Flat 608

He pulled up near her house, in that familiar jam-packed parking lot, uncanny in its crowded resemblance to all other parking lots in Vasant Kunj. Nothing about the place had changed, as he had half-expected to – the flats with their illegal balconies jutting out, the parking with every car from 800 to Tavera on show, the sheer cave-like look of the place. After all, it was only two years before that he was here last, walking up to the 3^rd floor of the apartment and ringing the bell for flat 608.

He did the same again today, but with an inexplicable urgency, as if he wanted to start or end with something very quickly. The servant answered and when he took her name, the man quickly disappeared into the house, no hint of emotion on his face, as he was expecting him already.

Then she came, walking up to the door, trying to get a glance of who it was through the netting. She finally did recognize him, and with the faintest of smiles, she said, ‘Is that you?’

‘What does it look like?’, he replied.

She through the door open, and looked at him carefully, as if to check whether he was really what he sounded like, what he looked like, what he claimed he was.

‘Hello’, she said, after she was convinced that it was indeed so.

‘Hi’, he said quickly, not wanting to say it.

Both stared at each other for a moment, not knowing what to say, afraid that one word might spoil everything, just trying to let the moment sink in, examining each other’s faces as if they expected to see sagging wrinkles, white hair or deep hollows below the eyes, as if it had been not only two years but eternity since they had last set eyes on each other.

‘Come in!’, she finally exclaimed, first conscious to the un-reality of the moment. This woke him up from his trance too, and he nervously shifted his feet.

‘Can we go out for a cup of coffee?’

‘You know I don’t like coffee.’

‘Yes. Tea then?’

‘That’ll be good. Give me a minute.’

She rushed in again, leaving him at the door. He was confused. It was almost as if he had been sure that his invitation would be refused, as if he had expected or even wanted her to say ‘Oh yeah?’ and slam the door on his face. But she hadn’t. This was what he had come here for, this was what he had feared. He suddenly found himself wanting to run down, get into his car, and drive away as if nothing had happened.

But he didn’t.

Then, she reappeared. She hadn’t changed anything really, she was her casual self – a blue worn-out top, dark blue jeans, a black hair band - failing miserably to fulfill its purpose, and dark green Puma floaters. On her way out, she murmured something to the servant, and rushed down the stairs, leaving him behind, as if it was not he but she who had invited him for the outing.

As it has always been, he thought, trying to catch up with her, and failing as usual. When he finally got down, she was already alongside his car in the parking, her hands on the door handle, waiting for him to unlock it. He smiled weakly when he saw her, and she smiled back.

Tea was had at a roadside ‘settlement’ near the Central Market. Five rupees. Full with sugar and milk. Like he liked it. And she.

They walked around the place for a while, flipping through the magazines on sale, gazing mindlessly at the passing traffic, she pausing to ask the man at the music store for a cassette he knew she would never buy.

‘How’s college?’, she finally asked him, casually, in a tone more suitable for asking someone whether he liked strawberry ice-cream.

‘Good, good’, is all he could say in return.

‘Found good friends?’

‘Ya. Was a bit lonely in the beginning but its getting better slowly. Found a nice group of people.’

He was not sure whether this was the most correct thing to say, whether this was what she wanted to hear, whether she even wanted to hear something in particular.

‘What about you?’, he asked, trying to be polite, trying to keep up his end of the conversation.

‘Ah I’m still trying to adjust. I had expected an engineering college to be this way. And it has surely lived up to my expectations!’, she said, laughing with sad eyes.

Desultory conversation followed, straying to the courses they had studied, how and where aunts and uncles were, how and where old school friends were. It never got too personal, how-are-you-s and why-don’t-you-s where spared - things both wished passionately they could say or ask, but none having the final required courage to do so.

And then slowly, it was dark. They headed for the car without saying anything, as if the time to leave had been fixed by prior understanding.

When they reached the parking lot near her house, she got down slowly. Then, having closed the door, she bent down and looked at him in the eye through the window.

‘When am I going to see you next?’, she asked. It was the first remotely intimate question of the evening from either of them.

‘Soon. I’ll be here again in the summer.’

She nodded, and said ‘Don’t say Bye this time.’

And in an instant, she turned, ran and sprinted up the stairs of her apartment, not looking back. He was a little surprised with the abruptness of it all, but he thought he understood, and tried to smile to himself. Then, he backed his car, and left the parking lot, longing already, in a very strange way, to visit it again.

Tag, aur kya?

As I simply have nothing better to do, (exams might be around the corner, but that doesn’t count), I have been tempted into accepting the tag by Marvin, IC. Here it is. Mast bak hai!

Last Movie Seen in Theatre Jodha Akbar. I had been waiting for it for a long, long time. And though it disappointed most people, I found it an entertaining watch.

Too long? Don’t care.

Historically incorrect? Don’t care.

Book Being Read None right now. Exams coming up. Plan to start with Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude soon after that.

Favourite Board Game Has to be Ludo! I’ve played Monopoly and Carrom as a kid, but nothing beats the sheer unpredictability and senselessness of Ludo. Ready for a game anytime!

Favourite Magazine Imagine a cricket-crazy kid who can tell you with unbelievable precision how many runs Dravid scored in the post-tea session in the 2nd test between India and Australia in 2001….that was me till around five years back. Thanks to Cricket Samrat and Cricket World and Wisden Cricket and the rest.

Then one day, I found myself looking at Alfred in the mirror, pulling my front teeth out and saying “What, me worry?” and its all been pure MADness since then.

Favourite Smells Nothing like wet earth. Without the shadow of a doubt.

And yes, the ‘smell’ of idle summer afternoons.

Favourite Sounds The rhythmic sound of drums and bells played together at Durga Puja. I wait for DP every year so that I can just close my eyes and for a moment at least, forget everything but that one sound.

And one more. OK. It’s a very ordinary, commonplace sound, I know. But I’ve always been in love with the sound of ceiling fans. Might have to do with my fascination with summers again.

If I think about it, those big, noisy coolers sound nice too.

What is the first thing you think of when you wake up? Simple. How can I get back to bed?

Worst feeling in the world Many of course. Hard to pin-point one. But being ill and alone at the same time has to be somewhere at the top.

Favourite Fast Food Place McDonalds. McVeggie Burger with cheese. Affordable and fulfilling.

Future Child’s Name You know what? I’ve been silly enough to actually decide on one. Not that I’m going to tell you.

Finish this statement, “If I had a lot of money I’d…” be confused about what to do with it.

Do you drive fast? Sometimes. Rarely, in fact.

Ek baar bahut zor ki potty lagi thi, tab kasam se bahut tez gaadi bhagayi thi!

Do you sleep with a stuffed animal? No. Of course not. Happ!

Storms - Cool or Scary? Dumb Question.

Do you eat the stems on broccoli? Zara hindi mein samjhayyega.

If you could dye your hair any colour, what would be your choice? Black. So that it amounts to not dyeing my hair at all.

All towns/cities you have lived in Patna, NewDelhi, Patna, Sindri, Patna, NewDelhi, Chandigarh, NewDelhi, Gurgaon, Gadhinagar. I wish Bombay is next.

Favourite sports to watch Cricket. Nothing like spending the whole day on bed, watching a test match day from morning to evening.

Football and Tennis are a good watch, but only if there are big names involved.

One nice thing about the person who sent this to you Dumb Question.

What’s under your bed? Two brooms, a discarded pair of floaters, countless number of thrown biscuits and chocolate wrappers, and a whole lot of dirt and dust.

Would you like to be born as yourself again? Yes. Weighing this against that, yes.

Morning person or night owl? Morning, for me, is the most dreadful time of the day. I think you have your answer.

Over easy or sunny side up? Ya Ya…

Favourite Place to Relax My grandparents’ house in Patna, with time suspended.

Favourite Pie Yaar main to ek hi pie jaanta hoon. Chocolate Pie. Wahi favourite hoga.

Favourite Ice Cream Anything with chocolate. Like Vanilla and Strawberry too. Free mein mil raha ho to koi bhi chalega.

And now, because most of the people I could tag have already been tagged, I invite only Calvin and Alien to carry on with the crap.

Also, now that Jezuz has shown signs that he is still alive on Blogger, I tag him too ;)

A Feast Of Friends

Did you know freedom exists in school books?
Did you know madmen are running our prisons?

Amir looked out of his window. On a tree branch, the tallest among all the ones around it, there sat a crow. Black.

We're perched headlong
On the edge of boredom
We're reaching for death
On the end of a candle
We're trying for something
That's already found us

The bird sat still, almost looking dead, as if she was bored. Amir looked at her, almost waiting for it to fly away any moment. But the bird wouldn’t budge from its position, it just stayed there, with eyes transfixed on a spot on the ground below, almost looking philosophical.

Wow, I'm sick of doubt
I’m sick of dour faces staring at me from the TV
Tower, I want roses in my garden bower; dig?
Royal babies, rubies
Must now replace aborted strangers in the mud
These mutants, blood-meal for the plant that’s plowed.

He had thought that he won’t move from the window until the bird did. But she didn’t. Maybe, she was dead. Amir finally gave up, and took his eyes away.

CG Road

I sit down beside a chai-wala, on the pavement, the evening traffic rushing by in front of my eyes. I am tired, I have walked miles around the market in search of the shop Maa asked me to go to, and get this thing she so sorely wanted.

I feel like I’m half dead, the legs hurt and it takes considerable effort to keep my back straight. So I sit down on the pavement, without any thought for decency, place the tea cup on my side and light a cigarette.

Everything feels unreal, as if from a half-dream. The mind feels numb, the noise of the cars and their horns hardly proving to be disturbance.

There is an auto rickshaw at a few feet from me, and having convinced myself that I can’t possibly find the shop alive, I decide that I’ll take this promise of relief and go back to Income Tax, and then to the college. There are not many such promises to be seen around where I’ve sit, and I hope this one stays glued to the spot till I’ve finished my short break.

A few minutes pass by, and a dark man walks up to me. He is carrying several figures of clay, mostly of gods and goddesses, all for sale. This is the last thing that I need right now, and I try not to look the man in the eye, wishing that it puts him off and he goes away. But he doesn’t, he shows me a face sculpture of Ganesh, and asks me whether I would like to take it.

I try to get rid of him without any more conversation and not be rude at the same time, something that always requires a lot of effort. I say that it’s nice but I don’t have any money. He of course doesn’t listen to it, my clothes and demeanour betray me. He persists, saying that he could give me a handsome discount if I like the thing so much. I stop listening and concentrate once more on the traffic, the mind going numb again.

I give the rickshaw another look, the driver sits on the front seat, relaxed, doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. But I know I am stretching my luck, and its time I get going. The dark man meanwhile stops speaking, and instead just stares at me with almost accusing eyes. I look at him straight for the first time, pull both my front pockets out, showing that they don’t have any money, hoping that he would finally take pity on me and leave.

The tea is finished, and so is the cigarette. The auto-wala sits on his seat as before. The dark man stares at me as before. The cars rush by me as before. I get up, with some effort, planning to take the rickshaw.

But as if in a dream, a real dream this time, as soon as I rise to my feet, the dark man and the auto rickshaw leave, almost together, as if this was a joke they had planned on me beforehand.

The tea is finished, and so is the cigarette. The work is not done. The auto rickshaw has left, and so has the dark man. I am tired, and I now have to walk to the next red light almost a kilometre away, just to get a ride.

Have you ever felt that the whole world is against you in some dark, unbelievable conspiracy? I have.

Ran Out

Somewhere in the icy cold mountains of Kashmir, a soldier woke up this morning. He brushed his teeth, took a freezing bath, and dried himself with his night clothes. The soldier then wore his uniform, put on his belt and gave himself a short glance in the small table mirror beside his bed. He finally put on his army boots, and marched out of his room looking like a man on a mission.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Somewhere in the boiling hot plains of Delhi, Amir woke up this morning. He brushed his teeth, took a nominal bath, and dried himself unnecessarily with a towel. Amir then wore his kurta and jeans, put on his belt and gave himself a rather self-conscious, prolonged stare in the large mirror opposite his bed. He finally put on his floaters, and marched out of his room trying very hard to look like a man on a mission.

P & P

We’ll talk about lovers tonight.

We’ll talk about a couple, but not about Laila-Majnu, not Soni-Mahiwal, not Heer-Ranjha, not Chirkut Lady-Kekda Man, but about a pair whose relationship has transcended the concept of time, a love that can actually boast of being truly, singularly eternal.

We’ll talk about Poetry & Prose.

Yes, we’ll talk about P & P, two entities who differ as matter of principle, by the way of definition, who are said to be two opposite sides of the coin, but who, as a matter of truth, are linked to each other as two inseparable souls, their destinies so intricately intertwined, that, at times, it takes an effort to recognise who’s who, both working for the same purpose, the same end, but through varied means.

Maybe as they are, after all, when one thinks about it, two opposite sides of the same coin.

And why should we talk about them tonight?

Because reality, as they say, is stranger than fiction. Reality, as the name itself declares, is real, and when the real gets into its own, the two lovers cease to exist as two different entities, they cease to exist as two opposites, they combine and mix into each other to an extent that its impossible to determine what is Poetry and what is Prose, everything taking the shape of Poetic Prose or, alternatively, Prosaic Poetry. Call it PP, the order of occurrence of the lovers’ names depending on the observer’s choice.

Because when reality hits you, it hits you in the form of PP, not as the demarcations of Poetry & Prose, which are just, when one thinks about it, products of man’s passion of convenience.

Hmmm. Done. We’ll talk about Poetry & Prose tonight.

In Colour

It’s all in super slow motion. Amir is running, but not too fast, on a brown dry narrow patch of land. On both sides of the path, there are lush green fields – without end, the sun shining majestically above.

He feels like a marathon runner, about to complete his final lap, almost reaching the finishing line, the slow, lazily moving surroundings accentuating the feeling of triumph. Not only this, there are a countless number of people on the boundary of the path as well, held away from Amir by a strong, taut rope, the sort one sees at such races.

And like the races, most of those people look frantic, trying to reach out desperately, extending their hands just to have a touch or grab at the centre of attention – Amir. There are others too, who stand quietly by the side, just watching him pass by. Some look angry and some forlorn, gazing at him through the emptiness in their eyes. He can even see a woman holding a handkerchief in one hand, wiping away her tears. For some reason he doesn’t quite understand, all the faces seem familiar in some way or the other, as if he had personally known these people at some point in history.

But nothing clicks.

Their faces suggest that they might be shouting, shrieking, urging him on. But all is mute. All Amir can hear is the sound of his own breath, the motion of his own muscles, his feet thumping on the ground again and again, the sound too, in super slow motion.

People keep passing by, faces appearing and disappearing in the space of a moment. But the finishing line is nowhere in sight, and the jog continues. Slowly, Amir gets so used to the rhythm of it all – his breath, the movement of his limbs, those familiar but unknown faces – that he doesn’t feel anything anymore. His mind has almost gone numb.

And then he sees his mother in the crowd, standing serenely, looking at him with eyes that tell just one emotion. He sees his father too, and his grandparents, his uncles and aunts, the maid at his village home, the kindergarten ‘best friend’ he had almost forgotten the name of, the first girl he ‘fell in love’ with back in Class 2, his junior school class teacher, the bully who pushed him repeatedly against the wall every morning at school, the person at Mother Dairy from whom he used to take the milk every evening, his father’s friend whose sight he couldn’t stand as a child – everyone! Everyone!

Amir watches perplexed, trying to call out to these people, but no words come out. He tries desperately to say something to them, a Hello maybe, but it’s as if his vocal chords have disappeared. He finally gives up, and instead, waves at them as they wave at him, smiling at them as they smile at him.

It feels as if it would never end, new faces replacing old ones, more and more of them coming from the recent past.

And then, he wakes up. It’s a dream.

He smiles to himself, and gets up from the bed, feeling oddly enlightened.