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