Palimpsest

The paradox was palpable. The officious edifice evoked no string of emotion in the thousands that justified its being. They swarmed in thousands in the faint anticipation of the earth skipping the next ten hours of her itinerary; yet, there was a certain fitness in the geometric integrity its shadow commanded-everything crammed to fit itself within the symmetry; the late birds stood gauging the elasticity of the umbrae devouring the colossal principle of even a fleeting glance. The modest surroundings echoed the cacophony of the intercourse between conflicting ideologies of acceleration. She loved the dynamics, in a moment she could translate the chaotic traffic into its components and get lost in one of its most neglected facades.

The office building looked no different from across the street than from within. When she usually walked in, life deserted the place leaving the furniture in disarray and floors mauled with dirt. As she let the liquid flow over yesterday’s reminiscence she felt the power of the creator- the power to invigorate life into the inanimate, the power to restore order and yet remain invisible to the myriad. When all was done, she would let the place breathe the air cooler, conditioned by the trail of the cleansing liquid and walk out with the air of a deft executioner.

She felt no need to change her clothes for the job. ‘Those that did’, she often mused, ‘were the amateurs’. She’d not liked them- the mediocre who’d gossip in hushed tones while she passed by; they thought she was insane. She did not care to differ. She had the job and she paid the cost to the guy who’d managed to give that to her without probing much. He had asked her what her name was, ‘Geeta’, she had said. She was called Geeta, she clarified to herself. She did not know if that was her name, she’d never felt any sense of belonging to it.

**********

The features were blurred- the painted faces of the lipstick clad women who changed costumes every other minute- the colour had faded on her side of the screen but nevertheless, there was colour, it was the same colour of her thatched roof. She did not see the roof again after that night. There was a woman to whom she clung. The woman was telling her a story of some people who needed her home and how they gave another home, some sarkar. She was happy because suddenly she got to eat and see colour she had never seen. There were people all around her with bulging rags that clanked each time they rubbed, they were walking.

The new place was no different, it didn’t have the roof though, she wondered. Others whose faculties co-ordinated better found they had to start life from the scratch on the barren land. The food was over, and the grandeur of the colour had grown faint. They knew it was hoping against hope, but they assured each other that their new found money would buy them some land; they actually did not know what to do with it otherwise. They were again on the move. Few of them did not last the length; the woman to whom she clung did not. She had not liked the woman, her mother, very much. The more hunger stung, the more closer her mother cuddled and looked longingly at her, impressing her barren breasts that had nothing to offer. But she wailed when shoulders changed, though stronger shoulders held her this time, shoulders that did not yet bear the weight of six children.

It was a new group of people whose newness wore out fast acquiring pseudonyms evidencing relations. She was a quick learner- love did not satiate hunger, laps did not keep one warm in winters nor did nomenclature assure privacy. These people were unlike the woman; they scrapped off food and some brought in food while it was still edible. The place she had shifted to was bright and busy, the surface was rough. When the bulk of a body hit her in sleep, she just felt suffocated. But then, she assumed, that was how so many people could sleep together. She was fine, she reassured herself, for three nights. Then she ran.

**********

She was not very concerned what they did with the stuff, she knew it made them feel nice. She did not attach benevolence to her job because it didn’t matter. But she would not herself buy one of it, they acted funny, and their limp bodies flopped over after having it- just as the woman to whom she had clung to. She’d been waiting for quite sometime now. The consignment had to come about an hour earlier and was still nowhere to be seen. Instead she felt something more firm around her wrists- handcuffs.

People in there did not bother with each other’s privacy except for the daily routine and the pesky female. This was no paradise, there was a liquidity crunch- she knew all of that. The female wanted a sob story; she said she was convinced all was just plain goof up- mix up of people. The pest talked a lot about release, dearth of evidence, sentence…- mere words out of rote memory. Geeta would not bargain with apathy, even if it meant her ticket to freedom. She despised philanthropy that stared into the begging bowl reminding each time how indebted it was to them. She was in there because she earned a livelihood; she didn’t care how the pest took that.

When she had first walked in here, she was afraid of being in jail, just because it was called jail. Perhaps her mother would have liked the food and roof the place offered, even if social mores despised it. The inmates acknowledged the power within each other, the power of deception or perhaps of taking a life. There was no fate- they were it. Life there was passionate, in love, laughter, fight or play – there was a wild streak about it. Every one of them felt secure with the other - their windcheater against winter. But no one spoke about the winter that awaited them when they walked out– that was an unwritten dictum. When it came they did not look back at what they had left. Perhaps the winter would not last long and they would be back here shunned by those who’ve remained snug all winter, those who thought people out of jail had no right to live outside it. When she walked out, it was dark; the rain drenched her tears. Although she didn’t know why, she had promised never to come back.

**********
She loved looking at the building from her shanty across the street; it was her way of getting used to her new life. It was sweltering and she was tired that day. A yawn interrupted her thoughts and she gave way to the comfort of slumber.

There was a lot of commotion, quite enough to wake her up. The night had made its presence felt by now. Yellow bulbs glowed from solitary poles and life flew around it. The city had been on usual business, cars zoomed past her abode on the footpath, bikes raced and tired bodies carried themselves homeward. But something was not quite right. Cluttered speech intercepted the smooth rumble of the engine.

Something was different about the building today. She couldn’t at first glance tell what it was. But, for six months that she entered there it had always a deserted demeanour, like someone waiting to confide. The watchman for the first time since she could remember was out at the gate and suddenly the building acquired the import of officiousness that was expected out of it. Her heart almost leapt out of her when they asked for her id “perhaps he’d found out that she was a convict”! This was something else, she guessed, as they checked her id and let her go. For once, she wanted to run to the changing room. Whisper suddenly seemed alien to this place. They were talking- loud and clear. Yesterday evening they found, they said, a bomb in the building- diffused and dead by now except for the trail of terror it left behind. There was intended some sort of a search.
“Obviously, we would be the ones who would be targeted. They think only money can drive people to do these things”, a spontaneous voice remarked.

The voice from the far end of the corridor grew subliminal. The breeze did nothing to stop the sweat that broke out. She felt breathless for a moment, as though the barren breast had fallen over her again, as though the shoulder had been changed again. She saw it all- they would come back into her life, she would be the obvious person- aloof and cold. What would matter the most would perhaps be her reluctance to divulge. She wanted to talk to them, all of them, she wanted to tell them how she hated them, how she loved herself, how she did not know how to like others…..anything that would stop them from pointing to her… that would make them feel that she was a just one of them. But she could only hear herself heaving. She walked- her pace increasing with each step that she took. Her winter had just set in but she was sure it would be long and she was not prepared for it. She was afraid that if she were to stop, she would not have the strength to walk ever again. Darkness crept out into the sky and she gave way to the intruding breeze. She had found her way out- the way to never have the winter. People around were busy to hear the splash that sucked her. All that could be heard that night was the sound of the crashing waves.

....................

My phone invariably rings at 7pm, though amma knows 'd not be anywhere near home, just to hear a familiar voice at the other end. I cannot casually wait for my friend at the turning- suspicious person with suspicious object...why this self-doubt? Well, why not? May be someone passing by has dropped something into my bag, may be, for the perpetrator 'm acting as a sheild, may be....i really don't know! All i know is that i don't know why i shouldn't be afraid?

History records Hitler's reign as one of the most Barbaric. Surely, a senile charismatic wolf was a reason to be afraid of! What's my reason to be afraid of and what exactly am i afraid of? I don't know! They are somewhere out there..somewhere, even those whom we trust to warn us don't know. I may get shot or even blown up the next moment...may be not...may be tomorrow. If self-respect prevails, i can't even commit sucide...what if someone saves me at the nick of the moment? Of course public policy must be upheld immaterial of whether you live in terror or die at its cost at the hands of some rotten fellow.

'Why' is no longer my worry; 'm sure that's neither theirs. Those that print out those "alert" messages expect them to turn up in overalls covering their faces and holding huge boxes over their heads, preferably labelled RDX or that they would be lingering around for a long time so that someone might just get suspicious. I think expecting the obvious is just pretending to be yourself-stupid! Afterall, camouflage is an inherent function, whether it be of opinions or conduct. Frankly, i don't think they give a damn about planning...they'd have as many dead, preferably themselves also killed- end of story.

Surely, this is not the first time that this has happened but this time they did not wham! bam! vanish and brag....they shot..on and on...at who ever they saw...human life in a matter of seconds lay splattered on the tar. For those panic-stricken people trying to get home, trains were hauled up and they silently cried over the phone praying that the line would not go dead or they...those that will come out alive will tread the trail of terror this night has left behind.

I don't understand when people talk about the spirit of Mumbai...to me it's a calculated indifference bred out of a greater motive in life- to eak out a life in the moment you are alive for the next one.

the most callous response to a gift(assuming even that the gift is the worst possible one given by someone whom you abhor)-

how much did you spend/waste on this?

Inertia

He knew he could read faster-he always did. For the millionth time in the past ten minutes he muttered the fatality of his mistake-his promise. Had it not been for that one moment of emotional subdue, he would have never given in. She would have rephrased it and attributed it to sensibility. Logic did not always appeal to his senses- certainly not when it did not suit him.

He read it all over again. Too much brightness seemed to suck the colour out of the words- he was so used to the haze around him. The diffused light always held out to him the right quantum of brightness- its ambience readily offering him the perfect string of words. Interior designers and their sense of illumination never had made so much sense to him as it did now- they really were the mascots of brilliance.

He’d been reading the same line for the past hour. Amidst heaving recurrently, flipping and tossing the pen and twitching his fingers, he’d managed to grasp a few words … it really was not the light- the last few days he had read with the brightness around him-probably it was just the day!

“He’d predicted, much before it had occurred, but nobody had paid heed to it”- this was a sentence simple enough to have been absorbed by him an hour back. ‘When else could you predict if not before?’, he mused. If the guy had predicted and someone had taken heed of it, how could his prediction have been true? And how then could have anyone known if his future predictions were worth taking notice of? He chuckled to himself at the stark realisation- the day was not all that bad!

The clock was racing ahead- perhaps trying to keep pace with the times! He had to finish the fifteen page article in the next three hours. His eyes intently gazed at each word while his brain desperately tried to make sense out of them, the moment he would collate the words to form a vaguely familiar noise, they sunk into the abyss. He needed a break- he needed just one gush of that fresh aroma.

He quietly wandered out of his cabin into the cafeteria. Suddenly, he felt completely out of place- he, in fact, always did. Though he’d never had one in the past several years, with the exception of the last few days, coffee was not a bad idea to settle in for. She loved coffee.

The vapour danced in the self-contained air: it was too much of an extravaganza for a drink that gave so little satisfaction. The word struck him with a daunting force. Satisfaction was what he had experienced years ago in the café down the lane- the first time, his egoistic inertia had resisted the oncoming air; the second time, having found his breath in the same good old tandem, he’d realised his vision of satisfaction.

There was no dearth of advice on offer. He got them in various tones, moods and expressions. He knew it all- every school-going kid did. He’d simplified it- everything and everybody had strained it down to one thing-you’ll die. Some endeavoured to clarify the process- a painful death. He’d decided to cross the bridge when he would get there. She despised that statement.

The idea was simple- everyone died. If everyone knew of their prospective illness two days in advance, leave letters would have had a whole different saga to narrate. But then, what of it? The unpredictability of death was a traditional idea. He liked to manoeuvre his way- that would ensure a sufficient cause if he were to meet his end the way they suggested. And then, wasn’t that supposed to make him work more efficiently- the very thought of a tomorrow you would never see? She was never content with innovative arguments. But that’s how women are – non-receptive to innovation except if that meant an improvement in their shopping points. Too bad for him – he was at the receiving end!

He really did not like the grip of the mug- an obese container that held tasteless murky liquid. How elegant it was to hold the sleek piece- the feel of it was comforting. People called this brown froth refreshing- taste buds, the religious followers of Sade, loved making a guinea pig out of their counterparts. He’d had enough of it! The first day that he’d forced himself into the cafeteria and emptied the coffee, he had held a conviction deep within- familiarity, even if it be a product of force, would transform his conception of taste. He’d gulped down ten cups in ten hours- too poor for a contrast with his alternate occupation. She had suggested gum- it hurt his self-respect to engage his mouth all day long with extraneous substances that directed the course of the former.

He stormed into his cabin. Two hours and fourteen pages- he needed just an hour in the normal course- his eyes wavered between the locker and the sheet of papers. A solemn sense of responsibility set in- he had to have more crosses in there! He had a life beyond himself and he had to justify that cause. He quickly gathered himself – emotions were not things to be swayed away with, they were instances which you had to take along in your stride.

Reason v Emotion, he clarified. He had to earn to bear the responsibility and if he did not finish this, he might end up not doing exactly that. Everyone agreed- if not, he knew for sure- his working capacity had stooped. So, the deal was struck- a calendar with too many crosses might just malign the whole ambience. He swiftly rose and inserted the key that opened the locker with a familiar creek- musical, in fact. He had no option- she had ransacked his locker leaving just one in a solitary pack. She had proclaimed it to be the ‘test of fire for his will-power’, something he had been immensely proud of. At the moment that did not even figure in the least of his worries.

At the back of his mind he’d almost guessed it: the flap held her last attempt at negating the renege, it read- ‘Dad, Thank you! This is indeed the most befitting reward trust could anticipate’. He felt a momentary twinge. He could steer clear through this, after all this was just another inscription on the palimpsest!

As he turned to flick his lighter the six crosses smirked at his feeble will. “Six days… Good Lord!”. The last time he’d had Marlboro, it was not a bad option- in fact, he recollected suddenly- it was the best.

December sunrise

The frosted window pane was the only physical partition between the winter out on the turf and the cold lull inside. She gently poured the last of the volatile liquid into the thirsty fiber. Her glance seemed to offer neither solace nor company to the empty glass placed opposite to her own yearning for some moisture. The illuminated wax lay around the room exhausted of drawing warmth from without. She poured the contents down her throat with ease, just as she had done it so many times in the past few days.

The music that filled the air was just another of the silent victim of inattention. She was lost in the familiar tune her heart had got used to. “Coo coo, coo coo”, the call of the bird in the clock was met with a stony stare as though its diligence were at peril. Something caught her glance; the winter wind was blowing through the barren oaks out on the garden. She stood ridiculing the swinging oaks that were synchronizing their motion unaware of why they swayed to the tunes of the fierce wind- disgusting! A smile played on her lips as she thought that… “Ben, it’s so...beautiful...these oaks…Wow! Just look how beautifully they sway to the breeze in unison!”

Winter was not her season. It was Ben who had taught her what it was to walk into the winter without those thick covers and she loved it! She loved it because she learnt that he was everything she wanted. She had no assumptions and no criterion. After all, he was no doll to be fair, tall, handsome, and popular; and, she was no supreme creation to exercise her whims and bend to none of his. It certainly was no love at first sight but his frankness about the way he was made her feel very comfortable and love just happened! Ben and Catherine married after four years. She now saw it through the pages of the fluttering calendar- December 4. The alcohol was not living up to its reputation or perhaps, her memory was getting better by the day. Those four years were not the most conventionally romantic time of their life, he was out there in Delhi and she in Mumbai. They seldom met and more rarely did greetings and gifts exchange but, each moment of those years were etched forever in their lives because they missed the absence of each other’s presence.

******
Multitude of faces walked through the subway every hour, every day. Ben ambled along vacantly gazing at the faces for some solace that gods may have had in reserve. He stepped out of the subway to be greeted by the wind that sliced through his skin, he felt relieved at the recognition of the life left within him. She had dashed past him the very first day that he had stepped into the subway and stared back as though rebuking his snail pace. “Some hurry!” ,he had thought. Perhaps it was the reluctance in her speech or maybe it was just the expression of unspoken words as she tried to balance her handbag with a bite of the sandwich dancing in her mouth….she was a mystery and he was curious to reveal the mystery! He saw the familiar face, the face of mystery having its cruel laugh at yet another crusader.

******
Her friends had told her to not be in a hurry but then, she had thought, it was not they who would decide how Ben was! It was as though her prudence got the better of her. Together life seemed to only get better. Ben seemed the same reticent guy with a smile always playing on his lips; he was the sponge who would absorb every thing while Cathy tried her best to pull his leg. Life indeed seemed to be a bed of roses! The only thing that eluded was the little book Ben filled everyday. “We’ll read it someday together, when we have time for things other than ourselves”. She now wondered if the time had come.

******
Ten years had passed since that cold winter of December 4th and here she was- the answer to queries, anticipations and a long wait of nine months. Her little feet and her curious glance- “another mystery to solve”, he had thought. He had held her close to him and felt the exhilaration of the first and finest achievement. For once Ben felt absolute, for being the first one to kiss her- to embrace purity- his Karen. He now desperately wanted to forget what it was like to feel overwhelmed.

******
Karen was not amongst the best at whatever she did, she did things because she liked them, not to excel but to experience. To her every closed door created new spaces. Karen was always the first to notice things, whether it was a missing pen or missing warmth- she was guided by intuition. She had the gift of gab; it was hence not by chance that she always got away with what she wanted!

Another December 4 had come seven years later, one with lot of promises-promises to be made and fulfilled. So, out in the night the December moon welcomed the birthday cake with lot of warmth. The plan was to reach home before twelve but it was Ben’s idea to celebrate it in the drive…..a symbolic birthday- moving forward. The clock had no sooner struck twelve that Ben’s phone began making familiar sounds “Hello...yeah sure hold on dear…. Ohk so here you go…..you’re birthday’s first caller…” What followed was a clear shriek and then a silence that took many weeks to break….A single mistake, a single call had put an abrupt ending to a lovely beginning.

He had shattered his beautiful dome with his own hands….if only he hadn’t received that call…but then who would have ever imagined that Ben who had an exceptional control over the wheels could lose it all just by a call? His justifications failed his conscience. Cathy neither recognized logic nor herself. Every time they looked into each other’s eyes they had a goal to be accomplish-a goal to seem happy for the other. Silence was the only companion to their tears. Ben stood beside Cathy, resilent and strong. It was an attempt to disguise his guilt- to prove that nothing could change him for, if she loved him for what he was, he did not want to lose Cathy because of what he had become. Away from pretence in the warmth of his book he had scribbled Auden’s lines…

“We would rather be ruined than change;
We would rather die in our dread
Than climb the cross of the moment
And let our illusions die.”

Days did not now seem enough for healing the wound. Just a few true words would have made all the difference but either of them were so detached in their little compartments that the only thought that preceded each word was that the reality was to be denied and the past recovered. He reiterated every morning the same words that had once made sense to him but now, they were hollow- mere products of pretence. Yet like the well manipulated puppet he spoke them- he was still not ready to accept the wind that he had forced upon himself.

While Ben engrossed himself in work Cathy took to much simpler ways of feeling happy. Both recognized the need for each other’s warmth but what they failed to realise was the need to express their wrath at each other. Cathy had seen Ben write in the little book with affection each night as though the slightest mistake would break the heart of the paper but now, he scribbled in his book frantically as though space for thought meant little anymore! When Nadia had called up the other day she had asked if Karen would have been happy to see Ben loose himself. Non-chalently she said, “No. But if she was the mother, she would have!”. When she saw him as Ben, she wanted to comfort him but, when she saw him as the reason for the absence of Karen, she restrained herself.

It was almost a month and the silence just kept growing. Ben tried to go on as many tours as possible and Cathy almost forgot to amend things- even physically. Ben had returned from one such tour- exhausted and tired, yet he looked happy for some strange reason. Cathy had never seen Ben stare at her like that before. Instinctively, in months, she gently held his glance and enquired if he was fine. Ben was lost in thought, deaf to her words, all he managed to say was, “I killed her….” Cathy looked at Ben, petrified. He was shivering, he was tearing apart. Cathy hugged him as though this was all that she wanted to do. It was a quite night; its silence, the only spectator to this promising December sunrise.

Penning down emotions

Gone are the days when Chottu could criticise Mottu's petite handwriting that was to be understood as English but looked more so like the the Harappan script, yet to be deciphered.No delay in pasing on love due to Diwali or Sunday,except the fact that the words contain a monotonous script choosen as per ones choice .Speed is a fascination to one and all,young and old.It is this demon in disguise that has reduced the wonderful art of writing to mere examination papers.Instant communication is the call of the hour.

Today it is as simple as the zap of a finger.Just choose the font size and format,add pictures and type with a mind boggling speed.Print the matter on a white paper devoid of any sincerity and draft it within an envelope.Well,it isn't this too writing?Oh!yes this is but where are the emotions?The odd jokes that you could crack on the spelling mistakes and the handwriting that would show you your sincerity?

Well, apart from drafting a printed matter we today seem to have forgotten to pen down a few lines,"Have you gone crazy?here, take my mobile",this is what most of us offer our friend at the latter's proposal of writing a letter.Why waste 30 precious minitues of your life when you can just dial vague numbers,exchange well practiced pleasantaries and get your job done?

It is high time we realise the importance of flowing ink on paper to convey our feelings because,the print ink has no shades but your ink pen can give different shades and who knows, just shade your life better! The art of writing letters is a tradition which calls for preservation and interest from the youth.It is the young hands that have to preseve this wonderful tradition.So,what are you looking for?Stop reading and let the ink of your pen flow into one odd page you had left for typing a letter to your best friend.Hey! Remember,"Pen is mightier than a printer in bonding hearts."

The frame of artificiality

She was sitting by the window vacantly gazing at the bustling life. Every moment filled her with satisfaction as she watched the happy faces. Faces of strangers who offered her nothing as a favour, no word of comfort, no sob stories and no promises. They were the characters of her dream who let her live life, did not question or feel concerned for her loss.

The news had come as a bolt from the blue. She had spent the next few moments relishing the force of sorrow that had struck her and the moisture of tears rolling down her cheeks kissing her lips. She had seen them when they were mobile; she wasn’t curious to see them sleep blank, without thought, force or action.

‘All the best!’

-with love Nimmi

A card lay beside the two lifeless bodies. The house looked like a public mourning ceremony. She was tired of hushed tones of “how’s she taking it?” and “poor girl”. Frustrated with the silence she had walked into her room and sat listening to music oblivious of the strange atmosphere. She wanted to yell at each of those faces “My parents, my problem; who has given you the right to intrude into my house and feel sorry for me?”

Every normal move of hers was termed as a product of her grief. She did not try to look sad; she wasn’t. They had the right to a new life and so did she; the right to independence of choice. She had enjoyed every moment of her life with them, she had no regrets. Some long back-seen face had said, “Don’t worry Nimmi; we are all there for you.” She returned a puzzled look punctuated with a smile and pointed to a writing that portrayed elegance, intellect and creativity mixed in equal proportions, written with utmost affection on a parchment that looked like a pampered child. It read,

‘Love is not love which alters when alteration finds,
or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no it is an ever fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.’

Then one day they had left; when, she did not know or care, for, they had come to mourn the death of those whom they never cared for in life. She was thrilled to encapsulate the essence of loneliness and to wrap around the warmth of her house. ‘At last’, she thought, ‘At last’, she said. ‘Welcome home Nimmi’.

At 21 Nimisha was pragmatic individual who was passionate about the things she cared for in life. The rest were insignificant strangers. The rear view screen of the world saw her as a strange loner lost in the alleys of ambition; she was not interested in responding to the world.

Her life revolved around passion. A passion to find a reason to live. When someone had complimented her, she had stared back at the impudence; at the swiftness with which he had stolen away her satisfaction of having lived the moment, having lived it for herself.

She entered her room, the four walls acknowledging her presence. Everything there was handpicked by her- her shelves, books, dolls, paintings- everything. Every time she entered, she smelt the familiar smell- the aroma of passion- of satisfaction. It was not as though she had completely overlooked the photo. Her eyes had graced past them. She stopped and waited for a response. A wry smile was playing on her lips; an amused pretense- expecting life to change in a few days, realizing it hasn’t and celebrating the victory she could proclaim over the frame of artificiality which often took pride in freezing time.

The phone was ringing incessantly. She did not want to pick it up. “Bob! Mama with you?” “Hello Nimi, yes. I’m reaching. Be ready!” “Bob…come on! You really can’t be so sure! Bye” She did not know why she was thinking about something that had no relevance to the moment but then she had never before stopped to think that! For the first time since she could remember, she felt lost for a direction to think. The phone was still screeching…. “so much for the lack of attention!”, she thought. She was not going to answer the call! And then it stopped, the silence resounding through the air.

She had slumped into a squat and she did not care to stop the flowing tears. She knew this was what she wanted to do though, she was not sure why. She just wanted it to happen all the time they were there but then she did not want to share her moment with the anonymous masked faces. It was hers and she wanted it all for herself- the moisture, the warmth and the silent words-carved out of the frame of artificiality.