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.