Crimson Dawn

A dream en route from Bangalore to Delhi

It was crimson. Dawn was just breaking. The sky was patched with orangish flames and deepest of blacks. Clouds hung about. The air was cool. In the faint light, the patches of grass on the ground were as black as the earth. I do not remember who were travelling with me, but they were familiar faces. People I had travelled with, before. Perhaps as a child, going to the school. The path was familiar too. The same road I had travelled with the same people for fourteen years of my school life. Yet the moment did not inspire warmth. Nor comradeship. It was as if the morning air chilled every emotion. There was a sense of unease I detected in myself as my eyes scanned the ground, catching patches develop shapes as my eyes adapted more to the faint light. My unease turned to dread.

It was only last night that I was here. There was a three day black metal concert being organized at the spot. My companions and I had not been able to secure tickets. We had stood outside for a while, listening. Of course we were not alone. Several others stood with us, scanning the list of bands that would be playing on the remaining two nights. And though I do not believe in God, I remember having remarked that a “God-like” band would be playing the next night. The place had been very much alive last night, I thought, as my eyes scanned the horizon with increasing dread.

I had already seen it. Even before the others had a clue. Even before anyone else had a clue. How or why it took them so long to find out what had happened was something I do not understand. The patches of black on the ground were bodies impaled with spears and sticks. There were severed heads mounted on pikes. The arena where the concert was taking place last night was burnt to cinders. There were ghastly outlines of bodies lying around. I knew they were dead, even as my fellow travellers saw what had happened and let out gasps. It seemed that the vehicle we were in was travelling in a panoramic fashion. It led us closer to the burnt arena. I could see that the bodies were piled thicker ahead. Mercifully it took another path.

By now I could gauze and understand that the heads and the bodies were of boys not more than 25. They were faces I had seen going inside the arena last night. We crossed a pile. There were arms and legs sticking out of a shroud made of tarpaulin. People stood nearby, in shock. Some were severely injured, their faces bloodied. Perhaps survivors of whatever had transpired last night. Suddenly someone led out a terrible gasp. It was too loud and echoed all around. Apparently they had found another shroud of tarpaulin from under which dozens of severed heads rolled out. There was a haunting, howling sound all through the while in the background.

I woke up sometime later to the same sound. The sound of an injured animal yelping mixed with the sounds of a faraway ambulance, the crying of dogs at night and other similar sounds that can sometimes get dreadfully disturbing. I woke up to the sound of a train passing through the outskirts of some forgotten place in the dark of the night.

- Parekh, Pravesh

December 19, 2013; 12:30 PM

Cartoon

She was walking slowly, feeling more tired than ever. Her young son kept poking and pestering her to walk faster. She smiled at his youth and his energy. The pavement was crowded. She stopped for a minute to catch her breath. Her son stopped somewhere ahead and turned back to look at his mother, with love yet with a playful expression, as if challenging her to beat him in a race to reach the destination. He was ten years old, a thin lad, slightly angular face, large eyes, a slightly flat nose. An average boy. He was carrying a bag and she could make out his hands strained at carrying the bag.

She beckoned to him to come near her. He came and she took the bag from him. She could feel the spirits of her son lighten as the thin muscles of his arms gave a relieved sigh. She smiled at him. He happily ran ahead, with new found energy. She lifted the bag and started walking again. Something was wrong…she had never been so tired before.

Her son was turning back constantly, beckoning for her to hurry up lest he would miss his favourite cartoon on the television. She was content at seeing his energy. He would grow up to be a fine young man. She was sure he would have good values and would do well in life. Though his teachers spoke of his mischievous behaviour in class, she was confident he would get over it and begin to concentrate on his studies and excel in life ahead. She did not expect him to top in classes but she know him to be intelligent and with a quick learning ability. She had spotted his eyes widen in surprise and wonder when he would watch the cartoons on the television. Perhaps he would get into the creative line, she thought. He would perhaps be the first one in the entire family to break the tradition of being another businessman.

Was it really that he was running fast or was something too wrong with her? True, she had the bag to carry but then she had always been to the market with her son, carrying the shopping bag back always. She felt a pain somewhere inside her. She would have to go see a doctor. Or perhaps she would just lie down on the bed for some time and then have a cup of tea later. That might equally be effective and she would not have to pay the doctor’s exorbitant fees.

They had to cross a road ahead. He stood there impatiently, waiting for her and equally waiting for the lights to change. Home was close and so was the urge to rush to the television. The traffic signal changed. He did not wait for the vehicles to stop completely. In he darted like an expert and within seconds of brilliant manoeuvring through the vehicles, he was on the other side, impatiently waiting for his mother.

She had seen him jump into the traffic and had broken into a trod, trying to catch up. She saw him reach the other side and heaved a satisfied sigh. He had not come to any harm. She increased her pace. The signal would change soon. She started to cross the road and then halfway through, she felt a sharp stabbing pain in her chest. The bag fell on the road, spilling its contents on the road, including the chocolates she had secretly purchased for him to give as a surprise later. She collapsed on the road, withering in pain.

He ran over to her as a crowd gathered nearby. Someone shouted to another to call an ambulance. None would be needed as she looked at her son staring at her with concern and tears in his eyes. She breathed her last. He sat kneeling next to her mother as the crowd thickened. People were shouting and someone started crying. 

The cartoon episode would be missed…but that did not cross through his mind…

- Parekh, Pravesh

October 18, 2013; 12:26 AM

Lost...

It was a dark evening. He was driving his car on a lonely stretch of road, way beyond the city, on a way to nowhere. It was a single lane road, trees lining on each side. Old weather beaten trees with leaves shed to the season, a silent offering of withered branches that rose up to the sky and closer to the hint of the moon beyond dark clouds. It was eerily beautiful, the kind of beauty one would not appreciate on a bright day but only on dark nights with the pale cold light of the moon beating down on the face of earth. The kind of dark beauty that would make a shudder run down your spine, yet you would be forced to watch, charmed. The kind of night when you would expect the Three Witches to fashion their charm with ingredients ‘silvered in the moon’s eclipse’.

He looked outside the car’s window, engulfing the sights in, letting it sink down in his throat and swell up inside him, till he felt elated and at the same time heavier than the load of Atlas. He was drowning and rising at the same time, thoughts going over each other as water waves in a tumultuous river, flooded by torrential rains. He did not really know what he was thinking, yet he knew what he was thinking about.

He had been feeling heavy all week long and at the first moment had gone for a long drive. It was a stretch he knew well from his days back then when he was carefree, had friends, back in the days of college. He thought back of the times when he had driven over this stretch of road, with friends who were now distant, with colleagues he had now not seen in years, with friends of friends he barely recalled, and her…his soon to be wife.

The density of trees increased. They were closer to him, creeping on to him as the enveloping darkness surrounded him as the car passed ahead, the two lights being the sole illumination. The moon was completely behind the clouds now. For a moment he contemplated about the consequences if someone or rather something suddenly stepped out of the dense copse of trees and stood in front of his car. He was sure he would run the thing down and would not stop to look back. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he always had a certain apprehension about ‘things’ that existed out of time and space. Not that he believed in them, but at moments such as this, the fear came back to him. Like the ghost of the mistress he never had, tantalizing him with outstretched hands, so close yet far.

He continued to drive at a steady speed, lost in thoughts, a couple of fingers lightly working on the steering wheel, his elbow resting on the window, his gaze sweeping from road to the trees, his mind answering to the calling of the leafless branches, outstretched to him. He thought of life and the way it had been going. He thought of the dreams that were lost now, the energies drained out, the frown lines deepening on his forehead, the darkness under his eyes. He thought of the vision he had during school and college, his days of childhood that he barely recalled, his family to whom he spoke once a week for ten minutes on the phone. And he thought of the days ahead. Days to come. Ghosts of a Future Lost. Ghosts of Things to Come. Like Mansell’s haunting composition…Requiem for a Dream.

His cell phone, which was on the passenger seat, lit up. His fiancé was calling. He was glad he had put it on vibrate. He did not want the quiet of the night to be disturbed. He half-stared at the phone, vibrating. Then he stretched his hands to the phone, let his fingers touch the screen and slide down slowly, as if caressing the name on the display. The call was not answered. The display was dark again. He removed his hands. He kept driving into the darkness that lay outstretched in front of him.

Sometime later the path ahead spread out and the road became wider. He knew he had reached the outskirts. He would be coming to a café soon. He drove the car off the road and slid it in behind another car parked and got out. It was one of those places where he could sit for a while and no one would bother him. It had outdoor seating arrangement. He sat down. There was a family sitting somewhere ahead. Husband, wife, a daughter and a son. The kids were little. He looked at them playing around and laughing and a grim smile passed over his face. 

He took out his lighter and lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply as his eyes blurred a little. He stared beyond the little kids laughing, the light in the eyes of the wife, the smile on the husband’s face. He started into infinity.

Sometime later he got up and left a few notes on the table. Then he got into the car and drove away, glancing for one last time at the family still enjoying themselves at the place. Must be returning from a long drive. He knew he would never ever meet them again. For we are all travellers, from coast to coast, from sea to land…

He would call her later tonight. Or maybe tomorrow. Sometime. He did not know…

- Parekh, Pravesh

October 17, 2013; 07:27 PM

Agony of Words

Rest your head here

You have walked many miles

Drink some of cold water

And gently loosen a sigh.

Rest your head here

You have seen many a days

Weary are your hands

And your hair is turning white.

Rest your head here

See how the summer sun glows

Your eyes are bleary

And your cheeks are hollowed out.

Rest your head here

Gentle is the moonlight

Calm your sullen thoughts a while

And ease out into the night.

Rest your head here

You have been parched too long

Starlight you have not seen

And have waited night to morn.

Rest your head here

The world is gone

You may have had great dreams

And may not have seen the storm.

Rest your head here

It has been raining too strong

Sorrow has crept in

And bitterness frails your form.

Rest your head here

I have been waiting for long

You have craved for company

And cheerlessly you have frowned.

Rest your head here

Your words are not strong

Let your pen rest a while

Tomorrow there is no dawn.

- Parekh, Pravesh

October 1, 2013; 03:13 PM

School

He stood outside his school. Several years had gone by since the last time he had stepped in. It was late afternoon and the place was strangely deserted. He stood outside the main gate, the large red coloured building in front of him. It was not an architectural marvel. It was a plain red coloured building, spanning in a rectangle, running around a central garden with classrooms on all four sides. It was the way he remembered it. The main gate was split into three parts, two large parts and one smaller gate built into one of the larger parts. Given the time of the day, the larger parts were closed, for there would not be anyone coming in and out. Only the smaller part was open. Again, just the way he remembered it. Surprisingly, there were no guards. He stepped through the grey coloured main gate. The entire place was silent. There were no bicycles in the cycle stand. The canteen was closed. “Strange”, he thought to himself.

There were two entrances to the school. The main gate which was located further ahead and a smaller one close by where one could enter passing through a small collapsible channel gate. He saw someone come out of the side entrance and stood there looking at him. He could not discern the face at the distance (for the entrance was at some distance from the main gate) but the stance and the outline looked familiar. He walked a little more and realized that it was his friend, perhaps one of the earliest friends he had from his school days. He walked ahead to meet him. He was delighted to see his friend. They had not met in years. His face showed pleasant happiness but no surprise. It had just a little trace of smile, yet it was not serious. They met without exchanging any words. “What was his friend doing here? What was going on?” he thought.

They stepped inside the school through the side entrance. There was a long corridor with classrooms on each side. In the first glance, nothing had changed since his days at the school. Yet as they stepped into one of the classrooms, he realized that it had been converted into a guest room. “Weird! Why should they have a guest room in the middle of the school?” he mused, but he did not say anything to his friend.

There were two people in the guest room. A young girl and a middle-aged man, who he understood to be her father. The girl was standing on one side, the man standing next to a wash basin, brushing his teeth. “This is insane!” he thought to himself, as they both stood and saw the man brush his teeth, while the daughter stood there, as if she were a statue. He turned his attention to the man. On closer inspection he found that his skin was loose and soft, the first markings of approaching old age. He was wearing faded khaki coloured trousers and a vest. He had a long face, balding hair, and a protruding stomach. His arms were fleshy, the loose skin being more prominent as he moved his hands slowly while brushing his teeth. He did not turn his attention to the daughter.

“Something is wrong”, he thought. ”Why are we here? I need to tell him something. Something is terribly wrong here” he thought, but could not bring himself to any action. His attention was caught by the reflection of the man in the mirror. Something about the way the toothbrush was moving. He could not exactly place his finger on what but there was a sickening sinking feeling in his guts. The man finished brushing his teeth. There was a slab of stone right below the base of the mirror, on which he placed the toothbrush. He rinsed his mouth and then turned to him and his friend.

The toothbrush! The reflection was not next to it, but almost towards the middle of the mirror! He pointed at it, at a loss of words. The sickening sinking feeling made him realize he was in trouble. The daughter moved to her father’s side. They both saw the reflection and took a step back, closer to the exit and closer to his friend. The toothbrush had a cap to keep the bristles from dirt etc. The reflection in the mirror began to move up and down, imitating the action of the man who was no longer brushing his teeth. Then the cap began to move, as if trying to say something.

He was scared now. What the hell was going on? He took a step back as the reflection began to take the shape of a skull. Then the man’s face was gone and it too was replaced by a skull, their jaws moving, as if trying to say something. Or perhaps laughing at him. He opened his mouth to shout but no words came out.

He jerked out of sleep, sitting up in the bed, the visions of a laughing skull disappearing into the darkness of the room. His face was covered in sweat. By the way the street light was filtering in through the curtains and on the wall he knew it was 5 in the morning. There was absolute silence. He hit the switch board and the lights flickered on. He sat, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. He knew there would be no more sleep for him. He sat around in silence, the second hand of the clock ticking away. He usually liked the sound but for the moment, it was unnerving.

“What did it all mean? Who was the man? Why was I there? Where did that friend come in from? What was he doing there? Who was the girl?” and so on…questions that would haunt him…answers, he would never get…

- Parekh, Pravesh

October 1, 2013; 06:00 AM

Through Their Eyes

They had a dream
They had a vision
To be happy and serene
To live for each other
To cherish each other.
They had Their home
Built after times turbulent
Had two sons born
The sun smiled on both of them.
They had a small garden
Lush green grass to soothe
For their sons to play
And serenades of the night.
But snakes turned up in them
Poisoning the blades of grass
Oh, what of the swing
And of their thought?
Cut was the grass
The snakes hissed their last.
They had flowers in winter
Bright, large, and beautiful
Yet they had fragrance not
And the winter rose blossomed not.
Down came torrential rain
Beating down the wooden swing
It survived not the harsh weather
Their sons never played on it.
They had tendrils and creepers
Running over Their home
Yet prying eyes fell on them
Dark glances that left their mark.
Their sons they had thought
Would love each other
Enjoy each other’s company
And be companions through age.
Quarrel they did not much
Yet moved their individual ways
Love they did each other
Such love that is never shown.
Soon life marked them in melancholy
And scarred them with its breath
As They watched in oblivion
Knowing not as they moved farther apart.
Still They had each other
Life and dream so far apart
Fortune scorned benevolently
As misfortune painted its grey
Survive They did through that
Their dreams marred with time
Their sons now poles apart.
Attempt they did many
To dream new dreams
Melancholy always moving closer
Shadowing the summer sun
Fogging out the winter warmth.
Through Their eyes
Lost, broken, and shattered
Simple loving dreams of joy
Sighing away everyday
AS the distance in their eyes
Inching closer everyday
They know it in Their heart…

- Parekh, Pravesh

September 26, 2013; 05:17 AM

The Dance

He gazed into her eyes as the tune picked up. He gazed into her eyes with such intensity, such an imploring look, yet at the same time distant and aloof. A mix of love and careless arrogance. Her eyes glinted in acknowledgment to love. They did not register the aloofness. His fingers clasped around hers as she placed her left hand on his shoulders. They had picked up the tune. Slowly they began to move, his left foot forward, she taking a graceful one, stepping behind. Demurely at first, and then flowing naturally, left and right then together and back again. And over again, as her steps gracefully matched his, his shinning black shoes in stark contrast to her light coloured ones. His loving yet cold eyes washed over her as she leaned back a little and then when she turned, her hands holding his, her gown flowing all about her, her face radiant, eyes overflowing with love, her cheeks flushed, everyone began to applaud. The first dance was done. Couples from all parts of the hall moved over, their young eager faces, bright eyes, elegant dresses and highly polished shoes, beaming at each other, as the musicians breathed life to music and the ever over brimming romance gave way to waltz.

In his right hand was a rocks whisky glass. When everyone had been applauding the first dance, he had not done the same. He remained sitting, watching the couple and after the applauses had settled down, he lifted his glass a little, an indication to have another one. The act was carried out instantaneously. He sat there watching the couples dance, the musicians at work, the bustle of activity, the flashes of white among the black tail coats, as ladies turned around, the smiles on their faces, the reddening cheek, as they finished the box and started over again. His cold eyes gazed over them, the hand holding the glass, steady, as steady as his eyes, fixed and staring. His face had a severity about it; his hair smoothened on his head, combed backward. He was clean shaved, his slightly long nose adding to the general harshness to his face. Yet beyond the initial impression, one could see that it was a handsome face after all. His eyes and hair made his face look more severe than it actually was. There was a single line on his forehead, a little too clearly marked, yet not deep. His face was rigid, his jaw firmly set, his entire frame not moving, save for the movement of his hands to his lips and back. Almost mechanical.

He had loved her. God! How much he had loved her. And he still did. Through the rich brownish colour of whiskey, he saw them moving. He had loved her madly. And she had reciprocated his love. He had been courting her and they were about to be engaged. Only that another man, his rival, was trying to woo her too. She was not keen on him, regarded his jealousy lightly and laughed at the silly young man trying to entice her away from the one whom she was about to get engaged to. Oh, she was beautiful. Lovely large black eyes, her chestnut brown hair, curling a little, her pretty face, radiant. He was enchanted by her, crazed in her presence, and craving when alone. He loved everything about her. Two days before they were to announce their engagement, he had escorted her back to her home and then had been on his way back home when the accident happened. He was lost in her thoughts, too deep into reverie to pay attention to what was happening around him. That was when he was struck by an out-of-control motorcar. He was told later that he would never ever walk again.

His eyes twitched a little but his face did not show any emotion. It was almost three months since he had come back from the hospital, on a wheelchair. Of course their engagement had been called off. She had come the next day, a day before they were supposed to get engaged, and he had clutched her hands and told her that he would be condemned to a life on wheelchair. She had not come to see him again after that day. A few days after coming back from the hospital, he heard the news of her engagement to his rival. And now he was sitting in the wheelchair, the first dance being over, drinking to her and to his own silent misery. He loved her still. Badly. Madly. Yet she was someone else’s now. His entire life torn apart.

He saw them again. They had moved to the center of the dance floor, almost still. Couples danced all around her, the faster ones to the outside, the slower ones towards the inner side. Yet in the center, he could only see them. She was flushed. Her hands rested on his shoulders, just the way they rested on his when she was tired after taking a walk. “You are fickle, my dear” he whispered to himself, a harsh smile on his face, his eyes cold yet loving. He could never hate her. He only had love for her. A while back when she had passed him, on her way to the dance, he had smelled her perfume. The sweet overpowering smell that he had always loved. The only smell in the world that consumed him. A smell he could never drive out of his mind. That had been the only moment when his hands shook a little, the ice in the glass making a slight “clink”. She had not noticed, of course, her hands in his, walking away as admiring eyes followed them.

Her face was very close to his now. He was whispering something to her. She looked at him radiantly and almost nestled her face in his, giving him a quick peck on his cheek, before letting her head rest on his shoulders. He gently rocked her to the tune of the music, his hands holding her...and when music arose with its voluptuous swell, soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again.

He lifted two of his left fingers a little. An indication that it was time. He was wheeled away by his attendant, his eyes fixed on her, as she lay in his arms. He smiled, a cold smile. “I had my dance with you my love, your first dance was with me…even before him…”

- Parekh, Pravesh

September 17, 2013; 02:01 AM

Men

“Ha ha ha!” she leaned back on the chair, laughing. “Come now! You don’t mean to say that you simply stood there and watched him leave!”

“I tell you just as it was. I was sitting reading a book when he comes back from work. His eyes are flashing and his brow is furrowed. I look at him and know in an instant that he wants to confess something. He always had this look whenever he wanted to confess something. Not the typical school-boy-found-guilty look but a look that seemed to say that he was as confused as he could be. 

“That evening I could tell that he was troubled. He had something on his mind. I asked him if everything was alright. He nodded. His eyes did not meet mine. I knew something was terribly wrong. I kept asking him yet he did not say a word. He went into the bedroom and I thought I would give him a break for a while. Then I put the dishes on the table, called him out for dinner and he would not come. I was almost about to lose my patience. What on earth was wrong with him? I was about to give him a final call when he walked out of the bedroom. 

“He had not changed but had rolled his sleeves upwards, as if he had been busy doing something. There were beads of sweat on his face. I did not say anything. I knew he hated being bugged about something for too long. He sat down to eat and I served him food. Then suddenly he set the fork down and looked at me briefly saying ‘the food is good’. I was almost mortified.  He never praised my cooking! That would mean something huge was on his mind.

“Then out of the blue he remarked that he was having an affair with someone and was leaving me! I stood there in shock, staring at him in disbelief. He had said it while eating and continued to eat while I stood for a few seconds not ready to believe what he had said. It is true we were never in love but such gross outrageous dismissal! Then my temper got the better of me. He had praised the food because he thought it would take the sting out of his words! How foolish? Was this the extent to which he knew me!

“’Out’, I shouted! ‘Don’t you sit there eating you horrible pig! Get out right now! I don’t want to see your face ever again, you hog, you swine, you brute, you…’

“There is no need to shout. My bag is packed. I am leaving” he said.

“I stood there in disbelief as he got up from the chair, washed his hands, went into the bedroom and came out with his bags. He stopped in the doorway and gave me one last look. For a moment I thought he would come and give me a hug. Then he went out and never came back. I was so relieved he did not come for that hug! I swear I would have killed him then and there with my bare hands!”

“You are a very strong woman, Ms. ------“, she said, “I had the most terrible and horrible time when he left. I was standing there crying like an abandoned baby.”

“Oh really? Tell me all about it?”

“Well there isn’t much to say. We were married for almost five years then. We first met in the school corridor. He used to live near my home but we had never as such met before. I was madly in love with him and used to crave just to see him. Later we got married. Earlier on he was keen on me, but with time, he became a little tired of everything. I guess all men are this way. Once they get married, their love for their wives withers away. 

“It was the same in our case. However, my love for him grew stronger every day. The result was that he found me too overbearing. He found excuses to stay away from home. For all this, I forgave him. I could understand that he was not the romantic types and that my dreams of a spring romance were as quickly over as our courtship days had. But I never suspected that he would cheat on me. Like so many other women, I was mistaken in believing that having a child would keep him anchored.

“With time, he began to stay away from home more and more. When at home, he would criticize my cooking, make fun of me, and humiliate me if we had visitors. I took it all patiently, for he was still the man whom I loved. I turned a blind eye to all of it. For the sake of the love that I had for him, and for the sake of our child, I never retaliated. I never complained.

“One fine day, he just came back from work, the very same way as yours Ms. ------, we had an argument. In hindsight I realized that it was deliberate. He came back tired and a little drink. I told him not to wake Sarah up – you have met my daughter Sarah, have you not Ms. ------? – for the child would be uncomfortable with the smell of alcohol on his lips. He lost his temper and struck me in the face. I stood there frozen in shock. He had never raised his bands on me before. I started to cry.

“He went inside but came back minutes later, angry. He wanted food. I served him, while tears kept falling. He ate a morsel or two and angrily banged the table. ‘Have I really married an absolute worthless creature as you? You can’t even cook!’ Then in a moment of anger, he threw away the plate in a corner as I stood trembling and crying. ‘I can’t take it anymore. You are stupid! You are ugly! I hate you. I never loved you. I had only married you for money which you never had. I can’t stay with you a minute longer. You can go to hell, for all I care. I am leaving you.

“I stood there in shock as he went in the bedroom and started to throw his belongings into a travel bag. I begged him, I clutched his hands and legs, I apologized...but he just brushed me away. When I approached him again, he almost kicked me away. I lay on the floor, whimpering and crying, as he kept packing with a malicious smile on his face. I begged him, my voice broken by sobs, to stay but he did not even listen to me. When he started to move towards the door, I crawled and held his legs. I told him that I loved him. I told him that I would amend my ways. I begged him to stay, if not for me, but for Sarah.

“At this point he turned and looked at me. ‘Do you think I really care for either one of you? I have a mistress. I have always had a mistress all these years. I am going to her. You say you love me. You are nothing but a fool. And you know what? I never ever loved you or cared for you.

“With these words he stepped out of the door. It was raining. In spite of all that he had said, I followed him outside, crying madly, begging him not to leave. He put his bags in the car trunk and got into the car. I ran towards him but he locked the door from inside. Then he put the key in the ignition and drove away. I ran a little behind him but he sped away. I stood there like an idiot, weeping in the rain. It was raining very heavily. I was completely soaked. I don’t know how long I stood there, hoping he would come back. Of course, he didn’t. As I stood there weeping in the rain, there was a gently nudge on my hand. Little Sarah had come out. I gathered her and ran back inside, for she would have fallen sick…”

Both the women sat in silence. Certainly not the story one would share at an ice cream parlour. After the while the other woman broke the silence. “Well I am sure you are over him now. Look at you! Strong independent woman, looking after your daughter, running this place all by yourself. I am proud of you, dear.”

She acknowledged her compliment with a smile. “Would you like to have some more ice-cream?” she asked after a while.

“No! No! Not at all darling! I have to go! I have some things to take care of. I didn’t realize it was this late.”

Both the women hugged. “Hope to see you around soon Ms------“, she said. “See you dear. You take care” the other woman replied before walking off at a brisk pace, her hand bag dangling in her wake.

“You too”, she said slowly before sitting down again. “Strong independent woman”, she repeated. “Am I?” she asked herself. Just then Sarah came out from the door that led into her home and sat down near her, playing with her doll. She placed a hand on the child’s head and caressed her hairs. Her lips began to tremble a little as a mist grew on her eyes. To sit there pretending that she was a strong woman, pretending that she was over him, accepting and even laughing at herself. But truth be spoken, she longed for him. She still wanted him to come back to her. She sat there, biting her lower lip to keep the tears from coming. She still remembered him driving away. Oh the lies! She had told Sarah that her father had gone abroad and would come back soon. Oh how she hated herself for loving him! The price of love, she thought.

As she sat there fighting her tears back, Sarah asked her a question which she had asked a number of times in the past. “Mummy? When is Daddy coming back?” All those times she had always answered her. With proud defiance. Not today. She couldn’t hold them back anymore. Tears fell from her eyes as she gathered Sarah in her arms and wept freely. Like she had then…the sky darkened…it would rain…

- Parekh, Pravesh

September 10, 2013; 10:33 PM

P.S: The inspiration of Men lies in a certain image in my mind that I have been courting for almost one and a half years now. An image that I witnessed almost every day (near the place where I was staying in Bangalore, India) of a lady sitting in a newly opened, dimly lit, ice cream parlour, with a child playing in the background. She always sat near the entrance of her shop, on the floor, watching the world go by, with a sad look about her eyes. There were hardly any customers. I know I have not done any justice to the image that is there in my mind, yet I do hope you would write back and tell me of what you think about what I have written. Thank You!

Dream House

He scorned as he climbed the narrow flight of stairs. On the walls that were almost closing onto him, someone had scrawled in a childish handwriting “Dream House”. He noticed it only once and suppressed the desire to laugh out loud. The man, leading him, stopped and turned around, looking at him inquisitively as if to know the reason of laughter. He shook his head and asked him to continue leading the way. “Dream House! Why not? In such a dingy place, up this narrow staircase! Of course…would be a dream worth nothing”, he thought to himself. Even before he had seen the place, he had made his mind up. He would not be renting this place. He could not stay in such a place. It was almost cramped.

The real estate’s agent’s representative stopped awkwardly as if he was about to show the world’s most beautiful place to him. He turned around and said, “This way Sir!”. “As if there is any other way”, he thought in his head as he followed the representative, walking along a cramped corridor. The apartment was at the end of the corridor. The representative unlocked the door and let him in. The moment he stepped in, he felt a little change in the air. He almost thought he smelled a long lost perfume. For a moment he stood at the entrance, staring into the darkness while the representative felt along the wall, found the switch board and then flicked the lights on. He squinted and thought for a while. There was a slight charm to the place. No, it wouldn’t do. No, it certainly would not.

*

“And there, darling, we can place the dressing table so that there is sun in the morning while you get ready for work. Would you like that?” she asked, leaning on his arms as she examined the room. He nodded his assent, squeezing her arms. Then she leaned away from him, as if dragging him by her weight on his arms. “And there”, she said excitedly, “there we will have a large painting decorating the wall”. He leaned closer and whispered something in her ears. Her eyes lit up as she looked at him and beamed. “Yes! When we shall go to M----- we will buy the painting from there. Oh, what a genius you are! Very well thought”.

They moved around the two room apartment that they were considering buying. The real estate agent walked behind them, smiling inwardly. “Almost a sure buy. I will just have to wait for them to say a yes, get the money, and then can go back home, grab a beer and watch television”, he thought to himself.

“And our child…he can have this room. I am sure he would love to see the morning sun from this window”, she said. Then she leaned very close to him and whispered confidentially in his ears, “do you want a boy or a girl, darling?” He frowned a little. Certainly not the best place for the question but then relaxed. He knew how much it meant to her that they were buying a place for themselves. She was absolutely in love with this place. “I would love to have a darling little daughter as beautiful and pretty as you” he whispered back, watching in amazement as a hint of rose colour developed on her cheek and her eyes lit up. They signed the papers and paid the money the same day.

*

As he was climbing down, he felt drawn to the scrawl on the wall. He let his fingers caress it for a moment and felt as if someone was singing. Then it was gone. He stepped out of the building and turned to the representative. “No, it won’t do. I told you! I need a good well-furnished place. Not some…” he could not get himself to say the word. Something prevented him from saying a derogatory word. Perhaps the inscription on the wall. For a moment he thought of why someone would have written it. Then he forgot all about it and went off with the representative to look at another place.

What he did not know and what no one told him was this:

A couple had purchased the apartment and had moved in. They were young and had little money, most of which was spent on the apartment. Yet, they had managed to decorate their little home beautifully. Modestly yet tastefully, they had purchased every single thing in their home and every morning when she dusted the flower vase or straightened the picture on the wall, her fingers were extra careful for they knew that all of them were irreplaceable. At least for the next few years.

They had no support of their families. They had married against their will and were disowned by their families. Of course it did not matter much for they loved each other very much. He was bound to get a promotion soon, so that would slightly balance the recent shortage of money that they were facing, their savings exhausted by the recent purchases.

A few months later she gave birth to their daughter. Life seemed to be going good for them. He had received his promotion and they were getting out of their money troubles, starting to replenish their savings fund. One fine evening as she sat waiting for her husband to come back, playing with her daughter, there was a violent knocking on the door. It was a nearby shopkeeper. He was in a state of panic, his eyes wild and almost teary. There were beads of sweat on his face. Almost like cold sweat. Her husband had met with an accident very close to their home and had died on spot.

She never recovered from the shock. She was heartbroken and devastated even months after his death. Life dragged on for her and eventually she was left without any money. Her daughter was growing up. She had to get her enrolled in a school. She had to ensure she is well fed and lives properly. With no help forthcoming, she started to sell off the possessions in their house one by one. Not that it fetched her any reasonable amount of money. And then one day she found herself with nothing save the bare minimum of possessions. It was then that she had decided to sell her home.

Compared to the place she was staying in, the place she was moving to was a hovel. A hole in the vastness of the city, a place where nothing moved and nothing happened. A damp, dirty and smelling hole. Her last evening at this place, she was sitting on the narrow staircase, broken and devastated as tears streamed down her face. For a moment she had hoped that he would come back, just as he did like the days in the past. Her daughter sat near her, playing with a bit of broken black crayon. She had made a mark on the wall. She picked her daughter and made her sit on her lap. Then she gently held her daughter’s hand. She guided her daughter’s hands to write the words that were in her mind. Her daughter. His only token of love left with her, save her broken heart. Tears fell from her eyes as her daughter wrote in her child-like scrawl…Dream House.

- Parekh, Pravesh

September 4, 2013; 10:25 PM

Broken Glass

She was looking outside her window at the park right across the street. It was 6 in the evening. She did not have anything important to do this evening, so she had taken a chair near to the window and was looking outside. There were children playing in the park. They were playing a game of Cricket. She was amused and got herself a cup of coffee to sit down and watch them play.

A match was about to start. The boys had split into two teams and were pitched against each other. It was an interesting distribution. Some small ones, some bulkier. But all of them kids. Little boys, she thought with a smile on her face. Such fierce competition! One boy was wearing a cap and looked like the captain of one team. He had the look of someone who was about to take the most important decision of his life. Toss had happened. He had won. "Bat" she said softly. They chose to bowl first. She grinned to herself.

She looked on as the boys played, smiling at the delivery of one and jerking back in surprise at a brilliant catch the other one took. The match went on amidst shouts and laughter from the boys. Even when they jeered at each other or were angry at their batsman who did not hit any boundaries, it was all fun and play. The evening rolled on. Her cup of coffee was almost over. She thought she was going to drift off to sleep while watching the boys play.

Just then it happened. A tall boy was on the strike. She saw him hit the ball and it was an excellent hit. Only that it came crashing through her window, knocking the coffee mug off her hand and landing on the carpet a little away from her. She was not hurt but the window pane was broken. So was the coffee mug, which had been a gift from him. She stood there, still reeling from the sudden change of everything when she noticed that all the boys had huddled up into the middle of the park, staring at her, scared.

For a moment the world stopped. She was reminded of her childhood and how she and her brother sometimes used to play cricket. She remembered them breaking a similar window pane of their home and how she had crawled through the debris to recover the ball and had later been scolded by her mother. She remembered how that evening as she and her brother lay side by side in the bed, about to sleep off, her brother had smiled at her and told her that she was the best sister in the entire world. She had been smiling even in her sleep.

She slowly picked up the ball and tossed it to the boys who were waiting, too scared to even ask for the ball. Poor kids think I will shout at them, she thought. She leaned outside the window and waved to them. A hurrah went up in the group on getting the bowl back. The match would continue. She smiled to herself and turned away from the window. He would be back from work by 8. He would be upset about the window and the coffee mug. She would try and console him but he would say that she should not have given the ball back. He would want to go and complain to their parents. He would be upset and would not have dinner properly. She knew all of that. Yet with a smile on her face she looked at the shards of glass on the floor. "Broken Glass" she said to herself, before bending down to pick them slowly...one by one...piece by piece...”Almost like my life”…

- Parekh, Pravesh

August 25, 2013; 02:10 AM

The Passing of the Birds

She smelled of funeral. That was his first thought as she passed him. He could not see her face, she was wearing a veil. She was dressed in black, black veil, and a pair of black gloves. She did not look up as she passed him, she was looking down. As he looked at her, he felt strange. Not because of her costume. There was something else that touched him, though he could not place a finger on what it exactly was.

He was sitting at a table in a café waiting for a friend. It was an open café, the tables and chairs lying outside the shop. It had rained last night but the sky had not cleared yet. There were little puddles of water in the street. He despised such weather. It seemed too “heavy” at times. Especially when he was sitting alone. There was a tree near his table. A few birds were perched on top of it, chirping. Stark contrast with the bleak surrounding. It was almost grey. That was when he saw her walking in his general direction. He had been looking at his watch, getting impatient, the irritation evident on his forehead. However, the moment he saw her coming, he paused. His mind seemed to go blank. He simply looked at her as she came closer and closer and then passed by, without even giving a casual look, either here or there.

He inhaled the air as she crossed him and that was when the thought struck him. The smell…he could no place it. It had the smell of flowers, yet there was something else. He felt pained. He was not exactly sure of what was happening to him. He was angry at the weather, irritated at his friend for turning up late, confused about why a certain sense of heaviness seemed to permeate through him, and lost as far as his thoughts were concerned. The moment she had passed by the tree, the birds seemed to take flight and for a moment everything was silent. Then slowly everything seemed to normalize again.

He was jolted out of his trance by the arrival of his friend. He snapped a finger in front of him as he took his seat. “Lost? And you? Whatever happened?” he asked. “Oh nothing. Nothing. What on earth took you so long?”. “Traffic, man. Bloody traffic. What’s with these bright colours?” he asked scrutinizing his red shirt and cream coloured trousers. They looked strangely out of place in the bleak weather conditions. “Ah! Nothing really. Thought I would brighten up things. It is all too grey…”

He came back home late that evening and sat down, thinking about her. There was something stuck in his mind. He was intrigued. It was as if she had belonged in those clothes, the weather, the tree, the birds flying away. It was as if they defined her. He told himself that he was talking nonsense but he could not drive her away from his thoughts.

He woke up early the next day to the sound of rain and thunder. It would be another grey morning. He hated the depressing weather but he knew it would prevail till the end of the month. Later during the day, he was back at the same café, hoping she would come by again. He waited for sometime and sure enough, he saw her coming. Dressed in the same way, looking at the ground. She passed him and he was sure the birds became quiet and they flew away. He caught the smell again and it pained him and it made him want for more. He was not sure what was happening to him.

And thus the cycle continued. He was getting lesser and lesser sleep. He would stay up all night long, staring outside his window, lost in thoughts. This was not in his character. He had never been a thinker but now he spent hours brooding. He looked outside his window and thought of her. He wanted to know what the reason behind her actions was. He wanted to know where she lived. He construed impossible scenarios in his mind and he hoped that the morning would be a grey one so that he would see her again.

One morning as he was getting ready, he opened his closet and saw all the myriads of colours in there. He was enraged. He went shopping that day and purchased a lot of black, whites, and grey. He came back home and almost threw away all his older clothes in a fit of anger. He could not tolerate the colours. He felt alienated from himself. He did not know who he was becoming. His friends had remarked of late that he was brooding a lot and was restless. The only thing he waited for all day and all night long, was to be at the café and to see her coming. The birds were on his mind, constantly.

*

It was almost a month now since he had first set his eyes on her. He was a changed man. He always wore black, grey or white. He was always lost in thoughts. He had become quiet, he had stopped meeting his friends, and he had stopped sleeping properly at night. His transformation did not worry him now. It had now become a part of him. He was a changed man and he realized and liked the fact. He felt that he had become one with her. There were only two things on her mind: her presence and the birds.

*

He woke up after sleeping for a few hours. He looked outside his bedroom window but there was sunlight. After a long time, the sun was finally out. It was not bright sunny but it marked the changing days. He felt lonely and sad. He dressed in all black today and went out. As the hour approached, he turned his steps towards the café. As he walked closer to the café, walking on the same steps she had taken every day, a strange feeling enveloped him. A feeling similar to the one he had experienced when he had first seen her. He came near to his table and saw the birds flying away. He stood there and saw them take flight. Deep down he knew they were not coming back. The days had changed. He sat down heavily in the chair. On the outside he was calm. On the inside he was heavy. Very heavy. He knew that he would never see her again. The birds had gone…

- Parekh, Pravesh

July 15, 2013; 02:13 PM

Home

It was morning time. Sunlight streamed in through large French windows revealing a chamber, slightly furnished. A carpet lay in the middle of the chamber, slightly warming the otherwise cold look of the chamber. The chamber served as a connecting link between the kitchen and the rest of the house, essentially being a room in the house yet not borrowing anything in its appearance. Almost like a hallway in the shoes of a room. The kitchen faced the front of the house overlooking a garden having number of potted plants and lush green grass that still looked moist from the early morning dew. The sun was not warm, there was a gentle breeze and the leaves quivered slightly and sometimes more, as if answering the calling of a careless caress, slightly ticklish yet comforting. The neighborhood was quiet.

A bright patch of sunlight fell on a part of the carpet, warming the spot. A little boy was sitting in this patch, a few toys spread around him. He held one in his hand, admiring the glint of sunlight on the toy. It delighted him and it made him wonder. His face was freshly washed, his hair neatly combed. It had the neatness yet the love of a mother in it, something a nanny would never be able to show. Somehow the hair combed by a nanny always had a slightly harsher look to it, something a mother’s loving hands could never do to their own child.

The child looked happy. He looked at the kitchen and saw his mother and the cook there. He focused on his mother who struck him as very pretty. She was wearing a light green dress, a clean white apron tied neatly over it. She was talking to the cook even as she moved around with infinite grace and charm. He had no interest in the toy. He preferred to watch the hidden rhythm and harmony in her mother’s movement. The cook made a joke and she giggled, tossing her head behind, eyes shining in the morning sun. Then she turned around and she saw him looking at her. Her eyes widened with delight, the smile playing around her lips as his eyes glowed in the morning sun, otherwise black but showing a brownish tinge in the bright morning sun, his jet black hair glinting in the little patch of sunshine. He looked at his mother for a while and then broke into a grin, showing a few missing teeth. His mother continued to look at him lovingly, smiling the entire time.

And then it all went dark and the bright patch of sunlight dissolved into darkness as I stood near the moth eaten curtains, the entire chamber damp and dirty. The curtains, which once were bright red, had lost its color and luster. The windows in the kitchen were boarded up and there were thick cobwebs in all the corners. I stood there and waited, and waited and waited, but there was no light.

*

He was slightly bent over his books, a little frown on his small brow, eyes moving slowly over the sentences in the book. He was sitting on a high chair, his legs dangling, being too little for the chair. The desk was made of dark mahogany, a leather patch on the desk-top. His tutor sat on another chair, watching over him quietly, ensuring he followed his lessons properly. It was a large room, with bookshelves lining the walls, filled with books of all kinds, brought from places near and far. Some exotic volumes lined a smaller shelf, locked and away from harm.

There was a slight sound outside but his concentration was not broken. He paused at a sentence and asked his tutor what it meant. She frowned a little and peered over the books with her spectacles. It was a sentence in French. She explained to him what it meant; also telling him how the various words they had covered last week in French fit to make the sentence. He heard her, looking at the sentence all the while and at the end seemed to be lost in thoughts. Then he looked up at her, his eyes thoughtful. For a moment he was not the young boy. For a moment he was grown up, thoughtful and deep. Then his eyes lighted up, he smiled at her, and nodded his head in agreement that he had understood what she was explaining. She was satisfied and he went back to his reading.

The door creaked a little and a shadow moved. The tutor looked back and saw the visage of his mother, smiling and radiant. She had been watching all this while and was satisfied and happy at her son’s progress. And even though she was standing at a distance from her son, her loving glance caressed his shoulders. For a moment he paused his reading, brows constricting, before getting back to his reading, as the shadow slowly retreated.

Another shadow moved across the room as I moved inside. The desk was no longer there and the shelves were bare. The small shelf with the glass panels was open and empty, a thick cobweb between the two panes. The air was thick and humid, the smell of old decaying paper thick. I moved to open the window and there was a small rush of fresh air. The glass panes quivered a little with the fresh air, and they quivered and quivered with no one to touch them, to lock them once again.

*

He lay in his bed, a sheet over him. He was staring at the ceiling, lost in dreams and thoughts; sleep nowhere near him. It was a cool and gentle night. There was silence which he found soothing. He thought about what he had learned earlier that day and he thought about the games he would play when he would wake up. Little things that mattered and a small rock he had found earlier that evening in the garden. He had loved its luster and had brought it in with him. It was now on the study table. He would ask his tutor about it tomorrow. It looked almost magical to him, having an intricate design on it.

There was a rustle and his mother came and sat down next to his bed. She looked at him and put a hand on his forehead, gently rustling his hair. It felt nice. She spoke to him of things and places and how they would visit his grandmother’s place next month. He smiled. Then his mother started to tell him a story about a little boy who grew up to become a wise man and eventually became a great writer. She told him funny incidents partially made up, partially derived from her own life, and partially from other people’s. He giggled at the manner in which she told him. He smiled at her dark hair as they curled near her face. And almost immediately his eyes felt heavy and he felt her blurring. He drifted off to sleep as his mother smiled and planted a kiss on his forehead before tucking the sheet and leaving him to the wonders of the dreamland.

And as she went out a footstep was heard as I stepped into the room, staring at the empty bed. A bed not slept in for years. Another boarded up window in the corner let in a small streak of light that fell right in the middle of the bed. All was quiet in the entire house. It had always been silent and now there was no one to break the silence.

*

I woke up in a small room. It was completely dark but as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could discern the outline of a small table. That and a chair were the sole furniture in the room, depicting an austere lifestyle. I got up and sat in the middle of the bed in the semi-darkness of my room. I had been there but now I was so far away. Hundreds and thousands of miles away, in a distant land surrounded by unknown faces. I sat up all night long wondering as the silence enveloped me in its familiar embrace. For a moment I was back there…a place called Home.

- Parekh, Pravesh

July 08, 2013; 09:15 PM

Butterfly

It was a bright sunny day, just like one of the many in the past. Nothing special. Small circular clouds of dust swirled like a mini cyclone, the roads dry and bare. Small homes lined the narrow street, made of stones arranged in no particular pattern, jutting out here and there. Sparse thorny plants sprang out of nowhere near and far from homes, giving no solace to the eye, the landscape as dry as the taps outside these homes. Men clad in ragged shirts and trousers that were almost as old as them, rode on bicycles, slowly, their lunch boxes hanging from the handles of their bicycle in small muslin bags, stained with years. Women walked along both the sides of the road, carrying pots and vessels, coming and going away from the only source of water in the village, some three miles away from the village.

Nothing moved in the heat of the sun, even though it was comparatively early in the morning. The early effects of a city touching a village was evident. Men preferred to go to the city in the morning hours to work, coming back late in the evening, their back strained and aching with the day’s labour, their empty lunch boxes swinging more than in the morning. Some houses had television and a few rare ones even had an antenna for reception of some channels that were broadcasted in the closest corner of the city. Every evening when the men had had their rest and dinner, they would sit in the middle of the village, smoking bidis. A few rich ones managed to buy cigarettes on their way back from the city. Some drank a little. They would sit and gossip, telling made up stories to the children gathered nearby or the women sitting huddled in a group some steps away, their heads bent pretending to be in their own private conversation, though listening intently on whatever the men were talking about, the younger unmarried ones straining to catch the words of the more handsome men of the bunch. On those days when there was a cricket match scheduled, someone would bring out a radio transistor and they would sit in silence, trying to hear the commentary amidst the crackling sound of bad reception. The entire village would erupt into sounds of joy if their team won, or even if someone from their team just hit a six.

On one such not-so-special day, she was returning from the water source, carrying water back to her home. She was young, 14 or 15 years old, though her face was slightly hardened. Her cheeks were plump and rosy and her eyes shone with the spirit of teenage days. Her movement had a dancing rhythm, her skin and face glowing from inner vitality and youth. She knew her mother would be angry because she had taken quite some time in coming back. She couldn’t help it, she thought, blushing from the thought. After all there were a lot of women waiting to fill their vessels with water and on the way back she had accidently caught glimpse of the son of the village sarpanch. Now, that was a rare sight indeed. It was common knowledge that he was the most eligible bachelor in the village, with his dark long hairs and handsome looks. He usually stayed in the city and came back to the village only once or twice a week. It was also common knowledge that he was very rich, compared to all other men.

She had been very fond of him as a child and now in her teenage years, the fondness had deepened into far more that what she understood. Her heart would beat faster, a hot flush on her face, the skin burning with a mixture of embarrassment, fear, happiness and what not. She always ran away before he saw her. She was afraid he might not like her. Often if he was standing looking somewhere else, she would stop and steal glances at him, admiring him, loving him, even to the extent of worshipping him. Today, when she was returning, she had seen him standing inside his house, but visible from outside. He had just taken a bath and was getting dressed, combing his long hair. She had been so overwhelmed that she had stumbled, letting some water spill on herself and some on the parched road. No doubt mother would be angry, she thought, her blush deepening.

It was just another day. Nothing special. Nothing moved on that windless morning. Yet in that barren space, somewhere between her mind and heart, there was a slight quiver of emotions, which she was sure no one ever would be able to reach. And under the bright morning sun, she swore she saw a butterfly with brightly coloured wings, fluttering around, before flying away and disappearing into oblivion.

- Parekh, Pravesh

08:30 AM, 25^th June, 2013

After the Rain

Dark clouds reigned in the sky, looming after the torrential rain. The roads were washed, reflecting off light from the street lamps. The lights formed a mosaic like pattern, spinning shades of hope and mirth and then fading as one took a step forward, each step revealing a fresh mirage. It was a long empty stretch of road, no traffic, no late evening walkers, nobody save the silhouette of a walker and a lone dog in the street, sniffing at some filth, looking for food. His head was bent, shoulders drooping, hands gently swaying to each side, brooding. He glanced a quick look at the dog but did not think of its misery. The dog in turn looked at him, found no solace, and returned sadly to the pile of rubbish, letting out a small whine. All else was silent. The wind was silent, the trees did not sigh.

As his brisk pace showed him the varying mosaic of light patterns, he reflected for a moment on his own existence. Insignificant. Lonely. Parched. Longing for things he would never have. He had always lived this way. Never being really noticed. Never paid any significant attention. He had a job that did not pay well, a boss who did not like him, and colleagues he could never relate to. His mother had always told him to go high in life, to do things his dreams showed him, and to be someone who would go down in the pages of history as someone significant. The void inside him yawned. He had failed her. He had failed himself.

His thoughts returned to the purpose of his visit. It was his mother’s death anniversary. He was headed towards her grave, his heart heavy and his eyes teary. Thinking about her always had this effect on him. He would start to blame himself for everything that had ever happened. His mother had died of heart attack and old age, though he never stopped blaming himself for it. She died because I was a failure, he kept telling himself and the more he thought about it, the wider the void became. He had long since become dead to emotions, dead to beauty and dead to all the joy the world had to give. The only thing he ever felt was remorse and a pang of longing for his dead mother and things he could not achieve. Often during the evening he would sit outside in the small balcony of his one room apartment and stare outside. He would see and imagine worlds of happiness, of people and warmth. Even of love. And then he would find emptiness staring him in the face and he would turn away, loathing himself more than ever.

He never carried flowers to her grave. She had been someone who was very specific about everything. He never really knew what flowers she liked and which ones she did not. Hence he never carried them. He did not want to offend her by bringing her flowers she had hated in her life. As such, had he not tormented her more than enough? He would just go and stand near her grave, silently looking at the gravestone, remembering the days of the past, smiling to himself while tears filled his eyes. He preferred going late in the evening, when the chances of running into people were low. He had always been uncomfortable with people. More so because he could not understand them and he could never relate to what they were saying. Often at the cemetery he ran into someone or the other who would look at him and give him an understanding nod. He would get uncomfortable. What were they nodding at? What did they know? What the hell was it to them anyway?

He crossed the cemetery gate, head still bent, silently navigating his way through the graves on either side. It was quiet. The rain drops hanging from the trees and the clouds gave the place an ominous feel, more than always. He walked till he reached the spot and stood there, head still bent, hands entwined almost in prayer, though he was not praying. He then let loose everything that was locked inside him. He spoke out to his dead mother, apologizing and talking and blabbering. All this time, silent as his mind worked feverishly in telling his mother everything. He told her of how sorry he was and that he would try and take control of his life and do something grand. Slowly his mind grew quieter and he lifted his head slightly. He felt slightly comforted in having made his peace with her. He knew she would forgive him, someday. A gentle smiled played on his lips as tears started to fill his eyes.

He stood there for some more time, his mind at ease now. He stopped thinking about things. He turned around, planning to go. That is when he saw that he was not alone. She was standing near another grave, crying silently. She was dressed in white and held a single red rose in her hand. For the moment she was looking down, yet he could see the tears clearly. She was clutching at the rose, and then she bent to place it near the grave. Then when she rose again, he saw her give a violent sob. Her entire frame shook with the weight of her grief and then she looked straight at him. He was embarrassed. He quickly gave her a nod and briskly walked away. It was only after he was slightly away from her that he stopped for a moment to realize what he had done. It was then he realized that things would change. He would change them. And it would start tonight.

- Parekh, Pravesh

01:40 AM, 16^th June, 2013

Depression Diary - Log VI

And so one day I thought I would start writing. I don’t know where the thought struck me. I was like I should write a novel. Maybe that will make me famous. People might recognize me and not look at me as if I was a bum, when I walk into the superstore to buy grocery. So I went out and bought a notebook. It had a black cover, with two white birds flying to the extreme right. I liked the design. It spoke of higher things in life. I imagined that if I wrote in this notebook, my life would take a flying course as well. It was during the time when we and Sarah were living separately. I thought maybe I could win her and my daughter back too. I remember paying too much for the notebook. They said it was because of the cover. It was a painting by someone. I was like, do I care? It’s a notebook, not the painting. They made me pay for it, anyway.

I remember sitting and staring at the pages in this very room. I was like, what do I write about? I thought of the various novels and books I had seen in the stores. How on earth do people write about things? Such thick books? For a few days I used to come back from work and sit and stare at the pages, thinking about what to write. Nothing struck me. Then one fine evening I was like, I should write about myself! I should write a novel about someone who goes on to commit a series of mistakes and ends up regretting about things in his life. I would take incidents from my life, my mistakes, and write it all up as a novel. This seemed to me a brilliant idea. I am sure not a lot of writers would have thought of that!

And so I started. Laboriously. Every day I would come back from work and sit and write in that notebook. It was tough. Very hard on me. I would stay up late till night, trying to frame sentences that I thought the readers would like. Because of this I was constantly late in the morning or else sleepy at work. They used to tell me off, even threaten me that I would lose my job. I kept cursing them in my head. You guys wait till my book is published. Then I will be the one grinning while you will give me the respect I deserve.

And then came that evening I was so hoping for. I finished writing it. I was so proud of myself. I was so happy. Almost as happy as I was, the day I married Sarah. I went out and bought a bottle of “good stuff” and drank it in celebration of my success. Of course I could not go to work the next day. Woke up late and then I remembered that I had to send my novel to the publisher. I went out and gave the notebook to get it typed, so that I could mail it to the guys at the publishing house. I went to job the next day but they had kicked me out. I was outraged. I told them to wait and see and that they would come begging to me asking me to join work again. They laughed at me and sent me away. I was so furious at them. I came back and saw that my notebook had come back with nicely typed pages. The front page read “Bum and his Bummer” in bold letters and beneath it in italics “A story of a lifetime”. I was so proud of my creation. I immediately sent it to the publishers.

I waited for almost a month before the reply came. It was an envelope with my novel in it. Along with it was a single page reply from the editor. My hands were trembling as I opened it. What did he have to say?

“Dear Mr. ____

Thank you for sending the manuscript of your novel Bum and his Bummer: A story of a lifetime. We have gone through the contents of your manuscript and we regret to inform you that our publishing house cannot accept it.

Your book, for all practical reasons, is “obvious”. We do not see the reason why someone would spend money on buying a book that from its very first line itself seems so obvious. We do not believe that there are people in the world who would be interested in reading the accounts of everyday life of a street bum.

We are sure it must have taken you a lot of time to write the manuscript, putting yourself in the shoes of a street vagabond and writing such a dreary book. We appreciate the effort you have put in but for all practical reasons, we terminate the conversation about it and reject the manuscript. We have sent the papers back to you.

We would welcome any future manuscript that you would write (which is not so “obvious”). Till then, we wish you good luck. Hope creativity sows its seeds soon.

Yours sincerely,

_______”

I was outraged. How could they insult me this way? They called it obvious! What the hell? How could they? It was the work of my life. The hardest I had ever worked. I thought I should sue them for insulting me. I drank myself silly for the next few days. I was so upset. I guess I still am. Had to go back and beg those guys for getting a job again.

I don’t know how I remembered all of this. It was sometime in the past. Don’t even remember how long back. Perhaps it was not all that long time after all. I was trying to get some sleep last night when I suddenly remembered that cover. The birds flying. I want to find the guy who painted that and smash his face into his own canvas. I want to find that editor and throw the notebook at his face. Couldn't he see that he ruined my life?

I am angry. I am disappointed. I am tired. I want a drink. Later.

- U. E

05:05 AM, Varanasi

May 19, 2013

Lemon Pips

He knew she had only a little time left with her. He sat beside her bedside, staring at her hollowed cheek. The doctor had told him yesterday that she would not last long. He had pocketed his fees with almost an apologetic look, as if he did not want to take the money but was forced to. “Professional”, he thought with a grim smile. “They perhaps teach it at the medical school, how to collect money even from dying people”.

The light was dim in the room, curtains drawn. This was how she liked it. Dark and comfy. Only that she was not comfortable. He put his hand on her brow. She was feverish. He gently wiped the sweat from her brow, smiling at her. She in turn smiled, despite her pain. “I torment you too much” she said weekly. “The world, for you”, he replied, gently holding her hand which were crossed across her chest, fingers entwined as if in prayer.

Though their years together as a married couple had been marked with poverty, their love for each other had never dwindled for an instant. She was content in his company, he in hers. Every evening, when he returned from work, they would sit and look at the evening sun, talking to each other or enjoying the silence being exchanged. It was a custom they never broke. After dinner, every night, they would sit outside their small home, gazing at the stars. It was always him who felt sleepy first. Then she would let him place his head in her lap for a while where he would lie, almost like a child. She would caress his head, ruffle his hair a little, and take away his tiredness.

“Would you do a little something for me?” she asked him presently, trying to get up balancing her frail body on her elbow. He made her lie down again, straightening the pillow. “Anything. Absolutely anything”. She smiled and he knew that smile. He had seen it many times, especially during the summer months. “Lemonade?” he asked, smiling to her, almost grinning. She closed her eyes indicating a yes.

He got up and went to the kitchen. She loved lemonade, especially when he made it. In all their years of marriage, he was the one who always made it. He found a lemon, hiding among the vegetables and fished it out. “Come now”, he said, talking to the lemon. He sliced it neatly into two and took a glass. In went sugar. She did not like it too sweet. A tablespoon full. Another tablespoon. And then came the final amount. A little more than half a tablespoon. It was this last bit that was the tricky part for it made the difference between making it just right or tad bit too sweet. He squeezed the lemon halves into the glass, over the sugar, letting the pips fall in. Then he took a bottle of cold water and topped the glass. Then methodically he stirred till the sugar crystals dissolved, leaving a slight bit lingering towards the bottom. Just the way she liked it. Finally he took a spoon and fished out the lemon pips, swirling in a little whirlpool he had created. He took the pips out and placed them in his left hand.

He came back to the room and stood at the door as tear drops started to fall down his eyes. As he stood, he could feel the slippery lemon pips, sliding in the palm of his hand, like strands of treacherous Hope. She was dead, her hand crossed across her chest, fingers entwined as if in prayer.

- Parekh, Pravesh

May 19, 2013; 03:55 PM

Lament

Remember me sweetly
For my time is soon to come
Don't resent my anger
For I am sad deep inside
Soon I will not be able to provide
To look after you
To kiss you good night
Revel in your warmth
Or lie by your side
And stare at the night sky.
And when I am soon to be cold
Will you one more time hold my hand?
Comfort this anguished soul
Like you have done a million times.
There is a shadow I see
Just beyond the corner
I see it waiting and lurking
Coming closer to me
I fear it not
As long as you are by my side
But what shall come after
When I leave your bedside?
Recall me then in your dreams
As I shall wait on the other side
Oh you have given me joy
Alas I have only returned sighs.
With honesty and truth I plead
For one last time
Before death whisks me away
To terrible silence and loneliness.
Come and sit near me
Let me look in your eye
Cling closely to you
And love you forevermore.
Depart then, I, with sweet pain
As you hold me in your embrace
I take my last breath in Heaven
Before we stand, together again.

- Parekh, Pravesh

May 17, 2013; 08:45 AM

Child

Come here little child

Come and sit with me for a while

Talk to me and tell me things

And disclose to me your newfound dreams

Prattle a little and croon a bit

And laugh with mirth as in a playful dream

Look at me with your beautiful eyes

And indulge me with your lovely smile

Unburden that weight from your heart

Give me a kiss and then we part.

- Parekh, Pravesh

May 15, 2013; 09:30 PM