Tendulkar's Retirement & You

Sid,

The weather compels me to revisit the 16th of November, 2013. The nation had come to a standstill because it was Sachin who was playing his final test, his 200th, in Mumbai. People with records always get the privileges. I have never been a great fan of the Masterblaster, as they used (and still) call him. I grew up differing and defending my loyalties towards Jonty Rhodes and Wasim Akram, and later Saurav Ganguly and Shoaib Akhtar. South Africa -- the perennial chokers, winning until the Finals, of any tournament. People said I was like that team, rise-rise-rise and then a great fall.

Was that what happened between us? To our relationship? You took to the t20s, while I remained with the tests? You took to the glamour, while I preferred the whites? You had no time, while I was willing to stop it. You know why I remember Sachin's retirement? We made out that day, for that one last time, and departed in smiles. As the West Indians clapped and the Indians cried, we became irrationally emotional too. We heard him speak on the TV and held our hands. We were together after brief and frequent upheavals of any and all kinds. That was one day too. We were out of giving ourselves time, coffee and it was only his timing that made you stay back that one bit longer. 

The day has entered cricketing history, alongside other fascinating records. But there will be one the date will never know. That we held on, virtually. We gave ourselves that one last chance. And like the records, all that remain of us now are memories. And of a victorious innings of friendship. I cherish it, what we have today. Sachin has become healthier in fat, while we have grown in faith. He has adopted villages, while we have adapted to our newer selves. It works. Life has moved on, and without regrets, quite decently.

Except for days like these, when the weather compels me to think of how much swag you would have had while you came closer to me, smelling of Fahrenheit. Now that we do not have diaries, I will preserve this mail in my inbox, and someday, when I am close to dying, or have had a drink too many to overcome, or should it be overpower, courage with foolishness, I will click send, and you will get to read it. 

And get to know that I know how you still love me, as much as I do. It is fate that we are apart, and thank god, 'coz together we would kill each other, but then, would we really? It is a good weather to return to coffee, just the way you encouraged me to acquire the taste of it -- black, without sugar. 

You must be breaking the bread I taught you too? It is sad that I do not know whether to laugh, as I smile, or cry, as I decide. Got it. 

I should just retire :)

Pratitee.

Technicolour Truths

Mikhail: Does this happen? You are delivering a lecture and suddenly a sketchy dream from the last night comes in through the wide open windows? In technicololur? And you are left blinded and benumbed?

Zacharia: Sometimes. Yes.

Mikhail: We survive. Don't we?

Zacharia: Yup. Each time.

Mikhail: How have you been?

Zachariah: Busy. Dodging between actualities with duality.

Mikhail: Meet over the weekend?

Zacharia: Can't. Wifey's appointment with the Doc.

Mikhail: How's she dealing with pregnancy?

Zacharia: Happy. I suppose. What's on with you? What was the dream?

Mikhail: Too long. Mailing.

Zacharia: Not on official id. Use gmail.

Mikhail: Sure. Class in half an hour. Lemme try and brief you with the dream by them. You take care of the corporate junkies, buddy! And hey, miss you man.

Zacharia: Waiting for the mail. No time to entertain your timeless melodrama.

Mikhail: Bastard.

Zac,

It's been ages that I have attempted to write anything non-academic. Twenty minutes. Let's get to that dream. Was teaching when suddenly, like in the Harry Potter movies, a dark silhouette in the form of a cape entered the classroom through the open windows. I went back to the outline of a dream I possibly had the night before. It took a form, in an overcoat, very kitschy. Orange-royal blue-red, stitched in thick gold. It got a face. But before I could associate it with anyone particular, it held out its hand and with a certain uncertainty, I took it and following that I flew. Up, up, up in a sky which was hardly blue. It was strewn with stars, and between some of them their were palaces, one more mightier than the other. Mesmerized, I wished to enter one. And surprisingly, the kitschy form took me in. Guess what happened next? It could easily be Junagarh Fort, or any haveli in Rajasthan. I went inside a particular room and the form let go of my hand and broke into a scream. Before I could realize what was happening, it became the multicoloured, tinted window-glasses, each bringing in the starlight as if they were soft sunshine. Oh, and then there was a fog. A cloud in the shape of a Batmobile, only grey in colour, vroomed outside the window. Something told me it was there to take me back home. So I ran to the windows, but they laughed back. "You are trapped" placards came up. And then I hurriedly looked for my phone and found a ring instead. An emerald. As soon as I ran my fingers over it, I was in the middle of tea-gardens, holding the hands of that caped form. It was programmed to deceive me, I felt and decided to run. As I tried, I found chains which tied me to the base of a sea-bridge. "You are trapped" placards returned. I was helpless and had no idea about what to do next. I could not swim in a sea and looked for something to save me. A caped shark came my way, showed me its sharp teeth and went away. I thought I would cry but I was reminded what Daddy had taught us about boys not crying. I thought I heard voices, they turned to screams. There was a war over the sea and I could see the stray bullets being misfired. And then I was on the football field, in a cape. I was the goalkeeper and it was the final penalty. The coach, in his kitschy suit asked me to take the shot. I scored. And I was flying back to those technicolour skies. This time, the palaces and forts were all wavering curtains, veils and capes. I ran. And was thinking how I could I run on the sky. I must be dead and this is what being dead feels like. And then someone who resembled one of my relatives told me to light the pyre on myself. I could not decide. She insisted and there were ambulance sirens and finally under a strobe light, I began dancing on that pyre. I was wearing the cape, and it all returned to me in that one flash of a moment in my professional consciousness, leaving me blank. My students would know better if that was just a moment. I thought I saw the cape come in, and I wanted to run but I was chained.

Feels good to have spoken, brother. Twenty minutes down. Do get back if you have any thoughts to spare on this technicolour extravaganza.

PS: Have never told you, but I was the happiest when you chose me godfather for your unborn child. 

Micky.

Zacharia: What the fuck was that buddy? See the shrink. Like right now.

Mikhail: You think so?

Zacharia: Hell yes. Its psycho creepy. Let's catch up on a beer tonight?

Mikhail: Cool. Sat-Club. 8 30-9? How come you are so desperate?

Zacharia: Just.

Zacharia smiled. I was in the cape. I built those skies. Now die the same death. I planted that dream. He went inside the bathroom, washed his face and looked into the mirror. Mikhail smiled back

Tailor-Made

Coocooned in the dingiest of New Market lanes, Azeem Hussain Tailors was busy taking orders for the wedding season. The hardly square of a room was packed in uneven queues and fabrics -- silk, cotton, linen. The ceiling was converted into an elongated cupboard hoarding the completed orders, being delivered by Meer, Azeem's son. Adeptly, like in a shoeshop, he passed down the packet corresponding to the number his Abbu was calling out. It was the Christmas-New Year week holiday, and he did not have college. He was pursuing a bachelors degree in Commerce from one of the top colleges and had picked up good communication skills in English, as per his determination. He knew he would become big, bigger than his square, break this square, extend into hexagons, and may be even more. Then life would come to a complete circle. That evening, Abbu caught a fever and asked him to take charge of the shop till he returned. He agreed. Having assisted his father from a very young age, he was aware of measurements and manipulations. A tailor, of all precision had he should have, should also be able to convince his customer about the design that would suit her best. And women being women, they always took a man's comments seriously.

He dealth with a couple of easy customers, he was finally visited by a very loyal Mrs Roy and her neice. These customers were also offered clay cups of tea and chairs to sit. They took time. They always brought a lumpsome order, and without fail, always in a hurry.

Mrs Roy: Chacha kahaan hai? Tum order le sakoge?

Meer: Madam, Abbu is ill. Please take a seat. I assure you, your designs will be duly delivered.

Mrs Roy: Arrey waah! English? Nice. It will be easier today to explain. Otherwise, with your Abbu, don't mind beta,  too much jighhjighh, chhickchhick. Ye samajhao, wo samjhao. Anyway, Vasudha, you go first.

Meer: As salaam waliqum, Madam. Please come inside.

Vasudha: No, first you understand what I want to get made. This is for the cocktail party.

She laid out a golden silk fabric and indigo blue lining material and explained Meer the design. Meer, by now was swayed by her dicion, confidence and beauty. He couldn't wait to get into the measurement room with her. She went on giving him the intricate details -- the slit, the reveal, the covers, the one-sided gher. And then finally, his moment arrived. They went inside the measurement room. It was barely a room, giving a sense of space only because of the mirrors placed on all four walls.

Meer: Madam, please take off your jacket.

Vasudha: I know.

Meer never held the measuring tape with as much affection as he did today. First the shoulders, which allowed him to smell the waft of her perfume. Then the slender wrists,the manicured nails of which were giving him a sense of fantasy. Next came her waist, as if temple-curved like seen in movies, they were full, but not fat. Oh how he wished to caress them upwards. The slit measurement on her left thigh was a contest between the two. While she wanted more, he insisted it wouldn't go with the look. No need for other men to see her. They mutually decided on a mid-slit. After what seemed an eternity, it was now time for the chest measurement. Meer somehow managed a professional expression, which he knew was badly failing him.

Meer: Madam, do you want body fit, or little loose? Ya allah, please fit bolo.

Vasudha: Bhai, body fit. I am inhaling. Make it quick.

Meer took his time to confront her full body, knowing his immediate fantasy would never have enough success. He took the tape around her breasts and held it there.

Meer: Ok Madam?

Vasudha: How will I say? You see and say what's best!

Meer: Wait Madam, how much neckline cut did you say you want?

Vasudha: You check no!

Meer went back to his notepad and came back to her breasts. The heat was irresistable.

Meer: Once more Madam, please take your breath in.

He took his time to closely inspect her roundness and tip and fullness and when he could hold it no longer, he went back to his notepad.

Meer: Done, Madam.

Vasudha: You know right I want it in three days?

Meer: What Madam, so much work, only three days you are giving.

As Vasudha checked herself in the mirror, she said, 'I don't know. Three days, byaas! Come out now.'

For Meer, it felt as if his life changed the moment he stepped out. It was back to business, there was hardly any space for desire. Having bargained into what Mrs Roy and Vasudha thought was a good deal, they went off without having the tea. He had quoted a price worth six orders. So he took his time and told the assistant to take care of the shop while he went inside to his home.

Meer: Abbu, ye wala immediately stitch ke liye bhejna parega. Qaafi munafa kar liya iss ek order se, lekin nakhre bhi bohut bhaari hai. Main khud jaakaar samjha aata hoon. Iqbal dukaan dekh lega. 

He did not allow for his father to respond who still could not make much of the conversation except for 'munafa' and agreed to go back to rest. Treasuring the fabric as if it were dear life, Meer cycled to the tailoring site and picked the best one. "Rahim Bhai! Turaant aaiye. Bari order hai. Sab chhor de."

Rahim Bhai too, like his father could not understand much except for 'commission' and set to work at it. Meer sat beside him and promised him more if he could complete it by tonight.

"Naa mumkin" came Rahim Bhai's reply. "Kal dopehar tak, pakka."

Meer had no choice but to agree and saw the fabric taking shape, slowly. First the lines and cuts came according to his measurements. As Rahim Bhai took to the machine, Meer's attention slurred back to the measuring moments. It was only disturbed by his hunger and he cycled back home, around dusk. All night through, he could not sleep. He sneaked in the tape from the shop and held it. It gave him a palpable sensation -- the thin line called measured touch.

The next morning, again after having taken couple of orders at the shop Meer rushed to the tailor site, and asked for Rahim Bhai. He was offering namaaz and the moment he came out, Meer rushed to him. "Khatam karo, Bhai! Aaj chahiye."

Rahim assured him that he would get it done by evening. Aa the garment got Vasudha's shape, Meer's excitement raised in an electric pace. With the gown now done, he had two more days to be with. All night he laid it on his bed and slept beside it, as if Vasudha were beside her. He smelled the same fragrance, caressed the slit and touched the neckline. Knowing he could never have her, he made love with her gown. The night next was an all-nighter. He could not imagine not having it beside him after the day was in. He stayed awake with it.

On the third afternoon, Mrs Roy and Vasudha came in. Meer had to play his plot. He looked at Vasudha and said, "Madam, if you don't mind, could you please try it once while you are here. In that case, if there is any error, a day would not be lost in re-doing it, though I am sure we have done a good job."

His confidence made Vasudha pick up the ironed gown, delight written all over her face as the indigo set icy flashes on the gold. It looked like a shower stream of violin strings and guitar strings, set against the winter air, glittering with music. She was already in love with it. As Meer heard a scream from inside the measurement room, he knew it had fitted her perfectly. "Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaa. Mami! Come and see! It feels so comfortable!" Meer smiled at Mrs Roy. They both went to the door. She did look gorgeous and the fit was outstanding. Vasudha was pouting and posing adding more to Meer's pleasure. He was enchanted. They left with profuse thanks and more than the promised amount. Everybody was happy.

Meer remained in his tailor-made dream for a lifetime.   

Sex with the Ex

Scandalised with even the mere trinkling of such a thought, Malavika scooped with a deeper intensity into her brownie fudge. It was great, their chemistry -- Malavika and Manav. Legally, they even lasted a good three years, after being together for six long ones. But as in marriages, like the veil or the curtain, all is revealed only as time passes. And not everybody can come to terms with compromise, or allowing a dislike, a disgust, to persist. Now successful as a contributing columnist with the leading national newspapers, Malavika, while she sat at The Taj with her coffee and brownie, waiting for a tete-e-tete with Mrs Tagore, happened to read about Manav in one of the pages of The Financial Times. She was only looking through the trending advertisements, but the sight of him, in a well-tailored shirt, with contrasting buttons and a Louis Vuitton belt that attracted most of her attention, sent her shooting, swooping downwards in extreme fantasy.

In a matter of bad-timing, Mrs Tagore arrived in her fancy, designer anarkali and her olive Hermes. It was enough to feed a village. Having exchanged the customary cheek air-kisses, they sat down and exchanged the 'how are you' and 'what are you up to', and of course the more interesting, 'what's going on with...' New orders were taken for a greek salad and two cocktails, as the conversation went business-wards. Mrs Tagore started voluntarily exhaling tales of her family that seemed to be locked in a rusting iron trunk, and kept safe under a high-bed. Malavika was making mental notes and processing them into sentences for her upcoming weekend column. She wasn't yet in the need of a recorder or a notebook and pen. She memorised all that needed to be told. Having finished their session, they departed different ways.

She looked into her watch. A Longines that Manav had bought her for their first anniversary. The mother of pearl dial still shone timelessly. It was around 2 in the afternoon. She was hungry. Her appetite wasn't yet satisfied and she realized it was not restricted simply to her digestion. It extended to desire. Impulsively, she sent a text to Manav, "Free for dinner tonight? My house." 

Around 3 30, the much awaited reply came in, "See you." As if returning to when she was sixteen, she jumped off her bed and started making preparations. Recalling all of his favourites, she arranged a cozy dinner menu and a sparkling wine, known for its high alcohol content. She couldn't wait to see him. The helps had left around 7. Around 9, the bell rang.

There he was, as stunning as in the photograph, Manav in a brown cord blazer and blue shirt. The same LV belt held his beige linen pants. He smiled at her, she looked irresistable in her cropped denim sleeveless top and a skirt with a slight slit at the side. They kissed, on the cheeks, as Manav gave her a bottle of Beefeater. He too recalled it was her favourite gin. 

"What happened, Malavika? Suddenly this?" as Manav made himself comfortable on the sofa.

"Well, I dunno. Felt like you" she said confidently, looking straight into his light brown eyes. "You look sharp."

"You look very attractive yourself."

"Wine?"

"Sure. Hope it's red."

Malavika smiled and returned from the kitchen with two glasses of deep red wine and a platter of cheese and salad. "No fries, Manav, sorry." 

"That's ok, good for my shape" and touched his really toned tummy. Taking his first sip, he said, "Oh, brilliant wine! What's for dinner?"

"Simple. Fried rice, with lots of mushroom, like you like, and chilli chicken."

"Ooh. Classic. I am drooling already. Dessert?"

Malavika decided the time had come.

"Hot chocolate sauce on..." me.

Manav was taking a bite of the cheese with the carrot, and got the hint, "On?"

"Vanilla ice-cream, of course! What else?"

"Do you miss me, Malavika?"

This was unexpected. "No." He returned to his glass. "Not until today" she slowly continued. 

He smiled. "Thanks. I feel like I exist. Vedika is nowhere near to you."

Malavika replied sharply, "I never looked for a substitute" and finished her drink. "Another now, or after dinner?"

"Did you plan for a long night, Malavika? Or did you just have the dinner on mind?" Manav reflected the same confidence, and looked into her jet black eyes.

"Manav..." By now he was holding her by her waist and kissing her with the same depth of the wine. Shaken by the sensation, they were taken aback by their vigour. The dinner remained in the fridge and wasn't heated untill about 2 30 am, well after midnight. They were hungry with exhaustion. Spent with the lust that had enveloped their desires, lying latent for so long, they had the best dinner of their entire lives and slept all the sleep they had lost over each other.

The morning woke them with the truth of their lives, their separation. But for the rest of their lives, they both knew, they would keep the last night with them, forever. 

Even if not together.   

Malavika and Manav reigned their realms of expertise, but the void created by chemistry remained, adamant. Separately. 

Conversations

I and R have been friends like bread and butter. To explain what that would mean, they are beautifully different, but exceptionally good together. Like a jam tart, a well-baked cake, a mellow drink, in fact any two things that can probably be good is easily comparable to them. But they were not the types who would be speaking to each other everyday. This is one day when I receives a phone-call from R, very rarely that it happens, here's what followed:

R: Have your reports come? 

I: Yes, everything is normal, except for this thing called urea-creatinine. What's that?

R: Something to do with water-intake and kidney. Hmmm. I always told you, five litres, must. The doc will write it down for you to understand better.

I: I went to him with monsters in my head, man, R! Creatinine creates creativity! Of course! That's what has happened to me. An overdose of creativity and characters and conversations. I know you disapprove of this compulsive writing I do, but someone compels me, man R. Understand! And now I know! It is creatinine, a chemical which creates. See?

R: Hmmm. You are a genius, and I am a fool to disbelieve you. Now, can we move to a more sane topic?

I: Sure!

R: There is a writing contest in the newspapers today, of which you of course do not know. Please do not interrupt me, I know you do not take newspapers. I am sending you the online link. Please participate!

I: What? You are asking me to write? I can't believe it! Yes! Send!

R: I have a feeling you are gonna win it too. We will drink to that, ok?

I: OK!

Feeling complete, I went on to write. Not to win of course. I wrote to live, even if that meant creating conversations. Imaginary conversations.

Chitra's Letter

Sunetra,

I sat at the commode, almost all of tonight, and now that life is breaking into dawn, I still cannot believe you are no more. This was the same place which you joked was your 'shrine', in my wardrobe dozens of your clothes lie, as they did till yesterday, when you insisted they fitted me better because you lost weight. I cannot come to terms, yet, that a phone call from your number informs me that you have gone. Where could you have gone, I had jested and thought, until various other friends confirmed. You gave in to your heart, Suni? How could you? 

When I went to your place, everything was the same, your room and its detailed and particular contents -- each one handpicked, reasoned and placed by you. Too many people surrounded your 'body'. I could not also understand how in a matter of minutes you became a body from your name. Some of your friends informed your parents of all that you wanted when you died -- your watches to be given away and you to be dressed in your favourite, Seiko, an ironed white shirt and your best fitted light blue jeans, only till the Medical College. Sadly, the reforms and rituals of the relatives did not let any of your wish be, including the one you had told me -- that you wanted a certain song to be played while people waited for your last journey.

While I wished to sit beside you and touch you for the last time, I could only see you being stretched out by your cousins. While I wished to wail, I could not. It was a fight between my private mourning and public consoling. I was there for all those who needed a firm friend's shoulder. Suni, if only you would know how people have loved you, and how they do!

It took me hours to breakdown, inside my bathroom, and it hasn't stopped since. Wishes -- yours, mine -- all now remain unfulfilled. What happens of what we shared? Where do I go? Like all my promises, Suni, if there were only a place to follow, you know it, I would be there, with you, only with you.

But I have to put up a face and return to your room tomorrow and play the brave button. I wish I could be selfish, or a choice. Alas, they too, like you, seemed to have abandoned me in a complete void. Yet, here you are, laughing, as I pour out overwhelming emotions into this paper, as if writing letters were only your authority. It would remain unpostedd perhaps unread too. And yes, as I look around to locate the laugh, you are not.

I do not know what to do next. They say life goes on. Come back. Come back and tell me how it does.

Chitra.

Cake Walk

Hi folks! My name is Marble. No, no, I am not one of those common place circles of universes in a common man's pocket in the name of a game. Those are such tiny pleasures. I have heard people put them in between their fingers and often see through them in the sunlight, and then, almost as if magic, radically, and softly, the withins change shapes and forms of the same sort called Hope. No, no, I am not one of those little clinks of exactitude when they touch each other. Incidentally, I happen to share my name with them, but to remind you again, I have nothing in common with them. And today I will tell you about me since you already know so much about those puny marbles. To counter your curiosity, which may arise, as to why you should at all know my story, I would defend my case by saying, my life is not a cake walk. Why should one only know of Happy Hopes? Sad Smiles are great lessons too.

As you must be knowing, marbles are a string of strong objects, whereas, in my case, I am soft like an emotion, or a cushion. I am a classic cake whose only objective is to provide pleasure to all those who have me. Yes, that's who I am, a cake. Worn in delicious proportions of buttery dough and rich chocolate, my moderation is in my shape. I am not quite full, you see -- I have an empty between. Were I human, I would have lived a constant death of existential crisis. But, as mentioned, I am a cake, customarily meant to be consumed. Would that mean death? By no means, no! Therein lies my pride -- when I am had with the utmost pleasure and delight and my delicious flavours bring a smile on those who end my shelf life.

Between creamy curls and chocolaty excesses, I sit, plain, prim and very, very proper. Vanilla, butterscoth and other etcetras too have tried their novelty in making a mark, but a classic remains one, like me. Around tiers of trials in petty things like competition, I wouldn't say, I am always a winner, but yes, I am a sure survivor. My death comes in bites of loyal love.

While the other fancy ones talk before they have even tried to walk, I walk the talk. And though my life, in spite of being Marble is rather malleable, it is anything but a cake walk. They slice me severely, sharply. Loyalty comes with a price tag, and when it is nothing but pure pleasure, trust me, ends are great! But unlike broken marbles, I am born again and take the cake walk, melting in mouths. If you liked my life, do me a favour, have me! It would be worth living like a legend and give it up as one. For life is anything but a cake-walk!

Kuber weds Arundhati

The queue of reception lights kissed the winter evening with their choreographed dreamy symmetry. The catering service had begun serving the starters and the early invitees were enjoying the freshly fried snacks. It was the reception of one of the most awaited wedding of the batch. Over the last ten years, they had become from mere medical students to specialists in neurology and psychiatry. Their honeymoon was scheduled for a month after the reception, for they were more inclined to begin the next day inaugurating their new chamber. Against all opposition from Arundhati, Kuber insisted. "Think Aruni, this way we would at least get to travel together." The reception was a hit. Each of the guests genuinely blessed the love-bird couple. They looked glamorous in their classy wear, and with greetings from old friends, they went back to memories of infatuation, letters, relationship woes, relationship highs, some tears, more laughs and an ease that held them together in a coupledom of celebration.

Though they had spent most hostel nights together, tonight was special. It was special in its tender monotony. It was special in its celebratory bonding. It was special in an intoxication of heightened senses of responsibilities.Until they clinked their champagne glasses. 

Kuber could immediately understand his nerves clinching him like nightmares and becoming unresponsive. In his last breath he could only stare at Arundhati, who could not understand the psyche which led her to do it. Seeing his death, her psychiatric rationale impressioned upon her 'madness'. Before she could think of her next step, realize an underlying competition, feel the suffocation of extreme gratitude, she took a sip from his glass.

The next morning, no body could comprehend the deaths of the newly wed doctors.

Daily Doubles

Sunandini looked in command when she was behind the wheels of her newly bought, new edition, blue Baleno. She had undergone a month long of indecision and finally defeated the i-20 Elite. Charged with novelty, as novelty is rumoured to do, she went to work and felt the change. Her earlier car was grey, and humble. This had an air of adventure and royalty about it. She was not used to attention, and now she was enjoying it. In fact, during the phase when she did away with the earlier car, and had not yet bought this one, one could see the difference in her. They realised it was the car that drove her to life, and not the other way round. But, having a tiff with choice, as she always did, Sunandini took her time, and broke down mid-way.

Today is not one of those days. As she cruises on the city roads, only too aware of a fleet of sidey admirers, she recalled her broken self. She was halting and moving on a bridge, packed during office-hours. The song on the radio was a lame one, one that on other days she would have immediately switched away from. The windows were pulled up and she could not hear the noise outside too. All that held her attention was the back glass of the car in front of her. Like many happy families do, it had a couple of soft toys rolling from one end to the other with every jerk and start. Hers held a badminton racket and a couple of shuttles, while her Nike sneakers remained in the boot compartment. 

The traffic was endlessly slow, like waiting for water when one devises a well. She looked past the soft toys and noticed it had an orange flying Hanuman under the front mirror. She was smiling as she loved observing such details. Almost as if it were a cue to unfold everything about the people in that car, she was on the verge of deciding whether the man was a banker or an iron-merchant. By the time she could decide, the traffic moved two feet ahead to stop midway on the bridge for another one eighty seconds. This shift of gear brought her back to the back glass of the car, a Swift. 

And as suddenly as dolphins dive and come up to delight us, she was entranced by the shadow of leaves on it. On paying more attention, Sunandini noticed the leaves were no longer mere shadows, but growing out of the glass, in shape, in form, in colour and in a unique abstraction that mesmerized her. Strangely, she could not see the soft toys anymore, nor the unmissable Hanuman. It was just the leaves and ninety more seconds. Automatically, she changed the radio channel to suit her mood and looked ahead with crooked eye-brows, within herself a rational questioning, if what she saw was visible to others too -- for the leaves now took over the cars on the left and the right. Thirty seconds.

Yes, they did. Shadows of leaves, filled with an uncertain green, was tenting up and around the area. Sunandini couldn't decide whether she should capture the moment, or call for attention. She looked on. The leaves had now become hands, a crowd of hands, some painting, some writing, some in dance mudras. Shadow like they moved beyond the glass and was approaching her car. The red light blinked and cars around her had started to move even before the light turned green. The hands had caught her by her neck. She was choking. Desperately, she tried to open a window, for, she was hardly able to gear up and move.

Audible irritated honks of cars behind her brought her back to her senses. There were no hands. Only hers, one on the gear, other on the steering. She noticed an approaching police-man, and gesturing a 'sorry', went about driving. The cars were now going down. Traffic had eased in front because she had held it for some precious seconds. As she zoomed down, she did not know what to make of the hands.

Till she looked into at her rear-view mirror. There they were. Hands, leaves, shadows -- after her. Not knowing what to do, she sped and tried to race ahead. She was only praying that she should not stop at another red-light. In that moment of madness, she drove and drove and kept driving, forgetting destination and exploring roads. Songs were left unchanged. Around afternoon, the hands finally caught her at a signal.

She could still breathe. She looked down and found the wrists had her watch on the left, her bangle on the right. Before she could do anything, she lost her senses.

Tonight, she sits at her bed, wondering what had happened and who saved her. Questions kept pouring and went unanswered. As she switched off the lights to sleep, the same pair of hands returned. She knew them well -- the one in command when behind the wheels. This was going to be a driving night too. Scared, she pulled the blanket up to her head in an attempt to hide herself.

The hands crept in.

I Stole Your Dream

Character One wants to be named, to be known, but as the author, I do not wish to reveal anything about her, so I insist she be hereby called ‘C1’. It is an anxious day for me, for I have the heavy duty of writing something for yet another request, simple. So, I thought let me try doing the dreaming thing. As reports go, I do it rather well.

So, C1 is in an operation theatre, and hence the name which is reduced to a bed number, under medical lights, surrounded by specialists and safety. She must have also duly marked the cleanliness of the place while she was being wheeled inside. As useless information was being asked of her, the lights became fainter. She did not recall being hungry, having last had only the previous night’s dinner, and was wondering how it was possible, to sustain a human body. While such thoughts grew dimmer, so did the lights, and the last thing she felt were the whiteness of opaque masks and gloves around her. The surgery began.

She does not remember pain, she does not have fear, she is not relieved. She has transcended, by now, into a very different world. The journey took some time to arrive, but the destination was, as one would say, “Production – Tip-Top!” Yes, she found herself on a stage, set by one of the roads on the mountains, naturally lit by the angles of the sun rays. She was the solo performer of the day, and people from in, around, and even those not from the valley gathered for such a spectacle. Confident that C1 is, she did not care about traffic being held for a day, or, travel being undertaken by her followers. She was going to present a surprise to the audience, and it excited her.

The anchoring inaugurated, the music fluted in, as if the birds were choreographed to sing a song to enchant the gathering. She was dressed like a performer, and she was about to perform the performance of her life – a tale of love. As she began her moves, the peaks bloomed along, and sunshine reached the depths of her gut. She was transforming into a celebration herself, the jingle in her anklets adding to the symphony of the breeze. It was a sight to behold, she was searching for her beloved, and like in the movies, the universe seemed to be conspiring along, fragrantly. She danced, and she danced, tirelessly, endlessly, till the dawn turned to dusk and the song was melancholic. The audience never anticipated being entrapped for such duration. At the point of the end, by when love opened its arms as wide as the sky, and breathed in a happiness as pure as the air, she felt the pain with the dusk rays closing in with a darkness that enveloped her senses. But her soul was alive, and she kept dancing. Dancing, with an inexhaustible hope, dying slowly.

She was wheeled back into her room, as people dispersed knowing she would be in pain. Love often hurts, as they say. But she continued to sleep. The audience was dimming; they could not take her pain anymore. The dance had made deep cuts into her soul and a sleep was essential to revitalize her emotions. She wished for the birds to return, tried to recall the peaks and feel the breeze, but the pain would not let her be. Where is my beloved?

C1 sleeps. But she would wake up to this. Knowing, her dance was not an illusion, for she is revisiting it. Her pain elopes as she can now see the peaks, hear the birds, breathe in a dream and know where her beloved is – right in that tale of love, where immortality is uncontested. Her soul rests as her eyes dissolve like ink, back to the dream. 

Dreaming a Story

I was attending a wedding, aware of various kinds of gaze. Now, this thing called ‘gaze’ has become the hot word in scholarly circles. They adjectify it with ‘masculine’, ‘feminine’, ‘appropriate’, ‘invisible’ and the other novel fancy words by suffixing old, harmless words. Basically, they have taken the word and turned it into their wish fulfilling device. God forbid if an academic reads this, I assure you reader, I will be burnt alive with, as Jimmy Porter in Look Back in Anger’s, ‘vitriolic invectives’. They would mark me insensible, uneducated, elite, blinded with superficiality and the works. I wish I could say aloud, “I don’t care”, but that, dear reader, would again, mark me as someone ‘who didn’t have reasoning enough’. Hence, at various risks of being wisely read, I thus write. Call me foolish, call me courageous, I would prefer ‘a call of the heart’.

I re-begin: I was attending a wedding, aware of various kinds of gaze. Now this is a wedding which is yet to take place, precisely, in a week’s time. Hence, clearly, I was in a dream, or, reverie, at the most. I was still the same person, looking sufficiently likeable, dressed in a smart saree, my hair worn in its best shine and the accessories calling for compliments. I was a house-guest at the groom’s side, hence introductions were in order and judicious pride was taken in informing about my accolades at the work front. A college professor is still, by far, one of the noblest (read, convenient) career choices, if it clicks in areas like location and age of the college. These days, I would go ahead and add that I write too. It has taken me a year’s confidence to come up to that stature, to believe in myself. When people responded, I was handing them my visiting card, one which only held the link of my blogspot.

Of pretexts that must be told, one is that I was once married, and rather early, which means I am now ‘available’, another of those layered gazes. I am of a vital age, having just crossed the thirties, and if I am not over-estimating my ‘value’, had I not have a history of sorts, I would be a goldmine of a prospective bride. You see, reader, my charm has increased with my age and the silver streaks on my hairline have only added more charisma to the ‘curious’ gaze. In that dream, some of them whispered in my ears of aunties going beyond control having mixed their drinks. I tried to pacify them in my faintly alcoholic breath. I was part of a ritual, just beside the bride and the groom and acknowledging appreciation for the piris that I had painted. I was blushing, like the vibrant red in them. They contrasted with the royal blue, like that of my saree. There was a secure symmetry about the entire event. The gazes around held me in ‘pity’, ‘envy’, ‘jealousy’ and most of all, ‘sympathy’ – just to prove my case I will now write the lines in their head – ‘She should have been  married’, ‘She has no problems or responsibilities’, ‘What a prime college she teaches in! What a fine supervisor she has!’, ‘Alas! She will never get to know the holy emotions of motherhood.’ And these, not for once made me insecure. By now, I am used to such kinds of gazes – looks that are beyond looks.

The marriage rites began, and suddenly newer rituals appeared in my dream. Like in an assembly line, while in school, scores of my classmates, in their white Mekhlas, jumped like frogs, perhaps attempting a dance, and paused right at the mandap, looked right at me, turning their heads in a synchronized right and once again, passing gazes of ‘Look we have posted photographs of our sons and husbands on Facebook!’, smiling, and with another frog jump saying ‘What have you done?’, went ahead. The dance sequence continued for two more turns, till I woke up saying ‘I am going to get married’.

By the time I changed into my costume for the day, an invigilator, a badminton player, a driver, the dream vanished. At each red signal, I scanned through the car windows around me, ‘gazing’ at what kind of man I would like to marry. Unfortunately, and extremely sadly, none interested me. Oh yes, one on the hoardings, Jishhu Sengupta, did. This is a recent phenomenon; my hormones are activated on seeing his stubble and bare shoulders. At the risk of sounding an omnivorous eater this time, he is wildly ‘haveable’. I continued ‘gazing’ from one end of the city to the extreme other. Some men had bellies touching their steering wheel, while others spat on the road. These were my reasons to come out of my reverie.

I decided to do something good with the intensely graphic dream I had, and rather than giving up my life, my decision and my independence to the institution of marriage, I thought, ‘let me write!’ Agreed, this removes me from the dreams of a woman – that of mothering a fathered-surname child, or posting photographs of a ‘complete family’ on social media, or of ever getting to know of responsibilities concerned with a domestic life vis-a-vis the politics of a professional one, but what does it give me then?

Time, for one. Time to be whoever I want to be, even commitment-phobic, for that matter. And time to do what I was born to.

To turn dreams into reality, and if that fails, into a story.

Letter to Chhuti XXI

Sweetheart,

At the fag end of a day, which was a precious part of you, a treasured holiday, what remains of us but remains of our various selves in others? Someone holds my laughter dear, while somebody else is concerned. Some of those elusive them carry me in their pockets, while some others in their heads and hearts. And what becomes of me? I am dispersed in this universe, often dead with deadlines, but alive with the thought of you.

Another timeline begins, like every hour does with anticipation and admiration; another hour wanes like a lost page of life. What stays back? Moments with you -- carefree, unbound, precious. And love. A perfect cup of tea, a stolen walk in the terrace, earphones that yield stories and people who let us stroll around in our absolute foolish selves, I am speaking of that love. 'Foolish', that is what the world perhaps thinks of me when I write letters to you, my beloved quicksand. 

Alas, I know nothing better to be feeling warm in but the thought of you. To pretend to breathe in the mountains and behave like the waves were my kingdom, to know that the open roads are my fastest friends and to leave secrets in corners that be well forgotten. All of that as I lie dead against a deadline, and survived thinking one day, someday, all of this, they will be.

Till then Chhuti, I think of you in these words that I have missed. I think of how longingly I wait and how quickly you depart. I think of frames that you have filled me up with.

Love,

K.

Where are my Pen-Friends?

Such was the agony, then, as it is now, that I actually never had, nor have, a pen-friend. Today, I sit and think of the imaginations that kept me occupied. That I would write to you, a samurai-holding friend in Japan, for then I did not know it would be Tokyo, or to someone with golden hair in Sicily. How many had I written, those that remained unnamed, unposted? I hunted for that special name which would hold the romance of a distant land, of mile long dreams. I would look into magazines, and in doctors' journals, tv-serial credits and within myself as I stared into the wall.

Finally, having given up that I was not tailored to be blessed with adventure, I cooked many of you up. I would write to names I would want to. And on days when the sum would just not come to the correct answer, I would instead build a reply from you. Come to think of it, it was so much fun, trapping tall Parisian fragrances and Chinese roast duck smells -- getting replies from wherever I wanted, from whoever I wanted, getting to hear what I wished -- that I was a perfect pen-friend. Either I had a lot of time to waste, or I was really disinterested in my studies, for I miss those curious charms today.

You were Heidi's neighbour from the swiss fields, and Leonardo Di Caprio's personal assistant. You were even Ajay Jadeja's cousin. And all of you spoke to me so much about lives I could not even think of. As a matter of fact, about lives only I could think of. Slowly, the number of names decreased, like an algebric equation. As if it was logically destined to be.

You were no one, no where, yet, I missed not having you. I blessed myself with adventure and though it has been replaced by astute caution and pessimistic practicality, often times, such moments from the mess of memories spring a source of romance with the childhood innocence in which, faith was the first step to every blown bubble.

Even surprisingly so, on this day too, as pens have given way to the keyboard, as have the friends, I miss my pen-friends.

I miss myself.  

An Author's Art

There was once a rising star, an author, as I would like to call her. She is still there, so I have no idea why I mentioned ‘was’. She never found writing to be her calling while she grew up. But one fine day, unable to take the stress of little things like ‘politics’ and ‘profession’, she took to a ‘page’. Earlier, the page was her confidante. She would draw words and work on it. A graphic meaning would erupt of the distorted cornucopia.“Failed artist but fine artistic sensibility”, she often got to hear. Not to mention, “cerebral abstracts.” These did not matter to her. She did all of it only for one sake, to slay the boredom at hand. Sometimes, it would be a phone call about problems like ‘lost love’ and ‘being caught’ and ‘not studying enough’, most of the other times, it would be long lectures on ‘gender’, ‘colonialism’, ‘spaces’. No, it wasn’t as if she did not pay attention, for she registered all that she listened, but her hands were restless, they needed to criss-cross-criss, constantly. She was compelled by a call that made her shade and sketch. She adored paintings, but saddened that no figure ever came out the way she would have liked them to, she increased the shapes – circular, triangles, curves, lines. And she left them at black and white. 

 

Till that day when she thought to herself that she had written many letters to god to pass her for examinations which she was hardly prepared for. She rationalized that if those worked, god must have liked and been convinced with her language. So, she took up her favourite topic – holiday -- and turning it into a favourite metaphor, created the sweetest child possible. Thus began her series of conversations and interactions (for she made little Chhuti speak back too!) with words. Now, this was an excavation out of the deepest depth of her soul. Earlier, she was told, and she liked to believe in things that were told to her, that she only loved the ‘act’ of writing from childhood, as evident in the millions of A-B-C-D that she must have scribbled walls over. But, for the first time, she was writing, not answers, not applications but stories, and dialogues and she was amazed because they came out of a nothing, that she believed to be a nothing.

What shocked her furthermore was the acceptance of her letters, stories, characters and conversations. Once again, she overheard “you are blessed”, “you are special” and none of these mattered too. She wrote and went on writing like it was her compulsion and what followed was tragic. Till she wrote, she could not breathe easily. Till she wrote, her insides came alive in a fury, “Let us Out!” Till she wrote, she could not believe that she would be able to continue.

Trapped in a competition with herself, the author belted one tiny best-seller after the other, one letter after the other. Who knew she had so much to say! Accustomed to her variety, she was assured of applauds. But these very applauds began choking her with expectations of more. Now, ‘more’, dear readers, is a good thing, if in moderation, but the moment it crosses the line, it becomes an entrapment. The more she wrote, the madder she became. She wanted to be loved and popular and by god, she is, but the constant fear of whether she could deliver in the next page began gripping her with a triggering bellowing, soft and nagging. 

Her characters have taken over, she is now perfecting a measure to fish them, like she used to. Everyday, she still writes. She is asked, “today?” As if her fingers transfigure into a wand, words are out in a fancy flight, some with sense, some with none.

The author’s voice has split. Who knows who speaks.