. I had to stop. The pain was unbearable. I couldn't ignore it, and I couldn't respond to it in any other way. As I sat down to untie my bandage, my oath was broken.

Relax, every rule has its exception, I tried to rationalize. I untied the crape and tied it again, hoping change would make things better. But things were to be worsened further. My private prosecutor was hostile and his arguments were cogent. I could not refute my 5 years old ligament tear, which had returned to implicate me right in the middle of my half-marathon. My knees had kneeled me down.

I obeyed Khalil Gibran, rested a while in reason, and after having the situation reassessed, I was ready to compromise. I was anxious to negotiate a deal, but nobody answered the door when I knocked. My body denied ears to my cries. I could hardly walk, and I could not walk without a limp. The finishing line seemed too far to beckon me anymore. In 10-20 minutes, my case was lost.

Thankfully, though I had lost it, I was not looking like a loser to others. I was one of them, dawdling along with pedestrian expectations. However, when I looked into the mirror of my mind, I saw a miles long walk towards the pavilion. The tail-ender had failed again. The hero was spanked, lined up, and was made to wear his underwear over his trousers. It was humiliating. And it was surreal - neither tired, nor bored, and still not running. The despair, weighing heavy on my mind, demanded its logical conclusion; and the wise idea of giving it up crossed my mind. I called her up and confessed - I am walking.

Disappointed with the mirror, I looked elsewhere. And as it happens, the indiscriminate fell on the immediate - a woman who looked in her late thirties. With thick glasses over her eyes and a water-bottle in her right hand, she was a spectacle struggling her way despite all problems possible. "Only for ladies and handicapped", I reflected with a bitter cynicism. Real men were nowhere to be seen. Even the unreal ones had moved on. Only housewives and handicapped men like me were hanging around. I wasn't proud of my company anymore.

As I passed close to Whitefields, my home, I saw the marathon staff and policemen standing there and giving direction to the johnny walkers. I half wanted to leave, but couldn't gather enough shamelessness to break the line, run away and go home. Had I turned anywhere, I would have turned traitor. I had to walk straight. I could not fail my fellow sufferers. I had lost my pride, but I had to save my dignity, and others' too. The lady reminded me - the marathon was still on, and I couldn't fail its spirit. Even in my crippled capacity, I still had to do my best. There was no other choice. This was life. "Life is a Marathon" - I was beginning to understand it.

The Walkway

The narrowing strip of land on which we were walking, if seen from sky, looked like a church fallen flat on the blue bed of water, with its long tapering spire thrust deep into the stomach of the sea, spilling a sea of blue blood.

However, if you looked above, from down, from the sea, you could hardly see the walk-way from there. From there, you could only see a flat face of one of the two mountainous walls, or their joining edge towering into the clouds.

The waves of the sea leaped and crashed furiously at the foot of the walls. At the top, almost a thousand feet above the sea, we were walking oblivious to the noise. The sound of sea could hardly climb up to us. There was a humming silence in the air, and a serenity typical of the seaside nights, embracing us all over. A gentle breeze blew carrying the cool freshness of the sea, caressing our faces, casting spell on our mind. That walk was like a dream.

We had come far from the city lights. We had walked past the sinking sun, and then the last of lamp-posts, and now the light faded behind us. In the light of day, we wouldn't possibly have taken that way. In the darkness, we were not able to see where the road led. The sides were appearing to come closer. They had to meet somewhere ahead. It was just a matter of distance.

Above us, the night was pitch dark, and it stretched as far as our eyes could see. The stars sparkled as they sometimes do. It seemed that they had descended a few stairs. They seemed nearer than ever.

The narrowing road was pushing us closer. It was increasingly hard for us to maintain a safe distance.

- Didn't I say you'll love it?
- Yes, I'm loving it.
- Hmm... but it's getting late. Look, the stars are out. I think we should go back now.
- Yes, the stars are out. And the night is lovely. I wonder if we could walk a little further.

It was getting narrower. And she was beginning to get worried about safety. She was beginning to get worried about fall. She was looking down at the sea. On my part, I was looking up at the stars. And at her.

While she was thinking, I was wondering.

I had no idea that something had gotten into her mind.

- I think we should stop now. We'll fall if we walk further.
- Let's hold each other. We'll not fall then.
- We'll surely fall then.

She smiled the way she smiles, beautifully, and meaningfully. I acknowledged the beauty but pretended not to understand the meaning. I pretended innocence. I wanted the life to go on like that. I didn't want anything to change.

That something had started to work on her mind, and on my unsuspecting happiness.

- I am loving it. But I'm afraid we'll get drowned.
- How come? We are among clouds. Water is nowhere near.

I was too happy to think too much about anything. And I didn't want her to think too much either. We were walking together, we were happy, and nothing else mattered.

Life went on like dream, for a few more dreamy minutes, till that happened. One of the stones she had stepped on lost its ground and fell into the deep reality of sea. The fall was as silent as death, and it was sinister in its premonition. It was just a fall, but there was something surreal about it.

Feelings began to get clouded by Fear. The change began to take place. To mark the beginning, the clouds of fear issued forth a frightful thunderbolt.

- I am sorry I came.

She steadied herself and turned back, her face hardened with a determination to go back to the lamp-posts. She was not the same person anymore. She was still with me, but I had already started to miss her. I was left alone with a stranger who wanted to leave, who wanted to leave stars for lamp-posts! My starry dream was turning into a lamp-post reality! And I could do nothing about it. To my dismay, it occurred to me that what I wanted to do didn't carry much weight in the larger scheme of things.

I was standing deserted like a fool, losing my respect, losing my fundamental rights. In no time, the simplest of things became complicated and difficult for me. I wanted to look back. But I couldn't. I wanted to say something to her. But I couldn't. My voice had lost its dignity, its power!

I was burning in shame. I wanted to break my frustrated heart. That was easy. I could do that. And I did that. I looked ahead - the road was still wide enough for solo walk. In my despair, in my desperation, in my self-hatred, I kept on walking, unable to forget my irrelevance, unable to forgive my disgraceful irrelevance in my own life.

I kept on walking alone, in a desperate need to restore my relevance to myself. I had to walk though the night didn't look lovely anymore. The loveliness had walked away to the lamp-posts. And the stars had gone back. What lied ahead was just a dark night, a solitary walk, and a silent fall. But I was not afraid of fall. I had to keep on walking, in order to keep myself from falling in my own eyes.

The hidden side of the hills

PART 1 – The Prelude

Long long ago, I had read stories of the folks who lived in distant villages surrounded by high hills; of villages separated from the world by the ring of hills; and of the villagers who worked and played together under the vast canopy of bright blue sky and sneaked into their small houses when darkness fell.

In the winter nights, attired in a voluptuously white gown, the world would appear more confined than ever when the angels would unfurl the diamonds-studded blanket heavily over the hamlet, leaving the fringes loosely hanging over the other sides of the hills, towards the world unseen. And the horizon would seem to shine forth in the dazzling brilliance of the snow.

In a crystalline clean autumn morning, sun stretched his golden-orange arms and the molten diamonds dropped into the red open mouths of daisies and cracked open on the slanting palms of the plants. Under the glassy-golden shadow of the sun, a thousand stars would lay scattered, twinkling on the velvety-green carpet. The happy canary would hop at the branch and send forth melodies in air to wake the children up from their warm, fluffy beds. Soon the children would come out cheering and running towards the north hill, for the demon grand mother had warned about resided near the lake in the south.

Away from their noise, as if under the spell of the demon, young lovers would meet at the serene shores of the lake. Sitting for hours holding the hands of beloved in theirs, they would blush and smile, while the wind carried carts of cotton over the water, still since ages. The girl would gaze in the water and see how lovely they looked together with their faces floating on the blue mirror. And the boy would look amusingly at the sight of her ear-rings mating with her maiden-pink cheeks, and would fall in love again.

And far from the world of promises and their vanity, the children treaded their way up the hill through thorny bushes and dry leaves crackling beneath their feet. Unaware of the scratches on their hands, they climbed trees and sat on the branches. They chewed tender leaves and tasted unknown, unripe fruits, some bitter, some sour, but all tasty. And they plucked wild flowers and made garlands for little sisters. After wandering for some time, running after butterflies, and dipping their feet in the cold mountain spring, they would stroll back to their old spot and look up at the beehive and wonder if it had grown any larger. And then they would relax there and leave for home only after they hear the sound of the evening bells from the temple.


PART 2 – The Journey

A sudden jerk woke me up.

to be continued..

Rape

Disconcerted though I was by his ominous presence, the corner where I had to reach was hardly a minute away. And it was this teasing proximity that obfuscated my thoughts. It seemed ridiculously cowardly to go back from there; or perhaps the option of going back never occurred to me at all. I walked along the wall, keeping closely to it, and making sure not to make any noise that aroused the beast. From a distance, not sufficiently far but still the farthest possible from him, I saw his hairy, thickly tail sleeping on the floor.

On walking ahead a few earnest, bated steps, I began to get a sideward glance of his bulky belly, which heaved heavily with every breath he took. His formidable bulk had kept his head well-hidden behind it. I thanked God for keeping me out of his sight. I had forgotten that the beast didn’t need to see me to know I was there. I didn’t realize that no matter how sneakily I moved, he could hear my footsteps, he could smell my presence, and he could sense my fear as well.

All of a sudden my attention was seized by the sight of his ears waking up and standing alert on his head. My whole body shuddered with a dreadful anticipation and I found myself stuck to the wall. The beast turned his head to me and stood up. Rooted with fright, as it were, I averted his gaze and staggered ahead. He stood where he was, but turned his head towards me, keeping his gaze fixed on me. Under some unholy spell, perhaps out of panic and confusion, I diffidently stamped my foot on the floor to scare him off. The beast drew back with a start but didn’t take long to overcome the surprise. By looking at his expressions I soon realized that I had made a blunder. I had started it and now it could not be left unsettled. I hollered out the guard but got no response in return.

I looked around searchingly and got sight of a rod near the corner leaning against the wall. He noticed me looking at it and perhaps read my mind. He steadily followed me as I rushed towards the corner. I ran for my life, got hold of the rod and turned back in a frenzy. I looked back at my enemy and his sight left me gasping for breath. The infernal ferocity that sparkled in his eyes chilled my blood in my veins.

As per the last command of my doomed fate, I charged at him with my weapon. But it fell on him like a light thread! Betrayed, I cried with dismay when I looked at it again. It was a mere rope! I let it drop and helplessly, I looked at the wolf and waited for his reprisal. Many little curs had gathered there by then. They stood around him, in a hope the very thought of which was horrifying, wagging their thin rodent-like tails and cheering him for some heroic action.

He leaned back on his rear limbs to get a thrust and leapt with a fiendish force at me. I fell hard on the floor, with him on the top of my body. I struggled with all my collected strength to release myself but all my efforts went in vain, as my limbs were pressed hard on earth under his weight. He mirthfully allowed me to try as much as I could. He wanted the suffocating feeling of helplessness settle deep inside my mind. And he visibly enjoyed his victory. Defeated and exhausted, I gave up my futile battle. As if he had been waiting for this moment, he savagely pinned me down at the ground and flashed a trivializing smirk. Then his canine jaws opened wide and his tongue slithered out like a hideous snake. As I felt dizzied by the abominable stench of his hairy, slimy body, his saliva rained on my mouth and smeared my whole face. Tormented by the odious warmth of his breath and his flesh, which throbbed with wrathful lust and rubbed against me, I fainted after a while. In the background, the cheering and jeering continued endlessly.

When I woke up I found myself alone with an unbearable reek of my own body. I knew no soap, no sea could wash away those stains from my memory; no amount of tears could purge that shame from my eyes. As I lied flat on my back, I saw a thousand pieces of a broken mirror fastened to the purple-blue sky; and I saw myself being violated by a thousand pairs of eyes; my own scornful eyes!

And while my whole being revolted against the nightmare that happened, I felt my groin writhing with a loathsome longing.

song of life

Life is made up of little experiences. Sometimes insignificant things teach us memorable lessons and give us important insights. Small events sometimes create big waves in our mind. We hardly ever stop reading and learning, even when we are at leisure, even when we are traveling. We keep on reading places and people. But sometimes it also happens that we read everything entirely wrong.

There are thousands of people who travel by Mumbai local everyday for their bread and butter. Or for mere bread only. This post is about one of hapless them.

This man was not particularly remarkable. He was just ordinary, not even very ordinary. I would hardly ever notice people like him. Perhaps no one would. But he climbed on and stood in front of me in the compartment. I didn't even find him worth ignoring. With a cursory glance I scanned his frail figure. Short, thin, dark-complexioned, mid-aged, he looked emaciated and worn-out by ages of drudgery and hardships. He carried a black hand-bag, like thousands of those who earn Rs. 2500 per month carry with them. His collar-bones peeped out from his dirty cream-colored shirt. I guessed he was unbearably feeble. One push and he went flying down the train. I wondered why it was so difficult to respect people like him unless they do something to prove themselves, and keep doing so before we forget. Their physical appearance often evoke a sickening sense of superiority or indifference in you, or contempt in other circumstances. I tried to imagine how dreadful it was to be like him, poor and ugly; like being a miserable bug, a body filled with pulp of insignificance. The whole world would seem unimaginably depressing and indescribably hopeless. Suddenly he turned his head and caught me staring at him. His eyes seemed grotesquely large through the thick glasses he wore. I started looking elsewhere. Perhaps he saw my face that was contorted with revulsion. You can't look in someone's eyes while thinking that about him.

I kept on thinking about this man. I imagined what would happen after he reached his place. Many dismal, dreary pictures floated over my eyes. I saw him walking through smoke and stench, avoiding the sight of goats being skinned and hanged by hooks, and mongrels with hungry dark eyes loitering about, negotiating pigs in the narrow streets and then stepping on the broken ‘S’ of bricks outside his door to save his shoes from getting muddy. I saw his dark, gloomy, stuffy place, the dimly lit bulb overhead, and the continuous buzz of house-flies. A wailing reminder over the cup of tea to get the umbrella repaired before the impending onslaught of Monsoon. I wondered if she loved him. It was a queer thought. I was not sure. Had anyone ever loved him? May be. But he was too poor to be loved, and too ugly to ever charm anyone. It is not easy for anyone to see an ugly man’s love; and not to mention, it is slightly embarrassing too. Love would surely feel awkward to be associated with a guy like him. Imagine a love story with ugly characters. Amusing idea isnt? After all it hardly mattered. A poor man’s love is as good as his hatred. You don’t take any of these things very seriously.

I kept on brooding till I started to feel uneasy; choked by my own thoughts. In a very short time I had taken too deep a plunge in his world and it was high time I came out of it. It was horrible to be there. For the first time I felt a gnawing sense of pity growing inside me for the poor man. What a wretched life he was living! No joy, no grace; I realized that the cross he was carrying on his feeble shoulders was too heavy for him, perhaps heavier than that of many of us. And he was damned to carry the burden of his ridiculous life with utmost seriousness. For a moment my heart went out for him.

Not many people were left in the compartment by the time I looked around again. I started looking at the scene outside, at running trees and houses, at grey sky and brown rails, to distract my mind. I was pained by his thoughts. And all of a sudden I heard his voice. I turned and found him singing, not loudly but his voice was certainly louder than a timid humming. It might sound ridiculous but I admit I was amazed to see that. It took me some time to believe what I saw. He was singing for God’s sake! What the hell was happening! I never see anyone (except beggers of course) singing in train. And of all the people him! Did he have any reason, any right to sing in the setting his life had placed him in? Was he not afraid of those troubles that chased him and those that waited for him at the next corner? Amnesia? Insanity? Why that insolent defiance?

All these thoughts passed my mind in a flash. Oblivious of my state of surprise, he behaved as if he was alone there, as if no one was there to see him, as if he was away from the reach of all those troubles that were instead troubling me. I admit I found myself dumbfounded for a while. All my sullen and twisted thoughts and here was the truth, right before me, singing in cheerful abandonment. Perhaps too plain and simple for my imagination. Perhaps far beyond its range.

There have been moments in my life when I give up my pursuit of analysis and allow myself to revel in my sweet defeat. It feels nice to be wrong sometimes. How pleasant and delightful it was to see him singing, with all his joy and grace! I felt so pleased to see that. What a blissful sense of relief it was! As if someone suddenly acquited me of some unknown guilt, released me from a painful burden. For a forgettable but overwhelming second I felt like believing in God. I know that the ecstasy of dreams can not be shared with others. There is nothing to share as such. Nothing happened actually. Nothing had changed anywhere but suddenly everything seemed so refreshing. It was like reinventing the meaning of life. It was like realizing that the most beautiful and most invaluable things in life are amply scattered around us, to be felt and enjoyed, absolutely for free. And no one is as poor as we imagine. It was not that I didn't know all this before. I surely did. But it is very easy to forget things like that.

I felt a growing sense of gratitude in me for the man who made that tune, to all who make music, to all artists who spread and preserve what is human in us so diligently through years of hard work. I saw the magic of music, its reach, its power, perhaps more clearly than ever. For some time this realization hung heavy in my mind that everyone in this world is equally happy or unhappy. Most of the differences between us are illusory. All of us are tormented by similar Sisyphean troubles and rescued by the divine Veena of Saraswati.
.

A walk to remember

Camera doesn’t capture everything that is beautiful. When I 'actually' discover (appreciation is somewhat like discovery, isn’t?) beauty, I do nothing but see and feel it. That's a moment of absolute oneness with the subject. I lose my sense of meta-reality(read meta-consciousness). For a moment I am too engrossed to feel even joy. That's when I discover; I see the beauty, our beauty. In other cases when I know that something is beautiful, and everyone knows this, I lose my interest in that (at least partially), perhaps because there is not much opportunity for me to discover anything there. I find my eyes, my subjectivity absolutely redundant there. Everything is known, studied, researched, documented, pictured, said and heard. There I take my camera out. For instance I asked my friend to take my snap with Mona Lisa in Louvre, Paris. I don’t remember myself looking at that painting even for a minute.* For me it is just famous, not beautiful. For me Mona Lisa is a symbol of this-is-what-an-artist-can-do-with-a-woman or this-is-what-a-woman-does-to-art, period.

But when I took my usual post-dinner walk along the river** in Aschaffenberg, I cannot tell you how profoundly enchanted I felt by her*** divine beauty. Wrapped in the inexplicable mystery of night**** she dynamically assumed mysterious colors and insane dimensions. I would sit and stare at the river and would rejoice in her company. I looked into her eyes. She appeared to alter her expressions according to the shades of my moods. And then she slowly engendered a whole spectrum of illusions in my poor besotted mind. God knows how many unearthly ideas sprouted in my mind. I am scarcely able to recall all of them now. But each one of them seemed to be so ineffably strange, even to me.



Good Heavens! Could reality be so beautiful? She rendered poetry, music, art, everything superfluous. She made the reality richer than the dreams. How singularly surrealistic everything seemed to me in the warmth of her tender embrace! Every sensation seemed too fantastic to be true. The experiences I had were so novel to believe and so elemental to express. My conscious seemed to float blissfully in a wonder-world where reality mingled with the imaginary. I either was dreaming or was more awake than I’d ever been in my life. Perhaps people feel this way when they are intoxicated or when they are on the verge of death, I don’t really know.

I felt a strange lightness of being, as if I was just a soul without any form, any body. And I seemed to see then what was otherwise invisible, not only to others but also to me. I saw or I think I saw a horizon slowly rising from beyond the dark curtains of the background, luminous with a dim whiteness, making everything visible in the pitch-ebony of the night.

Surrounded by an impregnable serenity she showed herself more clearly. Her contours, nebulous with mist and foliage, triggered so many imaginations. Imaginations, by numerous, awestruck and earnest eyes, curiously caressing her curves peering from behind the translucent veil of darkness. Sometimes later the quivering images of the trees, arrayed along its sides, caught my attention; trees hesitatingly bending over her as if begging her permission to kiss her moist lips, the delicate petals parted by the dark glowing nectar! And then I saw the mischievous sparkles in her numerous eyes and the million moons melting in them... ohh as if she had chosen me to know her innermost secrets, as if she had been eagerly waiting for me since eternity only to bless my ignoble life with a meaning, as if she herself had been craving for me with her outstretched hands trembling with a burning passion, throbbing with a living desire. What a flattering delusion! Or was it true? Whatever, she was dangerously, mortally charming and nothing else seemed to matter. I eagerly drank her fragrance that was generously wafted into the secrecy of nightly atmosphere. Perhaps I was getting insane with ecstasy. I held myself for a moment and pondered over the compulsion that made me go to her every night. Was it a command of my destiny, my inner longing that had brought me there? I let myself sway with the tune she played; I dropped my defense. Pouring her ethereal beauty into my hypnotized eyes she stripped me of my sanity as well as my innocence and even my sight for a while. Looking into her eyes almost made me feel vertigo. Her unexplored and unfathomed depth invited me deep within her. I was not sure how long I would be able to resist that temptation though I knew I had to pay for it by my life. But my heart felt overwhelmed with gratitude and awe; just like, I ventured to imagine, someone would feel after committing the first original sin with an unknown village belle under the mask of anonymity and in the veil of darkness.

What a celebration of unadulterated sensuality it was! An uninterrupted orgy of senses! Life seemed to be utterly vulnerable after witnessing such divinely a spectacle, and life seemed to be more worthy to be lived than ever before.

Apprehended by an unknown foreboding, I closed my eyes. For a moment everything came to a standstill. But before I could return to my consciousness I heard a soft whisper in my ear. I felt that she said something to me, perhaps something deeply meaningful, or perhaps something utterly flippant and playful. I didn’t know exactly. Perhaps she didn’t say anything at all. She usually surprised me with her moody behavior. And that's what made me her slave. I heard the lost tunes of many unheard serenades in that silence that seemed to hide so many untold tales in the inaccessible alleys of her timeless memory. I took a deep breath to restore the lost rhythm of my heartbeats and opened my eyes. Turning my head upwards, I looked above in order to escape her sight and return to normality. I didn’t see many stars in the sky. I saw a large school of white clouds swimming across the sky as though they were moving purposefully to some destination. Suddenly I felt as if I was lying at the bottom of a huge ocean gazing at the gigantic tortoises sailing at the surface. What a weird thought! I closed my eyes again and visualized myself lying on the bed of my beloved and looking up at the sky. I saw colorful fishes running over and stars dancing at the wavy screen creating delightful patterns. After a while I saw myself dead and my hairs undulating by the gentle strikes of my beloved. I narcissistically reveled the sight of my dead body but then my sense of morality reproached me. What a morbid thought!

The first one or the chosen one? I reflected on that. Now I can't and I won't say this beauty to be untouched or unseen and I am sure that many before me must have come and felt the same illusion of exclusivity. But this uninterrupted illusion seemed to be more real than reality itself. She surely knew the art of making love. She knew the indispensability of the elements of spirituality for the fulfillment of the senses. She knew the significance of unconditional surrender. She knew the importance of the illusion of unassailable exclusivity.

I saw even myself coming to her in different times, as different beings. Sometimes as an old priest, fallen in his own eyes, who sought atonement with his own stained soul. Sometimes as a young soldier, kneeling down before her, stained with tear, sweat and blood, who vowed to win his dignity back in the next battlefield. Sometimes as a frustrated poet, sometimes a confused philosopher but always as a seeker. And she had always provided the courage and strength to find the answers of the questions the life essentially poses to every seeker. She had always inspired life in my dead soul. She had always showered affection like a mother when I needed it the most. She had always sent me back more energetic, more vigorous, and more capable to face the death inherent in life. My heart felt deluged with reverence for her.

A sudden flapping of the wings of the ducks broke my trance. God knows what made them panic; perhaps I might have made some movement though I am not sure. I admit I was alarmed by the noise. My heart would have skipped a beat. I stood up dazed and shaken at the steps and watched them sailing across the river. I looked at my watch, it was quarter past one! I sat there for around one and a half hour! It was high time that I go to bed. The next night was to be spent in the bus to Paris so this sleep was very much needed.

While coming back the distinct swoosh of wind flirting with the leaves echoed, nay, haunted in my mind for long. The horror is still vivid in my mind. I felt that she was sending her envoy to keep me from going back to my world of light and levity where everything had a universally understood meaning. The world of unanimity where there was no place for imagination and multliplicity of meaning. I turned back to see the last image of my fading dream. I saw her receding with a self-assured smile. As if she knew very well that I secretly harbored a vague wish to die in her arms as dictated by my unalterable destiny. As if she knew that I had to come to her for the final atonement. As if she knew that she was the only way to my salvation.

I entered my room where my roommates were enjoying some movie.

- had your walk?
- hmm…
- took so much time? met someone there?
- yeah..
- god knows what do you see there?
- god. What else?


Next to next morning I found myself in Paris. I saw the famous Eiffel Tower. We took a lot of snaps there though none of us could remember a single minute when we actually appreciated its beauty, just by looking at it, mesmerized, spellbound. We just took pictures.



*It was this observation which prompted me to write this essay. Nobody was seeing Mona Lisa, everyone wanted to be seen with her!
**Main. Read 'Mine'. This is a tributary of the river Rhine.
***Please allow me, the 'kafir' lover, the personification of the river, the beloved.
****I love night! I am absolutely in love with it. But please, let it be clearly understood…my night has nothing to do with the night of 'nightlife' which I hold with utter contempt. What a waste! What a mindless underselling of the sublime!

musical mood:
- tujhe bulaaye yeh meri baahen (Ram teri Ganga maili)
- lag ja gale (Woh koun thi)

The Great Escape

15~ 20 yrs back

trnnnnnnnnnnnnggggggggggggggggggggg

Oh no! NO! I am NOT at home. I am in HOSTEL!! :((

The infernal cacophony, the spear-like sound of the morning bell, ruptured the tender silence of the dormitory. It was called 'Baccha Room' where I was trapped with my fellow inmates. All of us were little innocent kids studying in LKG or UKG. The damn screech also snapped the power cord putting a premature end to my most favorite program: my dream! Oh how intensely I abhor noise, in any form! I believe that noise is somehow associated with every aberration, every crime, every sin because it suppresses the voice of conscience; it takes us away from ourselves, it makes us deaf, in every sense of the word. It is the messenger of Lucifer. How invulnerable it is! How indelicate! How unaesthetic! How sub-human!

The dream! Oh how beautiful it was! I was at my home with my parents and kid sisters having all the fun and tasty food and above all..... freedom!

It always used to happen with me. When I returned to hostel after a vacation I used to dream of my life at home. And the realization of it as a dream was heartbreaking.

I started a day with a heartbreak again. Nothing unusual Abhishek- 7, carry on. It's life!

FLASHBACK

Scene 1

- I also want to play.

- No Bablu. We have already started the game.

- You can start the game again.

- No, we wont. And anyways we don't want to play with you as you cheat and fight.

- Who says that I cheat? And which bastard says that I fight?

- Please let us play.

- No one will play if I don't.

Scene 2

- Why did you throw their toys?

-

- Answer me. Did you throw their toys?

- No, I just...

- Don't lie, I've got a complaint against you. And you beat that girl too, isn't?

- I just pushed her...

- Shut up. Last week too you had beaten a guy. You also fight with your kid sisters. And I never see you with your books.

-

- Hmm... they were right. I've indeed pampered you. But no leniency any more. Be prepared to go to hostel. Hey listen! Pack his bag. Your son will not stay in this house.

OK. So this is how I secured this hell for myself. No amount of begging or pleading worked. Father had pronounced his irrevocable sentence. And there was no appeal against that judgement. And there were many relatives of mine who thought that watching TV (Doordarshan, for God's sake!) was an unaffordable luxury for kids and above all Hindi medium guys don't have any future. Mother's love was speechless before this argument.

But nothing changed in hostel. I applied myself to top the class in order to persuade my father about my changed heart. Later on in my life I really was to become one of the staidest students in my high school. I was exempted from the mass punishments. My words were taken as the proof of truth. But back there in hostel my nature was nowhere near that. I was charged along with my accomplice for roughing up with another kid. And the allegation was not entirely unfounded. In that incident the poor guy got his hand fractured. But we didn't intend to go that far. We just wanted to teach him a lesson. After all he had stolen my Horlicks while I was asleep! The stolen Horlicks didn't help his bones too much.

Miss asked me to sit in the first row because I was the quietest student. Also, I was the topper of the class. But I found it very inconvenient. I didn't want anyone to see my weeping which I often did because of chronic homesickness. Well, the poor monitor didn't know my history, the reason for my being there at the first place. He mistook my silence for my weakness. I remember him bullying kids and hitting on their heads with his knuckles in order to control the class. I ignored him once because I was lost in my own lost world. The next time he did it, I stood up calmly, picked the duster, and banged it hard on his forehead. That was the last day of the his terror in the class.

Sherry was a BITCH, similar to Big Nurse in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's nest. She would come in our room in the afternoon when we were supposed to sleep. I was not used to taking a nap in afternoon but I pretended to sleep to avoid the trouble. In her rounds, she would check if any of us was awake and if anyone did, the bitch would flog him! She would even call our names to see if we were really sleeping! I was very happy when I came to know that a bhaiya slapped her when she did the same with him.So much for dominance.

The food was pathetic. Father was touchy about this. He used to pay extra money to the staff to ensure that we are fed well. Even my sister was sent to hostel with me. She was in nursery. She was an angel! She would hardly say a word. She would just look at people with her large eyes. She wouldn't even cry, as I used to, when parents used to leave. I believe she was dumb. Whatever, she lived in the girls' hostel where boys were not allowed to go, not even brothers. I could see her only in queues in school. I couldn't even break my queue to talk to her. It was inhuman, the discipline. I used to miss her terribly. And I had had enough. I could break their rules and gatecrashed the girls' hostel but the guards wouldn't allow us to set our feet outside the premises of boys' hostel. We were practically in a jail.

I was sick of all this. We were made to walk in queue from hostel to school, from our dorm to the study hall and from mess to our dorm and everywhere. I wanted to break free. I decided to flee.

- Nani, what if i get lost somewhere in the town?

- You have our address.

- But it is quite far from this place.

- So what? Take a rick and ask him to take you to our place.

- What if i had no money?

- Don't worry about that. I'll pay once you reach home.

I ignored the possibility of being thrown back to the hell, once I was caught. I just wanted to defy them and show them who was smart.

It was not difficult to execute the plan. But it needed balls to muster enough courage to overstep the forbidden line. The consequences of failure were terrifying. The hostel authorities were answerable for the safety of the kids. Any mischief like this could have really put them into serious trouble. The deterrents were correspondingly dire.

But we are not talking about ordinary people here. Yours truly dodged the guard and ran away, away from the hell. I was free. I stood at roadside and felt my freedom. 

I could go to Nani's place alone but I remembered my sister's innocent face. This pace was unsuitable for an angel like her. I decided to get her out. That was the hamartia. The girls' hostel proved to be the my Waterloo. Somehow I managed to dodge the guard and ran up the steps. In the lobby, I asked the astounded girls to call my sister. When she came I urged her to run away with me, away from the hell. But the dumb doll kept staring at me. Meanwhile, the large amazons held me and they wouldn't let me go away. I have no idea what made me so irresistibly attractive to these girls!

I vividly remember what happened next. Psychoanalysts say that the memories of the traumatic experiences sink into the unconscious. I can still hear his questions.

- will you ever try to escape again?

- yes.

A searing sensation.

- again?

- yes.

One more swish of the stick in the air ending with a cry of sharp pain.

Perhaps wisdom follows pain.

- again?

- no.