Ashq

It started drizzling. The couple over there, sharing a minisculine chocolate bar, no hands, could have cared less. I couldn’t. I walked on away from the warm lights of the ‘South City Mall’ into the darkened haze of Kolkata.

Quite inevitably (for I already had a cold), the pitter-pat soon became more like ’splatter-splash’! Reproachfully, I eviscerated the contents of my plastic bag-a samosa-into my mouth and put it inside out on my head. And walked on slowly. Relishing the coldness of the drops and the pain of the cool wind after. Somewhere, the coldness resonated in me.

I was idly contemplating what a run and a dramatic leap towards those huge Bus wheels could do(…what would happen to the driver…serve him right for dying his beard red, etc), when

SSPLOTCH!!

Some genius behind an autorickshaw wheel wanted to know the aesthetic effect of drain sludge on branded blue shirt. The thing did not even stop to say sorry. Probably, a hundred drenching a day was pretty average for the guy.

I balled up my fist, started running, and then… just stopped. Something gave. Inside. I did not have the will to have a fight anymore. The road ahead winked darkly at me.

“Why?”

I answered without thinking, “It’s futile. What could I have done, anyway? Big hulking guy. May have reduced me to pulp.”

Whoa I thought,

Why am I saying all that to a disembodied feminine voice?

It really was very dark now.

“That sounds rather like a shrink’s philosophy.”

The raindrops on my glasses blurred my vision. But I could make out a girl, about my height walking out from under a car shade.

“Funny,” I muttered, turning away, “Could that possibly be because I AM a shrink? And who are you?”

The girl fell into step beside me, laughing merrily. Now that I could see her more closely, I was awestruck. That, without doubt, was the most beautiful face I had ever seen.

“Aren’t you touchy?” she laughed some more. “Offer me that plastic bag?” she pointed at my head.

“No!”

“Chivalry?”

“I’m no bloody horse-rider. And who are you?”

“Courtesy, then.” She picked up the bag from my head and put it on her own. Women! She still managed to look like a princess with my samosa-bag on her head. I briefly considered snatching it back, but gave up on deliberation.

“Tell me,” she said, skipping over the dead rat I trod upon, “What vexeth thee?”
I looked up, surprised.

“Toffee?” she offered. I shook my head and walked on. Girls could be vastly more irritating than boys. You have to hand it to them.

She unwrapped two and pushed one into my hand.

“So,… go on. Tell ALL to me.”

I kept on walking.

Freakin’ Hell! This couldn’t be happening to me. Bad things happen to me. That’s normal. But maniac beauties with a bad case of Agony Auntity?

“HeLLO?”

Breathe. I told myself. That’s the trick. Just keep on breathing.

The rain showed no signs of relenting. Most shops had their shutters down. A few tea shops had emergency lamps hung. Powercut, of course.

“Hello, mister. I’m talking to you.” A sharp weapon (presumably an index-finger nail) poked on my left upper arm.

I stopped abruptly. Whirled around. And started taking menacing steps towards the yet unnamed girl (to complete the works).

“What the Freaking PIZZA is wrong with you? Who ARE you? And what do you WANT? And WHY WON’T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE?”

It started from a low growl and ended in a full throttled roar. It was supposed to be impressive. Very. But then, one has to take into consideration:

1> The whole point of the performance was to intimidate. It was supposed to make the hidden bunny in her heart appear and leap right away.
She was not quite smirking at me. The look on her face was akin to concern. For me.

2> I had advanced after each sonorous flourish of my little speech, while she had not moved at all. Meaning, she was at present, 2 inches (give or take one) from my nose. I gulped.

3> The Kolkata footpaths are not wholly unsympathetic to the occasional D.I.D.* if the dragon be as alone as I was. (D.I.D=Damsel In Distress)

It is this last point that requires our immediate attention.

“Didi, are you alright?”

“Hey hero, keep your voice down.”

“Want yourself kicked down a few pegs?”

“Keep your barks to your kennel.”

I sighed and stepped away. She took over.

“He’s my brother.” I thought I heard her say. “A little impulsive. Thank you. Thank you. No need to worry.”

Women. I started walking. Trust them to make you look like a fool AFTER doing all the silly things themselves.

I was stewing in self-pity, when I found her staring at me quizzically. The rain was down to a drizzle again. We kept walking.

“What?” I said defensively. She kept looking at me.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted.”

“Apology accepted. Want another toffee?”

Speaking one way or the other wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. I popped it into my mouth and concentrated on getting out of a slight traffic snarl.

“Brother?” I grumbled.

“Deserved it. And you’ve still not answered my question.”

sigh

“Look. Here’s a boy. Someone took away his toy. So he’s sulking. Okay? Now will you please tell me who are you? Pretty please?”

“I’m an angel.”

“Haha. Who are you?”

“Told you. It’s not my business whether you believe me or not. So, what happened?”

“I think I told you. I loved a girl. And she doesn’t like me. Infact, (what a surprise!) she loves somebody else.” I twisted my lips into a smile. “Miss Angel, could you do something about that?”

“That’s what I’m doing, silly. It’s my assignment.”

“Wha…? What, what, what did you just say?”

“I’m an angel, remember?”

I was quite sure I had ended up walking with a complete lunatic. But it was more fun than I could expect. I could tell her things that I couldn’t to other sane people. I decided to continue the farce.

“You’re an angel, alright” I whistled.

She pretended to slap me.

“So, Ms. Angel, where are your wings? And can you walk on water?”

“Wings? Angels don’t have wings.” she looked scandalized. “And why would anyone want to walk on water?”

The rain had stopped. And I found that I had no idea where I was. The entire stretch of Prince Anwar Shah road was familiar to me. This was not Anwar Shah.

“Where…”

“We’re walking towards Tollygunge. That fine with you?”

I nodded.

“Go on. So, when did the tragedy occur?”

“It was a night of wild storms…” I began dramatically “On the second January, 1989. The priests predicted the birth of a demon and a loser.”

“Seriously now…”

“Come on. It was no tragedy.” I said, realizing it for the first time myself. “Happens a coupla thousand times a minute I suppose.”

She looked doubtful.

“Losing doesn’t make a big difference?”

“Of course, it makes a big difference. It was a big game I was playing anyway. If I play small games, the risks are smaller. Reciprocal for a big game. I mean someone had to lose. I lost. No big deal.”

“You hate her now?”

I smiled at her naivety. “I only wish, I could, Ms.Angel.” I paused and sighed wistfully. “No. Take that back. I wish I could make myself completely indifferent. Like neutral. Hatred is a strong emotion and it’s so rare for me that I’d hate to waste it.”

“Hmmm. Some grit left in our loser then.”

“Heck! if there isn’t.” I was perked up for some reason. “I mean I can’t be THAT bad. Okay I’m ugly. And a little slow. So what? I can’t be worse than Samshir Bose for example.”

“Fat guy with brown hair?”

I was jolted out of my train of thoughts. How did she know about THIS? Samshir was not his right name. Only two or three of us called him that.

“How do you know about the pseudoname?”

“I’m an Angel, remember?” she took a right turn from I-dunno-where to I-didn’t-recognize-where.

“Seriously, Ms Angel. How did you?”

She gave me a clam look. I dunno if you guys recognize it, but it’s a typical look a girl gives before she clams up. It’s like a banner saying “I shalst not speak”.

I gave up. She recognized this look all too well.

“So back to what you were saying about big games and small games. You know what? I rather think you’re right.”

“How kind of you.”

“I mean if the stakes are that high, why take the risk at all?”

“Come again?”

“Why put all your happiness is one cup? Knowing that it may well break and take it ALL away?”

“You wouldn’t know if you’ve never loved. It’s not a conscious effort to put the stuff in the bowl. The bowl makes the stuff, would be more apt.”

She arched her eyebrows at me. Typical intimidation tactics. I was not fooled. No sir. I went right on.

“And it’s not like the end of the world. I have friends. People who love me a lot. I have wonderful parents. Great relatives. One person makes a big difference, of course. But not all that it is made out to be, now that I come to think of it.”

Gosh I thought subconsciously, am I saying this?

The surrounding seemed somewhat familiar. Couldn’t quite place it. But it reeked of familiarity.

“Wow. That was… deep.” She said chattily. “Don’t people like you start hating the whole sex? I mean, aren’t you supposed to become a woman hater?”

“Gosh no.” I spluttered in mock horror. “I wouldn’t dream of it. In fact I’d especially not dream of it.”

I stretched my hands dramatically, “Here. Just here, in this world, somewhere, a girl has been crafted through four billion years of evolution from a slimy mess to a lady worthy of yours faithfully. And I’m just waiting to meet her. Can’t risk hating women just now, sorry.”

She started laughing. A sweet sound. I was puzzled. I try my best ofcourse, but that last statement was not all that funny.

“Hey?” I objected.

She kept on laughing.

“What?”

“Are angels supposed to laugh during assignments?”

That got her attention. “Of course, they may.”

“What were you laughing about?”

“You.”

She stopped me with a dainty finger.

“You’ve enough sense to know Loss for the traitor he is. You think rationally about revaluation. You have thought, convinced yourself and have successfully moved on. Then, why in the name of Nefertiti are you sulking?”

Each retort that came to my mind sounded more silly than the previous.

Why the heck AM I??

We walked silently for a moment. Then it struck me. Why the place seemed familiar. Of course, it was familiar. It was Tollygunge, but from the opposite side. We were coming from the direction of Garia.

How?

I thought, but didn’t ask aloud. I was sure to get another of the smug I’m-an-angel answers.

She smirked anyway. And I didn’t care. I felt… free. As if a great load had been taken off me. The city in front of me transformed from the hazy monstrosity into a carnival of light and colours. Oddly enough, it felt happy. I was on the threshold of college life. A new start. A new beginning to a new life.

The rain-bathed tree-trunks shone in the street light. I had a presentiment of what was coming.

She took my hand and turned me around. “I have to go now. Can’t go any further. Sorry, if it’s abrupt” she looked kindly at me. “You know what? You’re a remarkable person. And if the word of a stranger counts for anything, you’re a good person.”

I pressed her hand, “Thank you, Angel. Thank you, sister.”

She laughed and started walking away.

“Sister?”

“You deserve it.” I called at her rapidly receding frame.

Growth is Glorious

Growth is the morphing from being self-centric to eccentric. A child is born, and he knows not himself: his actions are governed by URGES rather than thoughts–the urge to feed, to sleep, the urge to feel protection–physical protection.

A little further down the line, he develops a rudimentary sense of self: and still, all his actions, his wants are blissfully centred on himself. He wants toys, he wants bright clothes, he wants the best stationery at school–he wants everything his neighbour has, only better and more expensive. And he naturally wants all this for nothing in return: he assumes to be appreciated merely for existing, and not for being anything special: for him, his mere existence is special. As it is for his parents, his close relatives: as it SHOULD be for the whole world. Should be, but is not.

So the rest of his life is spent weaning himself away from this concept that the world revolves around him, that other beings are accessories to his existence. This belief is subconscious: it is never voiced, and many people go through a great part of their lives while never even realising it exists.

The first test of leaving self-centredness behind is making friends: true, lasting, loving friends who will sacrifice their own just for the sake of the smile on his face. While almost every child has playmates, very few can without a thought, without a question make the first sacrifice that is just so essential to link hearts. For those who can, they embark on a journey which weathers the self–like a river weathers stone and makes fertile soil–into the PROPER relief.

Growing further up, the very paradigm of self is rebuilt. It is entirely possible for our child (now become a teen or perhaps a young adult) to be pained at his friends’ pain because he imagines them still to be appendages of himself: appendages that are suffering. While this is a very delicately emotional way of taking friends to heart, it is still not the right approach. To have grown and loved truly, one must understand that those one loves are SEPARATE people, and learn to place the feelings of those separate beings at a place higher than one’s own. One has to finally learn to hold others’ places above oneself, and see oneself in a new light: that of an appendage of others, which is diametrically the opposite of seeing others as appendages of oneself.

Why, dear reader, do I say “one has to”? Why do I use the word “finally”? To clarify, I do not think that this stage is the last in the evolution of the self! This is, however, an important milestone. Also, as we shall see, this is a very poetic phase.

This putting-others-over-himself is the prequisite of romance. And romance flourishes in our young man because of another contributing factor too: satisfaction. This is the satisfaction that arises of his having attained that crucial milestone. Satisfaction fuels him to put his love above himself, which in turn provides more satisfaction. This self-feeding chain grows voluptuous, and resonates in him till it consumes all else. Hence, quite apart from the physical and emotional flagrance of youthful romance, this is also a phase of flagrant celebration-of-the-self.

This phase, however, is passing, as our young man finds out. As he grows older, though, it is replaced with something of ripened beauty: his self changes for the penultimate time, and this change brings out his best maturity.

He now has children, and he comes to realise that while he is part of a whole, the only purpose of that whole is simply to exist. In themselves, and, through their descendants–into futurity. He also realises that, though there is nothing dramatic about this purpose of existence, drama is not needed for contentment. So the final, down-to-earth understanding of the self is this: The only purpose of life is life.

It is to BE.

Growth is Glorious

The actual article is here: -

http://thelamplight.wordpress.com/2008/07/09/growth-is-glorious-2/

The one posted here got corrupted. Don’t ask me how.

A description.

I posted this one in Orkut. In the ‘About me’ section.

 

 When,
They piled on me,
They tied me up;
Just hardened me- the pain.
Their Jacks and Jaws,
Those hands and claws
Told me to break- in vain.

When,
They stabbed at me,
I laughed aloud.
And pushed my way well past.
On broken glass,
On broken dreams,
I tread as sure- as fast.

And then ofcourse, a trifle, a thing.
A pair of eyes, (a pair of wing?)
I let too close, and in too far
I should have known- too far.

What the world had tried and come to naught,
She broke without a glance, a thought.
She turned her head and walked away
And brittle shards of a brittle smile-
Broke forever… broke away.

 

CHIRONEX FLECKERI speak:

I’m many things. Have been many things that I am not. Shall be many things that I am not. If you read the whole profile, the thing you are BOUND to be is a masochist…

Okay. Now, lets arrange this in a primitive cave-man manner:
________________________________________________

The surfing sea wasp:
Yes. The Chironex Fleckeri IS the scientific name of the much dreaded sea wasps. For those who do not know, these sea wasps are pesky cnidarians that bubble about in the Australian coast looking about for appropriate people to sting. What is bad news is that the poison has a HUGE fatality ratio AND a mind-boggling cruciator index. This profile represents one such poisonous creature. Troll bashing being a refined art in Orkut, this profile is known for it’s troll stinging ways.
Interpretation and classification into ‘Troll’ is mine to do of course

________________________________________________

What I CAN (supposedly)
Hmmm. This is a huge list. I’m the type sample of ‘Jack of some trades master of none’. Oh boy! Do I hate being mediocre.
My interests are psychology, physics, music, etc. I love the english language. Partly because I express myself best in the written form of english.
I’m inhuman. We have a society called the ‘Inhuman society’ in which all the members pledge to NOT be human. The humane bend to reason is repungent to me. Every day, we see more and more instances of humanity in the frozen dead body outside the hospital, the desperate eyes of the hungry thief, the savage shrieks of the ravished. So much for humanity.

________________________________________________

Why am I here?

Just question. And the answer is ‘blowin’ in the wind’: I HAVE NO LIFE. I repeat, I. HAVE. NO. LIFE. Close enough? The secondary reasons are that I hate Orkut(not you, Mr. Orkut, never you) but cant get rid of it. I burst out of it at dawn and come back meek and tame when the light starts falling. I have a few close aquaintances here. Some friends I made. Some people I respect. and(this is IT) a HUGEEARTHLOADFULLOFSHIT! I love Troll-ass-kicking. It is one of my primary pleasures in life. Poor me.

If you are NOT a masochist, stop reading here (presuming you did read till here.

________________________________________________

What am me?

I am an illusion, an image I project. I am a mask, a set of facades that envelope me. Now, that in itself is not all that uncommon. In my case however, they are mostly self imposed and … regulated. A bulb with different number of layers to peel for different people. Few have seen me naked. None that I have not wished to.

Life has taught me many things-

It has taught me that I can never know enough to stand up and say- ‘I’m Right’

Life has taught me to accept the gray while worshipping the white. I have been laughed at for the things I once laughed at.

I have come to realise how little I know; the futility of framing an universal philosophy. I have seen Life, Death and Love. Been dragged back into an abyss, one unwilling step at a time, that I did not even believe it.

I have been a helpless plaything in the hands of Chance and seen my very hope getting shattered by her caprice. And I’ve learnt to hope again.

Life has taught me planktonism. I’ve learnt to let go.

Ovarian Equilibrium

“The whole question of egg-chick equilibrium”, says Mr. Hensworthy, a
leading authority and a professor of the Red Rhode university, “is one
that touches our practical life closely.” And the combed youth of
generation ‘present’ agrees.

What is equilibrium? It is a state of affair in which the existing
proportion of material everywhere in a system, remains the same. For
example, a person sitting for a light tea on the porcelain throne,
emptying his stomach at precisely the rate at which it gets filled can
be said to be in equilibrium.
The egg-chick equilibrium can be simply represented as:

Egg <—-> Chicken

Any youngster worth his grain knows that egg gives rise to chicken. And
chicks give eggs. Which is to say, that in a system isolated from wolves
or class going children, a set of eggs should hatch to give a
corresponding number of chicks. And vice versa.

Dr. Robert Cock illustrated this relationship with his famous third
equation:

[egg] = K(cock) [chicken]

Which gives the Cock’s constant K(c).

K(c) = [egg]/[chicken]
(Ratio of concentration of egg to chick)

Controversy against the cock’s equation arose in the form of a plucky
oologist, Dr. Egg. Dr. Egg quite practically pointed out that while one
egg may give rise to one chick only, a hen gives more than one egg in
it’s lifetime. The statement took the white feather community by a
storm. It led to, among other things, one butchery attempt on Egg, and
thirteen ‘pecking order determination’ bouts.

Young enthusiast, Paul Deem went ahead and declared that the egg
population increases exponentially, while the chick population can only
compete geometrically.

For the next four years, the white and the red feathers terrorised the
world with frequent research on when exactly the Earth would be overrun
with eggs.
Mrs. Expohen gave her popular Egg-bang theory, which states that the
increase in egg mass ultimately causes a quantum explosion of the
universe. The succeeding universe is re-formed from the previous egg
shells. And the cycle is repeated.
Though it won popular acclaim, the stiff-necked scientific community
blatantly refused to see her point.

The final answer to the dilemma came in the form of the dashing
professor La Henlier.
“Change in any of the factors that determine the equilibrium conditions
of a system will shift the equilibrium in such a manner, so as to reduce
or counteract the effect of the change.”

The La Henlier principle simply meant that if eggs were in excess they
would get eaten. The easy solution caused wonted irritation in the avian
world. Meanwhile, Cock was proved correct.

The contemporary Ovarian Equilibrium theory maintains dynamism. Eggs 
and chicks retain proportion not through stasis, but rather through
continuous inter-conversion.

Passed through the second law of thermodynamics, the theory gets a clean
chit. Simply put, the second law, says that processes in isolation or in
a group occur only when the net reaction is spontaneous. Also,
spontaneous reaction leads to a rise in Entropy or
disorderliness.

In the general ovarian equation,

Egg <—-> Chick

the egg is the less disordered of the two. Hence a reaction from left to
right is thermodynamically favoured. In actual practice, this is the
case too. An egg makes a chick without apparent effort, while a chick
creates a whole lot of disorderliness (chiefly in the form of SQUACK!!’s
and droppings) to create the egg.

Generally speaking, the Cock’s constant, being a constant, does not
change much. However, temperature does have an effect on Equilibrium
constants. The Eggheneius equation,

C=A.e^(-Ea/R.T)

when applied on ovarian equilibrium gives the result- K(c) increases
with increase in temperature.
This can be easily explained by the affinity of human being to warm
places and their despicable habit of eating chicks.

Further research on ovarian equilibrium is in process and results shall
be forthcoming in the ‘Egg Weekly’.

Adios.

A header or footer or whatever

The ‘Mad pieces of me’ is a collection of bizzare pieces. Take a look.

The three sentence story

‘He knew that miracles apart, he would die. He was right. He died.’

It’s a statement on sure mortality.

On the ‘Flower’

The story, ‘Flower’, is one of my fastest ever. It was an entry in an online competition. The topic was ‘flower’. It may seem a bit abrupt. Grace it with your mauls.

Flower

The gentle swing of outspread wings,
The subtle tilt of head.
The beauty of the strangely weak,
The blemished white on red.

We sit together, they and I.
And often… often do we try-
to catalogue Beauty,
to contain her.
Search and science, we try to use,
to see if she can’t be MADE.

We flick an extra brush to see,
If the Piece is prettier then.
And along comes a wild white lily,
And trumps us with disdain…

 

My grandpa had this endearing habit of constructing rhymes in his head and blurting them out straight. Of course, that meant that some of his rhymes did not make much sense.
I looked up, interested. This was quite good. Not the usual stuff.

“Dadabhai, that was khool! I mean that was quite nice. Why don’t you complete it?”

Grampa was sunbathing on his old rocking chair and holding a tattered diary.
“I wrote this when I was twenty, buddy.” Grampa was my ‘Dadabhai’. And I was his ‘bud’dy.

I came over. “Wow! Let’s have a look.”

He chased me away with his walking stick. “Never look into another’s diary.” I could see him writing away on the last page.
Rules were rules. I never touched it again.

After his death, Grampa’s old things were shifted to the attic. I sneaked the diary one night and opened it.

There was a single entry on the first page: The poem, I had heard. Beside it, a caricature of what looked like a girl sticking out her tongue could be seen. Grampa WAS always horrible with his sketches.

I went through the other pages. They were all empty. Somewhere in the midst was:
1947. 15th August. We are free. Officially. And then the speech by Nehruji.

This was again followed by brittle, yellow blank pages. I passed them by, disappointed. Why had he not let me see an empty diary?
I turned to the last page. And I felt Dadabhai looking up at me from the yellow page, smiling behind his glasses.

I know, you’re going to read this sooner or later, Bud-dy.(I made sure that you do)

You are a bud, my child. A bud I have seen and nurtured…

FLOWER.

The last reflection

He stubbed his toe on a stone that stuck out from the pebbled, orange-red dust lane. And tottered like a drunk for a few paces, before regaining balance. It was a heavenly afternoon. There were paddy fields, golden with grains, waving gently for as far as eye could see on either side. The lane was narrow, just broad enough for the ox-cart wheels to leave deep ruts on either side. There were trees planted by the side of the lane. The leaves shone with the reflected light of the orange Sun.

The youth looked back for an instant. There, just visible on the horizon, was a little village.
He shaded his eyes, took in a sharp breath and hurried forth. A slight breeze started blowing. It ruffled his hair and brought back hints of a sound of ‘Bauls’ singing in their happy open voices. The youth tottered again. This time there was no stone. The wind started blowing loudly. Windswept birds hailed with noisy flaps of wings and cries. He turned his head from the glorious heavens and looked down.

Presently, there came in sight a raised circle of palm and coconut trees to the right. The youth turned aimlessly towards it. A minute’s walk brought him between the two proximate trees. From here one could see the clear, unblemished water of the pond a few paces below the level of the trees. A typical pond in this part of the country, almost a bowl filled with water with palm and coconut trees along it’s rim.

The water rippled with the muted wind and gazed orange with the reflected colour of the sky.

Unbidden, a vision rose in his mind. Was this the same pond? Yes it was.

“Ravi! Ravi! See my boat. It’s floating. It’s really floating!” The little girl quipped, interjecting with a clap and a jump.

“Ravi! Ravi!”

“Ofcourse it floats, silly. It’s just a paper boat. Look at mine. It’s a big ‘Keya’ boat. And these stones, see? They are us. This little white stone is you. And this big black one is me.”

“No! I will be the big stone” ….

The young man crushed a dried leaf in his hands. Sat down on the edge of the pond and drew his knees to him. The buried head tried to shut out memories.

“Tuli! Hey! Tuli!”

“Ravi!”

“It’s great to see you again.”

“Ravi! Wow! You look so handsome these days! When did you come?”

“Just. Came right here, first.”

“Hmmm.”

“How’s uncle? Where is he?”

“Still in Nawabpur Nursing Home. They said, he may be back by the end of the month. So…, Ravi, how’s everything? How’s work?”

“As usual. I’ll get that promotion as soon as I start licking Boss’s boots. I’m just taking a long time making up my mind.”

“You’ll never do that, I know you. And…, what about everything else? I heard something about you and a pretty girl in a party.”

“She’s a friend. She has a steady boyfriend anyway… Don’t smile so knowingly. Don’t.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t make a special friend out there? Hmm?”

“All my special friends are back here. Tuli… Tuli, there is something I have to tell you.”

 

The girl looked up from the knitting straight into his eyes as if she could read his very thought. They had often, before, joked that she could do just that.

“Tuli…”

The girl stopped him with a gesture.

“Ravi, there was something I should have told you. Ravi…, it’s like,…uhh” she swallowed. “Ravi, you know about Amlan da… the guy you used to tease me about. Ummm…, he asked me..uhh… I mean we have…, we are getting married.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Ravi…” She looked at him pleadingly.

“Wow! congratulations. Wow. When is the feast?”

“Ravi, I should have told you. It was just so sudden.”

“It’s fine, little girl. It’s just fine. You’ll look great together. Amlan and Tuli. Tuli and…” he choked. And turned his head.

“You’ll not do anything silly. You’ll get me a nice sister-in-law and bring her to me. Promise me.”

He made a motion to loosen his collar.

“Will you forgive me? Please… I know it was so horrible of me…”

He had turned and walked away. And then ran when the girl made to get up. His ears still rang from cries of ‘Ravi! Ravi!”

The memory rewinded and played like a monstrous gramophone record stuck at it’s most dischordant note. He pulled out a pocket watch. Wasn’t this the same one he had bought in a village fair? He and Tuli had shut themselves in a dark room to see if it really glowed. When they were found, there was such a row…

A solitary stork cried “Ravi! Ravi!” in the voice of a fourteen year old girl looking on in agony as he was beaten.

Ravi threw it into the pond. One less string… The Sun was red now. Visible between two palm trees on the other side of the pond.

The pen in his pocket… he threw it away before it could trigger another vision.

“I have to live…I have to forget her… I have to live…”

A shout of animal pain escaped him. Her face seemed to brand him with something hot deep inside. Nothing stirred. The last shepherd had long made his lonely way home. The first cricket tested the air with an experimental call.

With all that he had, he pulled himself back from the face. His eye lingered a moment on a ring, a chipped nail and a bite scar. He could not think about them. They all had their little stories. Everything he had, even his gestures, his mannerisms were somehow linked with her. The tune he unknowingly hummed was the song she had taught him a decade ago. He absently fingered the locket he wore.

He was an atheist. He could remember a big fight he had had with her about the existence of her favourite ‘Krishna’. They did not talk for a week. Somewhere in the midst he started praying to an entity he did not even believe in, to make her speak again. He always wore the locket afterwards.

He tried thinking of the city. Where his real life was. Only the other day, there was a big party at Mr. Sharma’s. The host had offered him a Cuban cigar.

“I don’t smoke cigar.”

“Why?”

“I told a certain girl that I would never smoke cigar.”

“But you do smoke don’t you?”

“Yes. But I only promised not to smoke cigar!”

He looked up. The Sun finally went down. He found he could no longer think coherently. He felt the threads of his mind unravel. And he closed his eyes.

I have to live…

Why?…

…have to live…

FACE…her face…have to see her face…

…I will never see her face again…

never again…

never…

never…

 

Gradually, the crowd of thoughts grew silent. A beautiful smile lit up his face. The lines of torture, the lines of pain left him. He opened his eyes and looked down into the pond.

She looked up at him from the water. Serene. Calm. Beautiful as ever. A sad smile on her face.

“You really don’t love me, do you?”

The spectre shook her head sadly.

“But I do love you.”

He walked down the steep bank and wet his toes. It was dark now.

He walked slowly in.

“I always will.”

A sleepy Myna stirred uneasily. A pair of squirrels peeped from behind a rock. Somewhere, a lost calf moaned distantly into the night.

This life is a reflection of the real. This life is a dance of the soul. A play, a dream. We go to sleep and forget the Source. And then we wake up again.
The wind picked up the tone of the Baul song- the music they had danced to- a boy and a girl- and passed over one who could hear no more.