Life

It corrodes, It rusts
Not the nicotine, the smouldering tip
smoking like the wintry cold
the wicked red eyes sneering into yours
as it gnarls the white, churning it slowly and steadily
into powdery, spineless black
and then as you rear your head
crushes your soul one final time
under the shining suede sole

EDITED : In face of some confusion, yes I have written the above piece, the italics notwithstanding.

Schizophrenia

The lunatic is in my head

The lunatic is in my head

You raise the blade, you make the change

You re-arrange me 'till I'm sane

You lock the doorAnd throw away the key

There's someone in my head but it's not me.

And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear

You shout and no one seems to hear

And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes

I'll see you on the dark side of the moon

(Brain Damage, Pink Floyd)

"Ok, what is your problem ?"
"I don't know. Guess I'm just bored. No, I am definitely depressed. Lonely. Was looking so much for someone to talk to."
"You could have come to me, you know." She is hesitant, almost shy. I gaze at her, puzzled I think. Now, what is it? Of course. Why is it throbbing so badly.
"But I thought you were dead. Weren't you ? That day, remember?"
"Oh no! I survived. The others died. You didn't come though, did u,to check?"
"But, I did come. With the others. Even though Ma said she would ground us if we went. We didn't see any of you. Everyone was talking in hushed tones."
"Hmm. I remember. Kurta-pyjamas, shaking heads. There were screams too. And, it rained that day. Everything was white.The house and the people."
"But how do you know? You were not there. I didn't see you."
"You didn't." She accepted.
"I wasn't there". Simply.
"Then how would you remember?" Should I scream ? But she is beautiful.
"I seem to."
I am dazed. I hold the head in my hand. Why does it feel so big? The throbbing is worse.
"What? You don't believe me now?" She is angry. She is beautiful.
"I am here, am i not. Touch me if you think I am a ghost." I am only too glad to.
"You are cold."
"It is cold. 2 in the morning. And you are snug in a blanket."
"Ohh..you can come in if you want." She accepts the invitation.
"You never thought of me all this while, did you?"
"I did. Every 1st Jan. All they talked of you was you and your family. We could never celebrate new year because of you. And I had nightmares. Van. Accident. What-not!"
She looks hurt.
"I was thinking of writing a letter to you. A love-letter. But I was embarassed. And all the others liked you too. I stood no chance anyway."
She is pleased. "But you did."
"Did I? Didn't you say, I could play no game? I was a geek." Now, I am glaring.
"Why do you think I followed you all the way. Why am I here?"
"Where were you anyway? I never saw you."
"I was hiding. I can hide very well. You could never seek me anyway."
"I could never seek anyone. I used to get distracted by the trees and the whisperings."
"Hmmm." We are silent for some time. We remember. Those times.
"Anyway. What's you problem?"
"I told you I don't know. I am depressed"
"Why?"
"No reason. No. Because of everything. Everything is depressing."
"Why don't you talk to him?"
"He is in Redmond."
"That's not what I asked?"
"You know him?" I am interested.
"Of course I do. He is very sweet." I am jealous.
"Are you jealous ?"
"Why should I be ? I love him most. You better find him sweet. Or you have no business with me."
"Ok. This reservation thing.Why don't you post what you have written?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know anything."
"Its just that everyone has an opinion in the mess. Morons. They talk about fairness."
"Fair? When has life ever been fair? Was it fair to me? And why dont you ask Bhaskar about fairness".
"Bhaskar. You know where he is? He was married, wasn't he?"
"At 14."
"Exactly. And how does it matter that a few I-banks stop coming to the campus. My country would be better served if some more start earning a lot more and a few start earning a lot less."
"But will they stop coming to the campus?"
"No, ofcourse not. All this is paranoia. Everything is just supply and demand. Even Infosys came only to the IITs earlier. Now look at them. The i-banks need people from Asia. Its not like they need geniuses. But when they require only a few now, they go for the best few. Soon they will need more. And all this exclusivity will go fo a toss. Anyway who gives a damn?" I am breathless.
"You seem to."
"I don't. Not anymore. I am ready to take the plane."
"I am leaving on a jet plane..." She starts humming. Its annoying.
"Stop that."
"But why are you unhappy, then? Remember, you wanted to go to UK. Baker's street. Soho ?"
"Yes."
"So?"
"So what? You know I can't go. I will have no one there."
"Who do you have here? Only me. When did you last go home? And, Him - you will have to let him go on with his life. I will go with you."
"You will? How? What will you do there?"
"We can marry. You like me don't you?"
"I do. That's an idea."
"Say, you know how to cook, right. Otherwise, I will be starved for food there."
"You forgot the gajar ka halwa I made for the cookery contest at school?"
"Now that was something!!" I smile.
"Yes, I think we can marry."
"Should we kiss?"
"That is what you have been thinking of, huh?" She stares at me. "Ok. You can." We kiss.
"Do you drink?"
"I will if you want." She says quietly.
"No it's ok. I cannot drink much anyway. He will be angry."
"How will he know?"
"He does. He can sniff."
"Ok. Fine by me."
"So you are accepting the PPO?"
Now I am suspicious.
"Have you been sent by them?"
"By who?"
"By them. You know who. They can't think of anything but me accepting the PPO. My parents. My friends. My batch-mates here at IIMB. All of them have their own reasons. Only he is with me. Who has sent you?"
"Nobody. You just said we will go to London."
"I will go nowhere. In fact I will drop out of this place."
"And do what?"
"Anything."
"Still you must have something in mind."
"Go back to Bihar. Do something. Or just have fun. And then shoot myself in the head when I have had enough."
"Hmm. Why do you keep playing with the blade?"
"Its not what you think. I won't do that. He will be hurt too."
"Why is always about him ? What about you. You won't be hurt?"
"No. I like it. You know, its peaceful after that. Like you are in a vaccum. I feel pain. But it is pleasurable. Atleast I get to feel. Everything floats for sometime. The tear and blood. Then I know, I am living. And I want to get better. And then, when it is healing, I feel purged, pure, at peace."
"Bollocks. All the existential shit you have been reading? How long does that last?"
"What do you know about it? Don't talk about something you don't know."
"I have been reading with you. And I have always been there when you do it."
"Then why don't you stop me?"
"I do it too. Look at my hands." It is criss-crossed.
"See!!". I am vindicated.
"How did you like it today? Talking to Chotu?"
"I liked it. He is a bright kid. I am proud of him."
"I asked how did you like talking to him?"
"We can't talk. I mean we did talk, but I am not going to talk with him about these things. And he doesn't need any distractions. As it is there are many in our family."
"What about mine?" She might cry.
"I am sorry."
"No its ok. They were dreadful anyway."
I don't know what to say.
She is quiet for some time. Then, "Its time for me to go."
"Why?"
"Its almost morning. How will you explain me?"
"But where will you go?"
"I will hide. I told you I am good at hiding." She smiles very faintly. She is beautiful.
"Don't be sad. I will come again. We have plenty to talk."
"Yeah? I can't see that we have."
"We have. I haven't told you how we died."
"We?"
"I mean they." Then quickly, "And we are not finished with your problems. This writing thing for example. And that thing. Your secret plan."
"You know about that?"
"Yes. I have been with you for quite some time now."
There is something churning inside my stomach.
"We must make our wedding plans,too. But no parents business."
I feel I must vomit. "I gotta go."
"OK. Bye then."
"Good Night."
She opens the door and slides outside. I follow her to outside. I see her melt away into darkness.
She knows about the plan. But she is beautiful. And who knew she was alive. I am glad I decide. Will make plans for tomorrow.

I think sometimes

If I were to die today would it be me or an irony of me ?
A little bit of both I guess.
And of endless feelings that could find no expression.
And of someone's purpose defeated.

Would I be happy it is ending?
Or would I die sad I never lived?
A little bit of both I guess.

Anf if I were to die tomorrow would it be different ?
Unlikely. For tomorrow is going to be the same. Like yesterday was.
I will wake up late. And go to bed late. In between I will sleepwalk.

Farewell

One flies away to the US as another leaves for Delhi. One will return in a couple of weeks and the other, I don't know when. As I saw him drawing away in the dark, I remembered his first night in bangalore. He was here at IIMB with me. We met occasionally. IIMB does that to you. We had fun. He was working hard to move ahead in life. IIT was history. The real world was not as rosy as we had expected in campus. Then a phonecall one day. He had succeeded. Atleast temporarily. From two point something to five point something else. From Delhi to Bangalore. I was happy. I had seen him working harder than ever. We met. I got drunk. He got pained. I got philosophical. He introspective. We had a quiet dinner today, the three of us. Him and his jokes. He cracks jokes when he is self-conscious. Put him in a spot and his reaction is to poke fun at it. Then we returned. To L-105. He commented how this room was much better than the last one. I told him about Wodehouse. He loves hearing about books. He still remembers the Asimov I had given him to read. I read 'Psmith in the City' out. He laughed. We forgot for some time the heavy spectre of the dreaded parting to come. Then it was here.

"Take care. Seriously.".I will. You take care too.

I am happy for you. I am happy for Delhi. And for the lucky lady waiting for you in Delhi. It has been a long wait.

Read "the diary of a young girl". Its a beautiful book. A trifle sad. But what is not.

And remember with fondness how we fought together, how we made plans to start a coaching center, the four of us. We will visit your restaurant once you open it. If I dont go to London.

Till we meet again.

Safe journey.

A Love Letter or A Romantic's Collage

Dear CynicalMe,

I don't know where I met her first. I am not even sure if I met her all at once. There were glimpses here and there, every now and then. A fleeting moment where I would briefly catch her before she disappeared . I remember, once between the yellow pages of a Sharat Chandra's novel I met a part of her. She was wearing a Bengali drape, two large pleats in the front, her pallu weighed down by a bunch of keys. The lady of the house since she was fourteen, when her mother died leaving behind a broken-hearted, noble father. She had become the mother of her father. She was "the quiet part", with an intense look on her pretty, little face radiated occasionally by a half-smile - go as quickly as it had come.

And then that night when I saw her in Maaya. Soulful and lively. Reckless and independent. She was adventurous, courting danger, living every moment. She was "the creative part". Late at night I had watched her on Doordarshan, half-afraid my father would wake up and catch me red-handed having my fling and snatch me away. The bewitching and the lovely Maaya died on the T.V set that day but lingered on, accumulating dust in one corner of a fourteen-year-old heart till ten years later a twenty-three-year-old remembered her.

I met her off-and-on in Kolkata. Irresistible, following me everywhere, elusive and persistent. I saw her sometimes on the rainy days, from the fifth floor of a building. As the rains lashed at the clothes left to dry, on a wire hung between two of the numerous huts scattered below like summer rashes, she would appear to hastily remove as many as possible as soon as possible. She looked mesmerizing as she ran around the rain in a faded and old salwar kameez frayed at the edges. I would spot her sometimes as she stepped out from a car to have fuchkes by the road. Excited and with careless abandon, some of the spicy water dripping down her chin. I would also see her in the metros, quietly reading a book, once in a while stealing a glance at the others, quickly looking back as she met another pair of eyes regarding her.

I met her always when you were sleeping. Did you always go to sleep when she came? Maybe she came when she knew you were sleeping. And then you would wake up, I would retreat, shamefaced and feeling like a fool. I would admire your practical eyes, your self-assured, cold logic. You would look at me with derision, your eyebrows raised enquiringly and I would squirme under your gaze - embarassed and red-faced, despairing hopelessly at my weak-heartedness.

I met her again recently. This time when you were awake. You say I have "relapsed hopelessly". You look at me with despise and ask me not be such a fool. You ask "what if she is not the one?" "What if she has met her own?" I don't know. As usual I have no answers to your questions. I will never have for how can I ever know? I am confused. Can you allow me to take a leap of faith?

Yours faithfully,

RomanticMe

The homemaker and the exotic beauty

You see that pretty young thing, fall head-over-heels in love with her and have a romantic passionate affair. You decide she is the one , pop the question, she - the level headed practical girl that she is - thinks and decides you would be a good, reliable companion for life. Follow wedding and kids. Soon, regularity creeps in. You look at her, she is still beautiful but she reminds you of your mother now. She is your homemaker. You wake up in the morning, and you immediately look at the small stool beside the bed - there it is ! your morning tea just as you like it with the newspaper carefully folded and put beside it. You come back from the office, tired as hell and there she is ready with the magic wand to take your weariness away. But you are bored now. You snap at her. You find her tendency to shower excessive attention irritating. Yes, she reminds you of your mother. Then one day, you see this ravishing beauty. She has a mysterious allure, she is exciting. You are smitten. Follows a tempestuous affair. You are careful though. There ought not to be any tell-tale signs. You are having the time of your life. Then, one day you are asked to make a choice. The homemaker and the exotic beauty. The mother of your kids and the exciting, adventurous lady. The faint creases and the flawless skin. The determined eyes and the deep, alluring ones. The strong pallu-covered shoulders and the naked ones below the long, slender neck. What would you choose ? I know what I would.

Running (or probably just rambling)

It happened when I saw Prof. Saurav Mukherjee jogging. Prof. Mukherjee is a teacher in the Organizational Behavior area at IIMB. My association with him goes back to the time when he took my CAT interview. Flashback:

Prof. Mukherjee : "You seem to be an idealist"

I (in an extremely combative frame of mind) :"Appearances can be deceptive"

Prof. Mukherjee : "Are you sure you can survive the cut-throat and often dirty competition at IIMB without compromising your principles?"

I: "Since when did lack of scruples become a qualification ?"

I got through IIMB (needless to say to my great surprise). I later realized I must have done well too, for I was shortlisted for AVB scholarships, which means, I was among the top 20 students joining IIMB based on the written and interview stages of CAT2004.

I met Prof. Mukherjee again as a teacher in the first term. I learnt he was an alumnus of IIT Kharagpur. I learnt he had given up an extremely lucrative job to join academia where he felt his heart lay. The term saw numerous arguments between Prof. Mukherjee and me. He never seemed to be irked by my argumentativeness. He commented once about how toppers from IIT, used to a very quantitative / engineering kind of thought process, found it difficult to adjust in a qualitative, ambiguous course like MBA. I passed his course with a 3.82 on 4 which, for those strange to the grading process at IIMB, is quite good.

By this time, I was smitten by Prof. Mukherjee.

Now, recently even as I was dismayed by my propensity to tuck in a blob of fat or two wherever it seemed ugly, I noticed that Prof. Mukherjee was shedding weight with a briskness that almost (but not quite) equalled the alacrity with which Miss Sherawat sheds clothes. And then I saw Prof. Mukherjee running.

Here, as predictable as Sharukh Khan in a Karan Johar tearjerker, I started running. And I surprised myself. I mean, who would have thought that I, who had scratched his back once or twice in the name of physical exercise, could run well. It seems I have good stamina when it comes to running and I can run quite far.

I feel extremely nice after running. The dull throbbing ache in my legs long after I have spent myself and the shooting pain in stomach as my lungs scramble to gasp in oxygen when I have stopped give me immense pleasure. I wonder why I can run so much. Is it because I feel liberated when I run or is it because I have found another way to inflict, however temporarily, pain on my body ? May be its a bit of both. Maybe, it is because I am so bored these day, that I would do anything to pass time. Most probably, it is because running allows me to set newer (farther) goals and feel the flush of pleasure as I achieve them everyday. Or may be its because I like the wet, tingling sweat trickle down my neck and beads perspiration form on my flush hot face. Who cares what it is!!