Spilled Tea

It was a mellow morning. The sun was bright but not too bright to hurt the eyes. It was cool and the gentle breeze fanned at one and all. The sunlight glinted off freshly washed paved stone road. It was a narrow road with a few shops between houses. Shantaram lived above a shop that sold milk and milk products. It was a small house with small windows which, if one would peer in, showed a simple household. There were small rods fitted in the window. They had once been painted green but now the paint had peeled off and it was completely black. They opened into one of the two rooms in the house. One of the rooms was used as the bedroom and the other, which had the windows, as a sitting room for guests and visitors who would frequent Shantaram's place like children at the annual fair. The walls were whitewashed but showed stains of hair oil (from the heads of the people who sat down and brushed their head against the wall) and sprays of betel leaf juice (from Shantaram's habit of speaking while chewing betel leaf). There were a few portraits of Gods handed down from ages and a red coloured silken wall hanging (from his marriage time) that had started to blacken. There was a small kitchen in which Shantaram's wife, a girl of 15, cooked for him. It was dark and the walls had blackened from soot. Cups and utensils lined the small wooden shelf and the small cooking area was usually cluttered.

Shantaram was approaching 22, a small round man. He was fat with a small round face and small round eyes. His wife was a pretty girl from one of the neighbouring villages, who had been married at the age of 10. She had lovely dark eyes that looked upon in wonder at anything interesting (apart from Shantaram), the result being that she got distracted by anything and everything, as is understandable for a girl of her age. Consequently, she would forget to add something or the other in the food, thereby angering Shantaram, who would give her a sound tongue lashing and occasionally slap her too. Then he would go out in a huff and she would sit down on the floor, her saree spread around, and weep and think of her mother from whose comforting hands, she was away from. She would not eat and sulk all day and when at evening Shantaram would return, she would quickly get up and make tea for him, silently crying all the time. Then for the next few days she would carefully prepare his meals but as is expected, soon a relapse would happen and the cycle would continue.

This morning he climbed down the steep stairs that led to his tiny abode, wearing a white kurta and a white dhoti, chewing betel leaf. He smiled to himself and brushed the lint off from his kurta. It was a pleasant morning. A few people on bicycles went by, waving to Shantaram. Just when he was thinking of what to do on such a morning that he heard his name being called out. He turned around. It was the newspaper editor's son - a handsome man of about the same age as Shantaram. He was dressed similarly only that his kurta and dhoti were whiter. "They don't even have a stain", Shantaram thought silently as he greeted him with folded hands. They began chatting about various things and presently Shantaram spat out the red betel leaf juice on the road and invited him to have a cup of tea with him upstairs.

They climbed the steep stairs again and Shantaram called out to his wife to prepare two cups of tea. He led his visitor inside and they sat down talking of things of importance. She peered out from inside the kitchen and was struck at his sight. Her heart started beating rapidly and it was only after a moment that she could get some control over her trembling hands and began to prepare tea. She had gone blank and while her hands mechanically prepared tea, she let herself be consumed in dreams and wild thoughts. Once the tea was ready, she poured it out in two cups, put them on a tray and covering her head with her saree brought it out to them. She walked slowly and shook from head to toe. She extended the tray to her guest and smiled shyly. He looked up at her and smiled and she blushed. Her hands trembled and as she handed Shantaram his cup, some tea spilled over him. He cursed loudly. "You mindless daughter of a..." but his words were drowned out. She did not hear Shantaram. Her eyes locked briefly with her guest's and he gave her another smile. She covered her face with her saree and ran to the kitchen.

She sat dreaming impossible dreams and she quivered in wonder and in delight and was afraid. Then she heard her guest leaving and Shantaram escorting him downstairs. She dashed out of the kitchen and stood in the landing so that she could see him one more time. As if by a secret cue, while climbing down, he turned and looked at the exact spot where she was and for a brief one second their eyes locked again. Her heart almost stopped and she ran away to her bedroom and lay down. She pressed her burning face against the pillow and hoped to quell the thudding of her heart. He would be back soon, angry over the spilled tea and would surely beat her up, but she didn't think about that.

As she lay there, she giggled and smiled and laughed to herself. And she tried, but failed, to stop the wild racing of her heart or to quench the burning sensation of her face and at that moment the world ceased to exist. For all she saw was him looking back at her, his smile and her own little bundle of emotions that rose like a storm in her little heart.

- Parekh, Pravesh

04:15 AM, 13^th December, 2012

Depression Diary - Log V

I had a friend once. Back in the days when I used to go to school and life was comparatively easier. There was this boy named Matthew who lived near my home. I was kind of fond of him. He was good at studies, played football and was otherwise helpful, kind and thoughtful. He had an elder brother too. James. I used to go to their place every once in a while and it used to be alright. I was very fond of James too. He was always kind to me. Much more kind than what my mother ever was. Kindness from father was an unexpected treat that was as rare as me getting good grades at school. Frankly, I believed then and still do, I never got good grades because of the environment in which I lived. But I will leave that for later. Trying not to wander out here.

James and Matthew used to get along pretty well with each other. However, James had this annoying habit of calling Matthew a “kid” which, of course, Matthew hated. James had a slightly harsh voice and he would add “kid” to almost every other thing he said to Matthew. “Good night, kid”. “Hope you do well in your exams, kid” and so on. This was pretty much annoying to Matthew and sometimes used to annoy me as well. They often fought over this. Matthew was hardly two years younger than James so it didn’t really make sense for James to call Matthew a kid. Well, it didn’t till the day I asked James about it.

One afternoon it so chanced that James and me were sitting under the shade of a tree. Matthew had gone to his home for something and we were waiting for him to come back so that we could continue our football game. I don’t know what made me do it but I suddenly turned to James and asked him if I could ask him a question. He told me to go ahead and ask it. I asked him why he used to call Matthew a kid, even though Matthew hated it. James at first laughed about it. Then he became serious.

“I don’t really know if you will ever understand it”, he said. “I call Matthew a kid because for me he is one. He is like this small little thing that I completely adore and wish I could protect him from whatever there is out there in this world. I know he hates it. But he doesn’t know why I call him so. He thinks I mock him. I do not. I love him. He is my little brother. I know my way of saying kid may not sound like it, but I use it as a term of endearment.” I was shocked. I had never thought of it in that way. I had always thought that James said that to mock Matthew. I asked him the reason why he didn’t explain it to Matthew. ‘The day I do that, it will lose its significance. You cannot tell people that you adore them. If they understand it, good for you. If they don’t, live with it. If you can’t live with it, then don’t do it.”

I think I stayed up all night thinking about it. What a brilliant idea. Such tenderness, such loving thoughts behind a single word. From that day onwards I hoped that someday someone would call me a “kid” too. If only for once. Perhaps James. But like all other dreams in my life, it never got fulfilled. Their parents moved away next year and I lost all touch with them. I still remember when I was saying my goodbye. James told me to take care of myself and gently ruffled my hair. And I swear in the name of whatever is Holy, it was one of the best feelings ever.

James and Matthew went away but the idea remained with me. Later in life, when I was working as a sales assistant at a convenience store, I used it. There was this girl who worked as a cashier. Her name was Betty, I think. She was a tiny little sweetheart and whenever I saw her, I always felt this urge to protect her and to take care of her. One evening when she was leaving, I called out to her saying “Take care, kid”. She was furious. She never talked to me again after that day. I thought of explaining the entire thing to her but then I thought it would get weird and awkward. And anyway they fired me from the job. Never found out why.

Some days I like to look back at my life and think how different it would have been if someone would have been there for me, as James as there for Matthew. I so wish someone would have loved me as James loved his “little” brother. I guess I would not have turned out to be such a failure then…definitely not…

- U.E

01:25 AM, Varanasi

November 5, 2012

Depression Diary - Log IV

There is a storm brewing outside. I am indoors, sitting in my darkened bedroom. The wind is loud. Too loud. And it is shaking the house. The doors, the windows…they rattle in the wind. Creates an eerily disturbing atmosphere. From the window pane I can see the wind shake the tree outside. The branches are swaying madly, as if a ghost waving to its favourite haunt. There is a dim light coming in through the dirty window pane and I am writing in The Diary in that light. The clouds are heavy. It will rain torrentially. Perhaps it will rain all night. I hope not, for the water might come inside the house. The ceiling might collapse for all I know. And the worst part is that it won’t collapse on me. How do I know this? Because this has always been the case. As if all elements and forces of nature are out there to make a fool out of me. And perhaps I am their idea of an ideal clown anyway. Will do whatever they subject me to. How do I resist them anyway?

Damn! The wind is loud! There was a small sapling outside. I had bought that tiny little thing from somewhere and it had grown remarkably well, given the bad “grooming” it received from me. Ha ha! The wind took it away. It got uprooted and then went flying out of sight. Like my life. Fleeting. Fleeing. Escaping. And all I could do was sit and see it happen. Like I said above. How do I resist them anyway?

And lo and behold! I suddenly have this vivid image in my mind. An image right from my childhood. Its autumn. In am sitting under a tree. A kid. Small boy. Call me whatever you want. There is a small ball right next to my feet. I seem to be tired. I must have been running all over the yard kicking that ball. Alone, of course. I don’t really recall having any company during my childhood days. (Not saying that I have had company in my adult days…alone back then…alone now). Anyway, so I am tired and sitting under a tree and the leaves are falling. Right over my head and I am sad. Looking down with a leaf or two in my head and there is a stray dog which has come and is now sitting next to the ball. Perhaps it wants to play with it. And with me as well? It must be as alone as I am. But I don’t think I can play with the dog. If mother sees me playing with a stray dog, she will be upset. And then I will be beaten. By a stick perhaps? But it’s the only company I have had in days. Maybe weeks. How can I resist playing with it anyway?

I don’t know what keeps happening in my head. There are these glimpses that suddenly turn up. And they leave me stunned. Shocked. And most importantly sad. And now I am sad again. Not that I was happy before. Less sad, maybe? That too is a question. Sometimes I feel I should have been a philosopher. I sure ask a lot of questions. But I don’t really know anything. I don’t even know what philosophers do? I mean, are they even paid? Is that a job? The light is very dim now. There are droplets on the window pane. It has begun. Now the rain will wash down on me and I will be more miserable and sad. Sad. Sad. Sad. Its almost as if the rain is calling out to me…seeking me to embrace me in its misery and sorrow. How can I resist it anyway?

- U.E

12:35 AM, Varanasi

November 5, 2012

Depression Diary - Log III

The past is a gaping hole, I heard somewhere. I seem to have mocked it back then. But that was also a thing of the past. Now I am living in the past and I realize that whoever wrote it or whoever said it or whoever did whatever to it, it was correct. I don’t think I would have read it anywhere. Can’t recall the time when I loved reading books. Come on! Who am I kidding? I don’t even enjoy reading the newspaper. I wonder how I end up writing in this godforsaken diary? And more than that, how can the doctor think he will ever read it? But then he is being paid to read it and I am not being paid to write it. It seems that you can ask anyone to do whatever you want them to do by putting appropriate price to it. Heard that is how bounty works too.

But then I am wandering again. Me thinks that every time I sit down to start with something definitive in  my mind to write about, I seem to always wander away from it. I am beginning to be convinced that there is something wrong in my head somewhere. Perhaps that is why the doctor asked me to start writing anyway? Maybe he can see through the entire content and find hidden meanings and patterns? He seems to have a lot of degrees. Reminds me of myself dropping out of college. Past again. Life, it seems, has a wonderful way of reminding you of all the time that you screwed up something somewhere. What has become of all the good things that happen in Life? Perhaps they have gone down in the drain, just the way the world seems to be going down in the drain.

So after a lot of thinking I thought of writing a little about my past. Who knows it might even help the doctor? But then I am not sure if I will ever show it to the doctor. The only reason I recollect that it was the doctor who asked me to start writing is because last week I went to him and he asked me about it. I became so terribly scared that I said that I had not started to write anything in it. He drew up a sympathetic face and nodded and said that things like these always take time. I think it was his professional way of telling me to go to hell. See? I am wandering again.

Last night when I was sitting and doing nothing (like all the times) I thought I saw a shadow creep around in the darkness. Naturally, I was scared. It was a shadow from the past. One that I definitely would recognize anywhere anytime. As I sat thinking what to do, it sprung out of the darkness and stood in front of me. It was the ghost of my wife. Or the ghost of my once used to be wife. Or the ghost of my once used to be college girlfriend. A ghost anyway. Her name was Sarah. I met her in the sophomore year. She was the most fun loving person I had ever met. Quite my opposite. We seemed to get along well. She talked and chirped while I nodded my assent and listened to her and the likes. Soon we were dating. Things seemed to be going well when I made the greatest mistake of my Life. Dropped out of college. She was still supportive. By then we were living together. She finished college and got a job. By then I had also found a job at a bakery serving baked breads to customers. The job sucked. The boss sucked. The salary sucked. But she was there with me and so I was able to live through it.

Then we got married and had a daughter. She was the best thing that ever happened to me. But like all my happiness in life, it was short lived. One fine day I return back home and we end up having a big huge argument. Over what? Ha ha! You would laugh when I tell you that! We fought over a bottle of jam! She wasn’t able to get a fresh one to open. I tried but even I couldn’t get it to open. She made a joke about it. I had had a lousy day and I got angry. And then she got angry. And though she was the most prettiest of all the darlings in the world, when she got angry there was no going past her. We fought, argued, screamed, shouted and I think I threw the bottle and it broke. She suddenly froze. Stopped fighting. Just froze. Ten minutes later she was packing her bag. I begged and pleaded and did everything I could but to no avail. It seemed that she had simply turned away from me. She left me for good.

We got in touch after an year or so again. She was married to someone else. I continued to meet my daughter occasionally. But she seemed to shrink away from me every single time I met her. Eventually she told me that she did not want to meet me again. I said fine. What else was I supposed to say anyway? Later I heard that Sarah died of cancer. Heard she had taken up smoking and had a sad end. No one even called me for the funeral.

Her ghost came to me yesterday. It was scary. Her eyes were hollowed out and she looked like a skeleton. Her face was gone completely. There was burnt skin instead of the smooth olive skin that I once remembered. It stood looking at me and then simply disappeared. I know it sound ridiculous, me writing of anything like this. But it seemed that her coming was what I needed to retrace some of my steps of the past. Now I am sitting and I am tired. Tired of thinking, tired of writing. Tired of wondering. Sleep is nowhere in sight. I think I will just sit around. Perhaps turn off the lights as well. Let the darkness embrace me with its claw like hands. Perhaps Sarah will come to me again? Like she was…like I remember her…

- U.E

05:05 PM, Indira Gandhi International Airport (Delhi)

November 4, 2012

Depression Diary - Log II

Woke up to the sound of the dog barking. Don’t recall falling asleep. Probably slept for an hour. An achievement, I would say. Why? Because sleep doesn’t seem to have blessed my condemned soul for almost three days now. Why? Because damn it, if I know. Had nothing better to do than to sit outside and stare at the moon and the star. Yet did not feel like doing it today. The feeling of going and sitting outside makes me feel vulnerable. It is scary. The night is out to get you. Of late, I have been having this paranoid feeling. Darkness scares me. I see faces where there are none. It has been two days since I switched off any light in the house. It is alright during the day…but as darkness descends, it seems that a certain darkness descends on me as well.

I came to the study table and sat down. Having nothing better to do, I opened the record book or The Diary where I am to record my nocturnal activities. Nocturnal, I say, because there doesn’t seem to be anything that goes on during the day. To confess frankly, the light hurts my eyes. I prefer when its cloudy or when the horizon darkens. No, I do not like the rain. Rain has a terrible terrible habit of ruining everything. I like it before the rain. When the sky is dark and overbearing. It seems that everyone has their sorrows. And when it darkens, the sorrow is ready to unleashed upon the world. And everyone stops and waits. The entire feeling of the weight of the world on your head…I don’t know if it is good or bad. But I prefer it to the bright light.

So anyway, I open this diary and I am struck by the fact that I haven’t written in here in quite some time now. The last entry was almost a month back. Well I will try to be punctual again. But then there isn’t anything interesting happening that I should record. Sometimes I wonder if I should just write in stuff for the doctor? It might just as well distract him and make him wonder if I should be sent to an asylum or something? But then it would take me away from the night. Both comforting and disturbing.

Of late, I have been thinking and everything seems to be in contradiction. I want to do something but I don’t have the energy to do it. I hate something and yet I want it to happen. Even as I write, I hear the distant rumble of the clouds. So, it is going to rain. Rain. Rain. Rain. I notice that I have mentioned that everyone has sorrows. Do I? I think yes. But do I? I am not too sure. What have I got to feel sad about? The fact that I am an old man, all alone in this world? Well, true enough. What else? The fact that the cable TV operator charges for 120 channels but my television set can only show 50? Well, that would have been something to be sad about but then I don’t watch the television. It is a relic from the past. Past…something to think about. Oh yes, now I get it. The past is something that I can definitely be sad about. Seems as if there are chapters upon chapters of guilt, sorrow and pain? Written in hopelessness and despair? But do I want to be sad?

I seem to forget what I originally wanted to chatter in here about. I woke up and was scared. And then the television had to come in and disturb my thoughts. Oh yes and the past. Now I need to sit and think. These memories seem to be rushing through me. And there is this face always peering out from the darkest corner of the room. I think I will watch some television tonight. It might ease the thoughts a little. Or might aggravate them? What do I want? I do not know…I will chatter later…my head hurts…or am I just making it up?

- U.E

04:30 PM, Indira Gandhi International Airport (Delhi)

Caprice

The sunlight came filtering through patched dirty curtain that was gently swaying in the late morning breeze. The door to the balcony was open with the curtain on either side, tied loosely to hide the holes from the eyes. The room was a small one, run derelict. The walls were blackening with ages and cobwebs decked the corner. The balcony had an open view of the streets; the breeze gently carrying with it the sounds of cars running in the street and the occasional call of a friendly neighbour to another.

A small dressing table was kept close to the balcony door to allow maximum light to one who may use it. It was made of old dark wood and looked severely used. There were scratch marks on the sides and the mirror was cloudy from use. Small crayon marks were seen on the delicate woodwork that held the mirror in place, indicating the presence of a child. There were two small drawers on the right side and on top of it was seated a small doll, her legs dangling from the edge of the drawers. And in front of the mirror, stood she.

She was aged about seven. She was wearing a pale yellow frock with large red coloured polka dots on it. It had a washed out feel to it but was her favourite anyway. She had large black eyes that looked in wonder at the world around. They glittered in the sunlight as they looked at their own reflection and as she smiled, her cheek gently dimpled. Her hair was chestnut brown, pulled back with a black hairband, gently falling over her shoulders.

She was lost in her own little world, oblivious to anything else. She had only three people to play with – her reflection, her doll and her mother. She lifted her hand and touched her reflection with both hands and let out a giggle, as if her reflection had tickled her. She stood in the same position and let her head bob up and down, as if in rhythm to a tune she could only hear and eventually bent closer to her reflection, letting their nose meet. Then she suddenly stepped back, looked at her reflection again and started laughing as if she was happy that a secret ritual was finished. Her reflection laughed with her. 

Presently, she diverted her attention to the doll that had been a witness to the entire ritual. She picked it up and held her in her hands, as if a mother lifting her toddler. “Shh…you must not disturb mamma or she will be very angry. If you are quiet and be a good girl, mamma will be happy and will give you a kiss”, she told her doll, speaking slowly with her dark eyes peering into the doll’s large eyes. And thus she played with her doll, oblivious to the sound of cars and horns and of a door slamming shut somewhere nearby.

Some time passed and she grew tired of playing with the doll. She was also feeling hungry. But she knew better than to disturb her mamma, who would otherwise get very angry. So she sat down on the floor and with quivering lips consoled her doll. “Mamma will be here soon. She will come and give you a big hug. She might even give you a biscuit…”

And the small bowl of rice simmered and cooked in the small kitchen but no one tended to it. And the time slowly passed but no one stirred. The child gently rocked her doll and then herself to sleep. Little did she know that the door slamming had been her mother leaving the building for good. She was not coming back. And the clock ticked steadily but the only thing the house heard was “She might even give you a biscuit…”.

-Parekh, Pravesh

December 1, 2012; 08:35 PM

P.S: I sincerely thank Labani Biswas for her help with Caprice. Her remarks were very helpful and gave me a greater insight into the scene. Labani maintains an excellent blog Falling Into Infinity which can be found here: biswaslabani.blogspot.in and she can be found here.

Depression Diary – Log I

Couldn’t go to sleep again. Lay there thinking about nothing and everything for a long long time. Then I realized I was not really sleepy. Don’t recall the last time I slept properly. Perhaps it’s the mattress. The mosquitoes don’t really bother me so much. I guess my problem is that I think too much…that’s what everyone says. But all of that was a long time ago. But then I don’t recall thinking about anything in particular.

Anyway, so I got out of bed and then went outside and sat down on a chair, staring at the night sky and thought how wonderful. We should all really stop sleeping in the night and sleep during the day. The night time is a wonderful companion. It will look back at you when you look at it and it always has hidden faces that you can try and read as much as you can. But then if everyone is to work at night, then the face of night won’t remain as beautiful as it is now…

I was sitting there and it was a no moon night. There was no wind and the stars were all covered by the clouds. The stars don’t really bother me so much. But sometimes when you look up and see a whole bunch of them, you tend to get angry. You feel alone and lost and they so bright. Reminds me of my wasted youth and my own loneliness. I tried talking to the night, trying to have a conversation. But it didn’t work. I didn’t really have anything to say. Then I realized it has been full three days since I spoke to someone. And the last time I had was a thank you to the girl at the cash counter of the superstore.

Sometimes it seems time just passes away. You sit down and just begin to think about things and you realize hours have passed. On the other hand, you sit and wait for time to pass but it won’t. Guess what? Seems like time passes slowly at night and faster during the day. No wonder…that is why people whine about nights being long and lonely in those romantic songs that teenagers these days listen to. But then how would I know? I don’t even know any teenagers. All those people who I ever knew are all either dead or old and don’t know where.

So I was sitting there and then I realized that today is the day the cleaning lady is supposed to come by. Well, I think it is a good idea to have someone coming in periodically. At least they would find out if I am dead someday. Not that anyone would care. Who would ever care about an old man dying out in the middle of nowhere? Well, maybe the cleaning lady would actually miss me. Oh no. She would miss the money. Ha ha! But then she does a good job. Then I realized that I was thinking about the cleaning lady for no reason. We don’t even talk. She comes in. I go out. She goes out. I get back in. What good is the conversation anyway? I don’t know her. She doesn’t know me.

Then I remembered that someone had told me to write down my thoughts in a diary. They said that whenever I could not sleep or was feeling troubled, I should sit and write in the diary. Or was it the therapist at the hospital? Goddamn memory, I swear. But it doesn’t matter. And come on. I was feeling low for a while and thought I would see someone at the hospital and they tell me to write it down in a diary. Wow! Good joke. And that too on an old man like me.

I was about to get up when the neighbour’s dog started barking. Funny that I should mention them. I bet they talk about me as well sometime. Neighbour. Haven’t talked to them in all the years that I have been here. Nasty old man, I heard them say to each other once. I say that about them too. Only he has his wife to speak it to. I don’t have anyone to speak it to. I sat there wondering what the dog could be barking at and I remembered my childhood days. I had a dog too. It was a puppy. Darn thing came under a truck and died and the driver didn’t even stop to apologize. I thought it was pretty rude of him to do that. My mother told me to stop crying and to go solve my mathematics problem. It was a street dog anyway, I remember her telling me. Funny…I can remember that and not who told me to write down my thoughts here.

Suddenly there was a clang and the sound of a man shouting. Then the dog shut up. I realized that my neighbour was awake and perhaps had hit the dog. What a beastly thing to do, I thought. It was just trying to talk to someone perhaps. In his own tongue that is. Just like me. It wants for company. There isn’t a dog in miles I guess. Never seen any. But then I rarely venture out so I wouldn’t know for sure. Thinking of the dog made me sad. Was it the dog being hit that made me sad or was it the memory of my own dog dying under the truck wheels or was it the fact that my mom told me to solve maths problem that made me sad, is something that would take days of thinking to work out. Or perhaps it cannot be worked out. Maybe that is what philosophers do, after all. Solve complex questions and problems in life. Or maybe that is what mathematicians do. How would I know? Dropping out of college wasn’t a great idea, I guess…

Anyway, I got up and went back in and now I am writing this. Another uneventful day gone. I glance at the clock and it is almost 4 in the morning. Where has all this time gone? People say I think too much. But I haven’t been thinking, have I? Later…

- U. E

03:26 AM, NOIDA

A Common Man's Romance

The following is a story that is inspired by a momentary glimpse of a couple at a metro station while I was traveling. In it I have tried to capture the weight that I felt, looking at them staring out at the horizon. Of course not a very successful attempt, but I would really love it if I can have your comments/feedback. Thank you!

He was early. He knew he had left early but he didn’t really have a choice. One couldn’t rely on transport, especially public transport. Also, he did not want to keep her waiting. He was simply dressed. Cheap T shirt he had purchased a few months back and a pair of jeans out of the two pairs he owned. His bag was slung across his shoulders. Dirt made it look older than two years. His once white shoes were now brownish but he did not really mind. What was important was that she was going to be here soon. He took out his phone and changed the song. The locally manufactured earphones did not really give him the sound that he would have liked to hear but like everything else, it hardly mattered. He sat down at a bench under the shade of the bus stop and waited for her, thinking about nothing in particular.

She arrived 25 minutes later. The moment she got down from the bus, he was by her side, clasping at her hand. She whispered urgently in his ears, tugging at his hands and then they were off, trotting away from the bus stop. She was plainly dressed and had a slight touch of makeup on her face. Her hair was hurriedly combed with a blue ribbon in them. She was wearing flats that were slightly worn out. She was carrying a ladies bag. Its strap had, at some point of time, been broken but then had been repaired by someone. Looking at the crude repair, one could guess that it was the girl herself who had done the repairs.

They went to a public garden and sat down in a corner. The sun was high in the sky and it was a dry day. Definitely not the best time to sit and talk love, he thought. They talked of their work and they talked of their life. Things were the same way as they always were. She was a secretary at a local run down business establishment. Her boss was constantly keeping her buried with more and more work without really giving her the salary she deserved. Recently he had tried making advances towards her and she had resisted. After that, her workload had increased and she had been threatened that she would lose her job if she complained. She put her hand in his and convinced him that it was alright. We need this job, she told him. We need the money.

Life was no different for him. He was a sales assistant at a local garment shop. Business was slow and his colleagues hated him. They thought he was the reason why their salaries were so low. An extra person to pay…it would be much better if his salary were to be split between us, they thought. Recently he had got into an argument with a colleague and they had beaten him up that evening as he was returning home. He still had a slight bruise under his left eye. But then again, he couldn’t really do anything about it. He was lucky to have a job after all.

The sun was shining directly on them. They got up and decided to go and eat something. As such, it was close to lunch hour and neither one of them had had anything to eat since morning. They walked through a market, hand in hand, his bag swinging behind him and her bag clasped close to herself. They crossed a few restaurants which were quite exquisite. He kept looking in, from the corner of his eye, and saw glimpses of laid out tables with waiters in suits standing by. He saw expensively dressed men and women sitting across each other in dimly lit dining halls. There were young people too, walking hand in hand, just like them. But of course looking at them, he felt a sharp pang of jealousy. They didn’t have to work day and night like him. They didn’t have to survive with two pairs of jeans and of course they did not have to send money back home out of the meager salary he got.

She understood his feelings and guessed the thoughts that were passing through his minds. She pressed his hands and his agitated face smoothened once again. They reached a roadside vendor and ate under the gaze of the afternoon sun. Restaurants and fancy dining was something they could only think of in their dreams. After dinner, they walked around in the market, stopping occasionally to look at a hand bag in one shop and to admire a dress in another. They never stepped into any of the shops. Their humble purse did not have spare cash enough for luxury. At one point, they both stopped to admire a purse that was on display. It was a lovely piece laid out in black, her favourite colour. After a while, they continued their strolling but he had seen it. He had noticed the glow in her eyes as she had stared at the back.

Someday, he said to himself. Someday I will ensure I buy for you everything that you want. I will work hard. I will get over this phase. I will buy a golden ring for you and then marry you. But at the same time, a tiny voice in his heart told him that it was an impossible dream that he was dreaming. He might be able to marry her, but to reach where he wanted to…it would be something short of a miracle. As they crossed the crowd, he heard young people of his age conversing. He overheard English conversation and accented voices and felt a jab at his heart. Rich brats, fancy schooling, flushed with money…he thought. How I would have excelled if I was in their place!

And thus they walked and talked until evening loomed up. They decided to take the metro back to their places so that they could spend some more time together. They entered the metro station and boarded the train. They stood in a corner, his hands around her shoulder, trying to shield her from the eyes of the neighbouring men. At one of the stops, she got a little impulsive and whispered something in his ears. They got down at the next stop.

The station was almost deserted. They stood at a point from where they could see the city from a height. She leaned on to him and put her head on his shoulder. He put a hand around her and wrapped her in his warmth. Together they stared out into the evening. He pointed a tall building to her. That’s where we will have a place together, he said and they smiled. She pointed out the horizon to him and asked him to promise that he would be faithful to her. He pointed out a home where there were two kids playing on the roof. They giggled and laughed at the children and she pointed out birds flying back home. The evening breeze gently caressed them and she huddled closer to him. He pressed her against him and pointed out the dying sun.

Suddenly, he heard a snorting sound and turned to see a couple walking away, giggling at them. He got angry but she consoled him. He heaved a deep sorrowful sigh but the moment was spoilt. He was angry at the world. He was angry at the couple who were perhaps returning after spending a romantic evening at a convenient place. They could not understand the emotions that were going on in his mind. Of course they would not understand what it felt to not be able to take your love to places but to resort to metro station for a brief moment’s privacy.

They boarded the metro again and three stations later she got down. She gave him a quick peck on his cheek and he watched as the metro door closed and she slowly became another face in the crowd. The metro continued moving and his thoughts were lost again. He was a common man. A common man…a few simple ambitions and a simple life. Was it really so hard? He remembered the couple that had killed his moment. Was the society so arrogant, so rude? Did he not have a right to simple joys in life? They had mocked a common man’s romance…but like everything else, he thought bitterly, he couldn’t really do anything…

Parekh, Pravesh

October 22, 2012; 03:50 AM

Before the Rain

He took a turn, the heavy bag slung on his shoulder swaggering as he walked swiftly. The sky was darkening and it might rain soon. He had an umbrella in his bag somewhere but he did not like getting wet in the rain. "Rain for the sake of photography is one thing, getting wet is another", he told himself with a grim tired smile on his face. In his mind, he was singing the lines of a song he had recently been obsessed with. His hand automatically gave a flick as his fingers danced subtly to the music in his head. "I may not know how to play the guitar or the drums but I sure can do whatever I feel like doing with my hands", he grinned to himself. He was in one of his "cheerful" moods when he didn't care about what others thought about him or considered his actions inept.

"Don't forget the bread!", his mind reminded him. He got into a bakery and got himself a loaf of bread. "Living alone is a pest sometimes",  he grumbled as he paid the cashier and said a small thank you. The cashier was too busy to care for his thanks.

As he stepped out of the bakery, he saw a girl outside the opposite shop. She was talking on the phone with someone. Her face was lit up in a cheerful smile and her black hair partially occluded her face. She was looking off into the distance while her hands toyed with the fruits that were kept in a basket outside the shop. She was wearing a white shirt and black trousers with casual slippers underneath. Probably just returned from work, changed her shoes and has come out to buy something, he thought. He was struck by her smile. Her fair face contrasted nicely with her hair and she was smiling that particular smile, which girls only show when they are talking to someone very close to them.

As he stood looking at her and her hands playing with the fruits, their master being unaware of their acts, she suddenly looked at him straight. Their eyes met for a brief time and then her smile faded away and the lines around her mouth, which a moment ago had been spread in a glorious smile, became firm. Her hands stopped their playing and she turned away from him in harsh anger. He was deeply embarrassed. He dashed away quickly to his place, his head hung low in shame and embarrassment.

That night as he stood by his window watching the rain pour down, he thought of her smile. He wanted to go to her and apologize. He wanted to go and tell her that she looked a lot like his sister...He longed for his sister. He longed for her friendship and her comforting presence. But she was far, far away from him buried under the earth with a looming tombstone over her grave. Unable to live at his home after her death, he had left the city, now living alone in a small room here.

He stood at the window, watching the rain splatter the earth below and stain the leaves. The bread loaf remained untouched on his table. He did not click any photographs that night...

~Parekh, Pravesh

June 05, 2012; 01:00 AM

On Her Anonymity...

Woke up this morning, with her thoughts in my mind. Had been dreaming about her. Memories from 14 years back. It wasn't a regular dream. All the while I was aware of the fact that I was dreaming but it wasn't like lucid dreaming. And the most weird aspect of it was that it made me recall a dream from 14-15 years back. And not just a dream...a dream about her again. Made me remember somethings which I had assumed I would have forgotten by now...

I had gone to sleep early, being bleary eyed and tired. And then her thoughts filled my mind for no apparent reason. We have not met in years and have not spoken to each other for as long as I can remember. But the dream was simple and even fun-filled. It was scheduled around 6 years back in time when both of us were in school (ironically, the same class). And we sat around casually talking about things that might happen, on uncertainties and of other matters including what would happen if I were to switch my school etc. Interestingly, I quoted a certain incident to her, something which had happened on a Saturday 9 years back: I had gone to give an entrance exam for a different school. 

In fact, I remember smiling to myself in my dream looking at the expression on her face and on the face of a friend of hers, thinking what it is like to be studying together for 12-14 years yet having nothing in common...hardly knowing each other.

Some 15 years back, we were good friends. We shared a common passion for an action cartoon series very popular in those days and passed the time between classes "playing" out self made stories about the series. I owned  a pencil box back then with characters from a different comic series printed on them (I have no idea why did I buy it because I have never watched that cartoon series ever...or maybe I never did buy it). That "box" was our portal to the typical landscape of such action based cartoons (or rather should I say cartoons which existed back in those days?). The thought about the pencil box made me think about a different pencil box which I would have never been able to recall in an awakened state.

And so we sat and talked. Curiously, the scene kept shifting between the stage in my school and a room back in my home (or rather the memory of what was once my home). We chatted with the pleasant familiarity of old friends who know each other well. There is no forced pleasantry and no unnecessary control exercised when talking. That reminded me (in my dream) of a dream I had 14-15 years back. It was regarding her again. She was never a part of it but it was about her.

The most ironical part of the dream was that both of us knew that we used to be great friends (when being a friend was simple) and that we had fought over a very trivial and stupid issue. Throughout the fact that we might have become good friends for "life" prevailed but was never a part of the direct chat. The dream later moved on to other things including the dead (or should I say the un-dead?) and other things (interestingly the major material of these were again from way back in time...12 years old?).

In retrospect, I realize that it could have been a dream about anyone. Not particularly her. Of course she was there in this one, but it might just easily have been anyone else too. The "shifting" scenes still made it more disconnected. In hindsight, I realize just how disconnected I have been with all almost all the people from my school days. Well of course nothing can be done now...

I woke up with my left eye creating the usual trouble. I stayed in the darkness for almost half an hour thinking about the entire dream. Why did I dream it? But of course there was no answer...but isn't that the most beautiful thing about dreams?

Maybe yes...maybe no...

~ Parekh, Pravesh

May 31, 2012; 5:30 AM

One Grey Morning

This is a story I wrote quite sometime back. The story is basically an attempt to capture the melancholy I was feeling when I had visited my home back in the December of 2009...

It was one of those days that made you feel depressed. You would get out of the bed and see no other colour than gray. Dull dark clouds gloomed in the sky and even the birds were huddled in the trees-neither willing to go out nor to chirp and talk among themselves. A gentle but cold wind was blowing and the leaves were swaying, gently enough, but the water droplets from last night’s rain would occasionally drip down on a passerby as if the trees could no more bear the weight of the misery of the world and were shedding silent tears.

The world was quiet. It was a weekend and hardly anyone was around. Occasionally the silence was broken by the sound of a car going around but even they did not make a lot of sound, afraid that the sullen silence would be broken. The atmosphere was tense. Silence overweighed the breakfast tables. It seemed as if everyone was waiting for something to happen. No one dared to make a lot of sound, afraid that if they did the tension would break and all the misery of the world would come pouring down on them in one torrential rain.

Occasionally the heavy clouds would let loose a soft shower, splattering the earth and just making the roads wet and then would stop as suddenly as they had started. The few passerbies would increase their pace and continue on to their journey-either to their home or else to some other mission of their own. The wind would sometimes pick up and bring with it sharp chills that would shake the trees to their core and make the passerbies cling more closely to their coat.

A wall separated a large ground from the world. Large tress adorned the ground and there were several well-trimmed hedges and bushes. Even from a distance one could see several marble figures, of angles and otherwise, devoted to the loving memories of departed souls. It was a cemetery. Under one of those large trees, a small group was huddled together, saying their last goodbyes to someone they had dearly loved. The ceremonies had just been finished and the visitors were leaving with polite nods and handshakes. There were some hugs and some more tears were shed. Some words were exchanged-mostly the relatives consoled the parents. After a while, there was no one but a man and his wife.

There was a circular platform constructed around the circumference of the tree for people to sit down. He sat down heavily on it while his wife lifted her already soaked handkerchief to her face. The world moved on but for the two, life had stopped. Time didn’t mean a lot to them at this point. He was a small man, balding hair and red eyes, probably the result of lack of sleep and his grief. His wife was slightly taller than him. Her eyes were also red and her face, once so pretty, was now shrunk in misery.

He was a stock broker and for him time had meant everything, but not right now. Having buried his only son, he thought that he could at least take a few days off and mourn. He wanted to spend a little time with his son now…something he hadn’t done in the past eight years. The epitaph read:

“In loving memory of our son
 Edward Conner
(1990-1998)”

*

The sun finally was out the next day. It had rained heavily last night and the ground was muddy. However, the dark clouds had departed and even the birds were out in the sky, chirping and looking for food. The heavy tense silence was broken. Horns and the sound of vehicles could be clearly heard. It seemed that everything had come to life after a day of inactivity.

James Conner sat on the chair, staring at the dining table, where his wife had just laid the breakfast. He didn’t move. His hands did not reach out for the toast or the glass of juice, like it did every morning. His wife looked at him from the kitchen, silently. She knew what he was going through. She was going through the same.

Every morning their son, Edward, would come and wish James and Helena, his mother, a good morning. They would in fact wait for him to rise and come to them. When Edward would have settled on his chair, next to James, with Helena on the other side, then only they would start eating. It was a small ritual that they had been following since a long time.

Helena came out of the kitchen and sat next to James, the seat opposite to the one that Edward took every morning. James pushed his plate away. Helena’s hands came out from somewhere under the table and she laid them gently on his. James didn’t look at her. He continued to stare at the plate that he had just pushed away. Neither of them had slept the entire night. They both had been sitting and the time had passed away slowly. They had nothing to talk about.

Helena recalled the scene three days earlier. They had been sleeping when Edward had knocked on their door. Helene had come out to find little Edward, shivering. He was very cold, he had explained. Helena had placed a hand on his forehead only to find that he had very high fever. By the time James had also come out of his sleep. They had taken Edward to a hospital. He was down with some infection, the doctor had explained. He had added that there was no need to worry and that the fever would be down by the morning. He had administered some anti-pyretic drugs and an antibiotic to fight against the infection. He had promised that it was something very normal. However, they both had been worried.

The next morning his fever was not down and when Helena and James awoke, they found him tossing in his bed, with a very high fever. They had called the doctor and the doctor had been alarmed at his condition. It was six in the morning. The doctor consulted with a few other doctors and they had given Edward some injection. The drugs they had given earlier had reacted and this had made his condition worse, he had explained. Helena had become hysterical by then. James had somehow managed to prevent her from attacking the doctor. Now she wished he had not.

The doctors had continued to give Edward some drug or the other but his condition became progressively worse. He died at nine.

Nine was the time when James usually left for his office. By then, obviously, Edward would have left for school. School, she recalled. When the school authorities had been informed about this, they had been shocked. Eight year old kid who had celebrated his birthday last month. Edward had been popular in his class…his entire class had come to the Conner residence to pay their last respect to someone who might have grown to be a great friend…

The undertaker had done a fine job with poor Edward’s body. They had asked him to dress their son in a suit they had bought for him on his birthday last month. He looked like a perfect little gentleman in the coffin at his wake. His blond hair were combed and his face looked almost radiant, but not for Helena and James. They could only see the pain in which he had died…away from his mother and father…the two people in whom he had placed his entire trust…only to lose…

The coffin was filled on both sides with flowers. It had been a terrible time for both of them. As more and more people came, they offered their cold and empty words. Words that could heal no wounds…only inflict more pain…they talked about Edward and the little time they had spent with him. However, the worst part was when the kids had come. Edward’s entire class and all his teachers had come to their home. Several of the kids had started crying when they saw Edward in that small box.

*

James was thinking about how he had never spent enough time with his son. He thought of all the times when he had been away when his son had needed him. He was filled with regret and remorse. But what could he do? There was nothing he could…he recalled how once he had taken a little time off and had gone to Edward’s school to witness a small play that the kids were performing. Edward had been a part of it. He recalled how his son had been so happy when he had turned up. James couldn’t have seen his son happier and at that moment he had vowed that he would make it a habit to be there for his son…but promises are meant to be broken, he thought bitterly.

His work didn’t demand him to be away from his home till late night but apart from being a stock broker, he also owned a store which took up his entire evening time. By the time he would come back from the store, Edward would already be asleep. The only distinctive memories that James had of his son were the ones when Edward was either sick or of his birthdays. Whenever Edward had been sick in the past, James had made sure that he would be there with his son. On all seven birthdays James had made it a point to be with Edward for the entire day. Except the last birthday when there had been some very important clients who had come to meet him and he couldn’t make it back on time for his birthday party. He recalled that Helena had called him and asked him to come as quickly as possible because Edward refused to cut the cake “till daddy is here.” It all seemed so far away…

They both sat there for some time, staring into the void. There were no words and the tears that streamed down Helena’s eyes were silent. The only sounds to break the silence were the distant horns and the steady clicking of the hands of the clock. Time didn’t stop.

There was a soft knock on the door. Helena and James both remained sitting till there was a second knock when James got up, as if waking up from a dream. He went to open the door. It was the postman. The postman handed him a small envelope and hurried away. It seemed that he had a clue as to the tragedy that had fallen on the family. He hadn’t waved to James, as he usually used to do when James opened the door.

James closed the door and turned around. He looked at the envelope and a grim and painful smile crept over his face. It was a bill. A bill from the undertaker…life, it seemed, goes on…

May 23, 2010-May 26, 2010                   Pravesh Parekh