Autumn Leaves

“Kindness out of pity. Would that hurt someone more than simple pity? But is there a difference? To give money as charity to someone needy on the road. That would be one case. Seeing an old lady struggling to sell her wares to make ends meet; going and specifically buying something from her instead of, say, the shop nearby. Who would be hurt more? Perhaps the old lady because she still has dignity and she knows that the kindness of people is out of pity. But that would be assuming that the other person receiving the charity had no dignity to begin with. Which is wrong. Perhaps he has become used to it? Immune to feeling hurt? Maybe. But may not be true. Maybe she has become immune? May be not. Dignity. Everyone is entitled to it.”

Such were my thoughts as I stood on the road waiting for someone. It was Autumn. An Autumn evening with its charm but my thoughts were about a different kind of Fall. I was inside the Institute campus and the road was empty, lined by old trees shedding their leaves.

I was strolling slowly making it a point to step on leaves and crushing them with my shoes. I am not sure if I really like it or not. It brings up questions and images which confuse me at times. What if a child comes along shortly afterwards, steps on the fallen yellowed leaves and fails to hear the crunch because I had already stepped on it? Wouldn’t the child be heartbroken? Would it not be an early, rather too early, a lesson to real life? I guess I am being ridiculous.

I am transported back to my childhood days. We had a house-help in those days. She would have hardly been 18 or so. Frankly, I do not know. My memory from those days is mostly gone. Her name is not really important. Let me call her Boe. I remember my mother making her sit down and go over my books with her so that she would learn to read and write. She did not resent it but did not like it as well. Maybe she was indifferent. Or maybe I never saw the truth. Sometimes I wonder…do children ever see the truth? I don’t think so.

One day I was walking with her. There were fallen leaves on the road and I was stepping on them, perhaps relishing the crunching sound. At some point, I asked her why she was deliberately avoiding the fallen leaves. I think I saw her face become grave. Then Boe began to tell me something that I did not really understand back then.

Boe told me that the leaves had souls in them. Even the fallen ones. When a leaf fell from the tree, like it did in Autumn, it was similar to one of our dear ones who was inching closer to moving on to a different world. The yellowed leaves are the old ones that are dying. But they are not completely dead. They are silently talking to the alive ones as they surround the dying. They are telling the young ones the story of their leaves. Leaving behind their legacy. When they are done, they die. If you step on them, they won’t crunch. Their souls would have left. But if you crunched their souls, their young ones would never have said a proper goodbye. They would remain heartbroken.

A leaf fell down in front of me and I stepped on it. It did not make a sound. I smiled silently to myself wondering whatever happened to Boe. She got married at some point and I never heard anything about her ever again. I didn’t even know where to look for her if I wanted to. I am sure neither one of us would recognize each other even if we met. Her face is blurred in my memory and I have changed too much.

As I walked a little further ahead, I saw a small pile of yellowed fallen leaves. Someone would have swept them to one side. I stepped on it and heard the collective crunch of souls, dreams, and humanity. I let out a sigh. Dignity. Everyone is entitled to it.

- Parekh, Pravesh

November 23, 2014

03:15 AM – 04:08 AM

NIMHANS

Chance Encounters

I turned to look at her face in the light filtering in through the window. The shutters ought to remain open during take-off. And I prefer it that way. Unless the sun is too bright and I am blue. The sun shone off her face. She was young and I could see the youth reflected in her eyes. I thought back of the time when I was young and admittedly cocky and arrogant. She was beautiful, no doubt. Everyone is in their own way. The right side of my face was beginning to warm in the patch of sunshine. I liked it. She saw me looking at her and I could see her cringe a little, her spine, relaxed earlier, became tense. She readjusted her seat belt and glanced around, letting me see that she was uncomfortable. I did not want to make her feel so, yet I did not relent.

I was reminded of the days of my youth, the numerous journeys I undertook and the places that I had been to. At a point I had started collecting the various boarding passes from my travels. The collection must be lying in one of the boxes where I had packed the rest of my life in. Perhaps gathering dust that seeps in even in closed boxes. Like melancholy that seeps into your heart even when you are not alone. Time heals many wounds but wrecks more on the soul. If one has a soul, that is.

I turned around and stared outside the window. The aircraft was picking up speed and was ready to take-off. I wondered about the life my travel companion would lead. She would, no doubt, have plenty of friends and would be in college. Or perhaps she had recently finished college. She seemed to be of that age. She would perhaps be working. Or maybe she is a writer who travels a lot and writes about the places that she sees or the people that she meets. Romance, I silently rebuked myself. All that I see is romance in people’s life. Not everyone has the liberty of following their heart. Not everyone is successful. Not everyone sees the world as I do.

I glanced at her face again. Her blonde hair curved and blended into her jacket. She was wearing light makeup. We were up in the sky. I am usually not a person who bothers other passengers during my solitary travels but today was an exception. “You look quite familiar”, I told her. She turned to look at me. “You know…you are old enough to be my father. Can you just not nod off to sleep or something?” she said, clearly very irritated. She must have thought of me as a pervert. I was furious. Grey hair is not immunity to humiliation. I turned my face to the other side and stared into the clouds.

I thought of the life that I had led, the sting of recent humiliation like a throbbing vein in the head. So many times there had been babies with my co-passengers. I recollected the forgotten face of one of them as she had looked at me with her bright big eyes. I have not been one of those people who play or befriend a strangers’ baby. Yet that baby had looked at me, soft blonde hair on her head. For all I knew, she could have been my co-passenger now. She certainly was just old enough. Who cared?

For the remainder of the trip, I wondered silently about the various brief encounters we had all the time. At the airport. At the coffee shop. At a book store. We come, we see each other, never meet, and go on with our lives. For all we know, they come back to us in ways we would never know. What about that baby who kept staring at me? Perhaps she wanted me to pat her head? And I did not. Of course, she would never remember…but what if I actually had done it? Maybe nothing would have changed. Brief chance encounters…I doubt people even register.

- Parekh, Pravesh

October 06, 2014; 03:20 PM
New Delhi International Airport
En-route to Bangalore

The Day After...

He sat at the edge of the large rock projecting out of the mountain, staring at the endless open sky in front of him. For him, he was at the end of the world and from his perspective, it did not really matter. He dangled his feet into the endless infinity and felt the wind buzz at his face. He was tired. Really, really tired. He turned his head around to see the broken stony pathway that led him to where he had come from. He turned his head back in distaste and resignation. He imagined his dangling feet hit a small clump of loose soil and felt it break itself loose and fall down into the valley. He tried to analyse the beauty of the place where he was. The sky was blue and black and grey. There was greenery all around – not the cultivated, trimmed and maintained one but raw, untamed lushness of the spread of greenery. It was silent and peaceful. Only once in a while did some bird somewhere break the silence. He tried to listen to his inner voice. Tried to find tranquillity and solace. But all he could hear was his own dissatisfaction and turmoil.

Five days ago, he had started on this journey. He used to be a newspaper delivery boy before. In the evenings, he would make some more money by running some odd jobs for the people. His life was stagnant and mundane. That was till one day he ran into a drunken sailor who told him the story of a certain shrine up in the mountains that was very secluded yet very powerful. People who had gone there had had their lives transformed. He had not given it a lot of thought back then but over the next few days his mind kept wandering back to the story. What did he have to lose? A job no one cared about? His parents had stopped speaking to him ever since he dropped out of college. His girlfriend had told him that she didn't care one bit whether he lived or died. That was right before she threw him out of her apartment. With nothing else to take care of, he might as well try and commune with God or Holy Spirit or whatever changed people’s life when they reached the shrine. He had saved up, purchased maps and some survival food and left, carrying a small rucksack and a small bundle of money sewed into his undershirt.

Presently, he drew out a pack of cigarettes from his rucksack and lit one. The wind grazed his hair and the orange embers came to life as he sucked the smoke in, let it stay in for a bit and then blew out of his mouth and nostrils, heaving a long sigh. He remembered reading a few inspirational books back in school days. A few of them had been about similar sojourns into the wild where boys (or men like him) found the meaning of their lives. Back then he had believed, He had even thought that someday he would go out into the world and find a meaning to his life. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. They all talked about the journey. They all talked about reaching there. They all talked about the great discovery. But what after that? No one talked about that. At least no one he remembered. Everyone talked about the tiring and dangerous journey. But what about the journey back?

He looked at the long path that he had struggled to climb to reach the summit where the shrine was. At first he had been cheerful and relaxed. He was on an adventure that would change his life. He almost felt happy. But then slowly the harshness of it all had come to light. It had started raining, and there was no shelter. Through the rain he had continued his journey and then during the day the sun had been too strong. On the second day, he ran out of his provision of food. He had thought he had enough but then he realized he had forgotten to pack keep the other package of food in his bag. From then, the only thing that kept him going was water and the cigarettes. Thankfully, he had kept them in a waterproof zip-lock bag. On the third day (or was it the fourth?) he ran out of water too. Somehow he had struggled on and just when he had felt that he could go on no more, he realized that he had reached. It was a disappointment.

When the sailor had told him about the place, he had assumed that it would be a tedious journey but at the end he would reach some sort of a monastery or something where some old sage or wise monk would give him some advice. On the contrary, when he did reach the shrine, there was no one there. It was not even a proper shrine. Just a small stone on which someone had chiselled “Lay your troubles here”. He looked around but couldn't see anyone. There were a few rotting fruits at the shrine which he had eaten before he lay down on the ground and had fallen asleep out of exhaustion. And that brought him here – now.

He took out the money bag and counted the money. Barely enough to buy food for a couple of days. But then what could he do? He was exhausted and feverish. And a five day journey before which he wouldn’t even see a face. That too without food or water. He couldn't do it. This is why they don’t talk about it. For them, the journey is more important. They don’t ever think of going back. For them life is a journey. The path back is repetitive and boring. No one needs to think about that. For them tomorrow will be another challenge. But what about me? I had no dreams and I have none now. For me the only path that lies ahead is to go back. And I can’t do it.

He took out another cigarette. It was the last one. He sat there smoking his last cigarette at the edge of his world, thinking about the day after. Philosophy, perhaps only for the rich?

Afterword:

“The Day After…” was inspired by the questions that came to me when I stumbled upon a news source speaking of a rickshaw wallah who has started on an epic journey from Kolkata (Calcutta) to Leh on his rickshaw. Immediately upon seeing it, I questioned what it would feel like to finish that trip, reach your destination and then to look back at the road and realize you would have to take it again to return to wherever you have come from. It was in turn, also partially inspired from the way I feel when I am traveling. To finally reach the destination and then realize a few days later that I have to do it all over again – step by step. Why can’t the return journey just happen in a snapshot? Perhaps I have felt it quite a lot when playing video games as well. The objective of the thought was not to slight or question the dream but just to muse on what happens the day after. Sometimes it’s easy but often it’s not.

- Parekh, Pravesh

September 29, 2014
02:30 – 03:24 – 03:40 AM
NIMHANS

Time

Oh you are young right now,
I can see that in your eyes,
But soon I will come to you,
Greying hair, fading smiles.

And the hand that holds you,
Will be no more warm or steady,
Trembling and sorrowfully you will move,
Will you be ready for the no moon night?

The glamour of your splendour,
Gentle sips of magnificent wine,
The smile that he coveted,
And your luxuriant black hair.

Will you remember what it felt like?
Will you remember when I crept in?
Do you remember his voice?
Or does it sound rusty like mine?

Do you remember the cheek he stroked?
Hollow and wrinkled does it seem now?
And does the taste of seasoning,
Seem as insipid as your life now?

Oh don't curse me now, dear one,
Haven't you heard what true love is?
They stain each other with their presence,
Or so have I mistakenly heard.

But I have always loved you,
Even when you were a tiny one,
And it will continue to grow,
Till I have finally made you mine.

- Parekh, Pravesh

September 23, 2014; 07:20 PM

MBIAL, NIMHANS

Dreams

The first thing that I noticed about him was his eyes. They were set, rigidly, on the jewelled brooch that was on display outside the shop. From where I was standing, I could see the security guard giving him a wry look, his hand casually resting on the baton attached to his side belt. Of course, he thought that the fellow meant trouble. But my years as a sales assistant at the jewellery store made me see something quite different.

The piece was beautiful and had attracted attention of several men and women alike since the time it had been put on display. It was a clever marketing gimmick by the shop owner or whoever put these ideas in his head. Right outside the walls of the shop, encased behind glass with softly dimmed lights shining on it, was the piece that had captured the imagination of several youth in the area and of course the heart of almost every young women who looked at it.

I had been a sales assistant here for several years. Having no real ambition or purpose, I had not worked hard unlike my colleagues who were achieving heights in their life, or so I think. I was more than content with my job at the store. I dressed up every morning, the same routine every day, except if I was on a holiday. I would get up in the morning, take a shower. It did not matter if the water was luke-warm or hot or cold even. Like most of the things in my life, this was another unnecessary detail that I did not really care about. I would dress in a clean white shirt, starched stiff and then put on a jacket. Store policies made it mandatory for everyone to wear a jacket so that we seemed more effluent than we actually were.

A day at the store was usually dull. Brief smiles to the customers. A professionally neutral face. A more generous smile to the ladies. Especially the ones who were almost about to buy. Pay a few complements. Smile and tell them how good their choice was, even if the piece looked hideous on them. Advise the men on what to buy based on their fantasies. And the likes…then of course, send them packing with my commission taken into account. It was drilled into it. It seemed to me some time that I was actually born for this job. It all seemed effortless. The one thing that I always kept in mind was never to take it personally. If they couldn't buy it, they couldn't buy it. I don’t make these things, I don’t put a price tag on it. I just sell it or rather help sell it and pocket my fees.

This lad, who was staring at the piece, was clearly fantasizing about it. He was wondering how it would look on his beloved. He was wondering of the several years he would have to work tirelessly and save every penny before he could even afford to walk into a store like the one he was outside. I could see his eyes lower down at that thought, out of shame, out of anger, out of malice, out of self-pity. I do not know. Then suddenly, he looked up and his eyes met mine.

I could see those hard features dissolve into a mellow expression of a young boy in love. I could see youth caged within the walls of a financial world where one never had enough. I could see his eyes look into mine as if he could read through my hollowness and I shuddered. He took a step towards the shop but stumbled and bumped into the security guard. The man took it as a sign of aggression and immediately attacked him, both with his baton and his bulk. The poor young man didn't even defend himself. He lay on the ground, yet his eyes somehow kept shifting between me and the brooch. He didn't realize when the beating stopped, he was picked up, and then pushed away from the shop.

That night when I came back from the store, I took off my jacket. It seemed heavy with the weight of the world on it. I took off my starched white shirt which had barely creased during the day. It somehow made my skin itch. And then once I had stepped out of my shoes and trousers, I stood in front of the mirror to see the man that I actually was. I looked into my eyes and was immediately ashamed at the disappointment that stood in front of me. There I was, stark naked, literally and otherwise…and I could not look into my own eyes. I could see the dreams of the young man dying a slow death…and with his dreams…mine…

- Parekh, Pravesh

September 12, 2014; 08:15 PM

Bangalore International Airport

En-route to Mumbai

Ink

Let the ink drip
Smear a little on Your fingertips
As they glide dexterously
Turning parchment into golden.

Let the ink drip
Caress the soft light of Your eyes
As they bask lovingly
Tracing pictures into strokes.

Let the ink drip
Get streaked in Your hair
As they curl luxuriously
Gathering winds into sighs.

Let the ink drip
Flow from the depths of Your mind
As it flies endlessly
Transforming worlds into words.

Let the ink drip
Enraptured in the beauty of Your soul
As it warms eternally
Dissolving my life into Yours.

- Parekh, Pravesh

August 26, 2014
05:05 AM; 05:30 AM (mod.)

Depression Diary - Log VII

Tap. Tap. Tap. I swear I could hear it. All night long. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I had a frugal dinner last night. Had some garbage soup. Then I tried to go to sleep. I switched off the lights and was lying in bed, eyes closed, when I began to have the horrible sensation that someone was watching me. I tried to ignore it but it would not go away. Suddenly I had this feeling that someone was standing next to the bed, looking at me. I opened my eyes, very afraid. There was no one there. I quickly scanned the room in the pale light filtering through the window but could not see anything or anyone. Maybe it is clinging to the ceiling, I thought. Wildly my eyes scanned the ceiling but found nothing. What if it is hiding under the bed? I asked myself. I thought of bending down and looking but then a voice in my head stopped me. What if you actually find something or rather someone there? I cringed at the thought. What happens when you wake up from a nightmare and scan the room to see if someone is there…and you actually find the thing from your nightmare with you? What if you open the closet one day and find a corpse? Or a skeleton? Or a severed head? Or maybe something alive?

All sorts of dark and ugly thoughts came to me. I tried to push them away but they would not. I was feeling very scared. It was as if something invisible was inches away from my skin, ready to carve symbols and shapes on it with its long clawy-ey hand, its talons ready to dig into me, etching out symbols in my blood before ripping me open. Or worse….perhaps when you have to see the thing. To allow its presence overwhelm all your senses. When you can smell its unearthly smell, when you are scared out of every bit of sanity in yourself and yet death shall not come.

After a while my mind began to calm a little and I felt the coming of the tired hands of sleep. Hardly a few moments after I must have slept off, I jolted awake to the sensation of falling from a height. As I was lying down waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal, I swear I heard someone knocking at the bedroom door! It was not a knock knock but a tap. As if someone was tapping at the door with their nail. I practically jumped in fear. I sat up in bed but the sound would not go away. It was persistent. Tap. Tap. Tap. Continuous. I thought of jumping out of bed and switching on the lights but was too scared to move. I don’t know how long I sat in the bed, trying to pray but too senseless with fear to even do that. After a while the sound abated. Still it would not bring me any relief for it was replaced by the sound of someone moving away from the door. Tap. Tap. Tap, of a walking stick perhaps. Then for one glorious moment, there was silence.

Suddenly there was a tapping at the window. The same. Tap. Tap. Tap. I was practically senseless with fear. Just as I was about to turn my face to the window and face the infernal being that was plaguing me, I recollected having read about a “being” that kept knocking on the doors or windows. After a while the knocking would cease but the being would remain there, hoping that the person being haunted would get tricked into looking. The only key to survival was not to look. No matter what. I tried to shut my ears and close my eyes while holding my head between my knees but nothing blocked out the sound. After a while it did cease but I was not to be tricked.

Gradually the night wore off but I sat in the bed, the blanket around me, shivering in fright. Of course I could not sleep a wink. The light from the window at some point indicated that morning was coming. It was then that I dared to look outside the window. However, it was that very early morning hour when even the simplest of everyday things acquire an outline and colour quite unlike their natural one. I saw a tree or rather a ghost of a tree, its ghastly outline…

It was only when the sun was high that I managed to go to sleep. It was around 3 that I started to write this and now it is closing on to 4:30. The light is beginning to dim and I find my fears returning. I haven’t stepped outside the room all day long. Haven’t even opened the closet. I am scared again. I doubt I will sleep tonight. Later.

- U.E

03:01 AM, Bangalore

February 9, 2014

The Bus Ride

He stood there waiting…lost in thoughts. And not just in thoughts. He thought briefly about the meaninglessness of it all. Life. Death. Relationships. People. Friends. Family. Money. Work. And so on. His thoughts shuttled from one to another until he was left thinking without knowing what he was thinking of. He was standing at the bus stop, waiting for the bus to come and take him back home after a long day at work.  It was late and the buses had become less frequent. He had been waiting for almost fifteen minutes. If the correct bus did come by it was either too full or else he was too lost to get into it in time, stepping outside his reverie only when the bus had gone, leaving him in a cloud of dust. There were hardly a few people waiting with him at the bus stop. For all he knew, they were equally lost.

He broke out of his thoughts. He was getting impatient. He ought to reach back home quickly. His wife would be waiting, the food would be getting cold. He glanced at his watch. The children would already be in bed. Damn my thoughts, he muttered silently. Never the correct time to think of things. He peered out on the street and saw a bus coming, still far away to read the number of the bus. He waited, hoping the bus would take him home. The bus came nearer and he saw that it did not have a bus number. The plate had been turned over so that it was merely a plaque painted in white. The bus was surprisingly empty. He only saw the conductor and quickly asked him if the bus would go the way he wanted to go. The conductor did not say anything but nodded for him to get on board. The moment he did that the bus started moving away.

He had the change ready in his hand. He quickly handed it over to the conductor and then looked around. He had not noticed before but there were three more people on board, save him, the driver, and the conductor. There was an elderly lady sitting somewhere ahead. He could not see her face. There was a drape on her head, as if she was suffering from cold and wanted to protect herself from the cold night air. Then there was a middle aged man with greying hair sitting near the window. Poor fellow has fallen asleep. Must be really tired. He saw his head jerk and move with the movement of the bus but he did not wake up. Further back there was another man but he could not make out his face. He strained his eyes but the face was a blur. I ought to get my eyes checked, he thought mentally.

He sat down on one the empty seats. He looked outside the window and jerked back in surprise. Where was the bus going? He did not know this street. It was a simple straight road to the bus stop where he had to go down. There were no turns. So where was he right now? In his state of panic he walked to the conductor and repeated the name of the bus stop. The conductor did not say anything; his eyes fixed on the road ahead but nodded his head. He looked at the driver, helplessly but the driver did not look towards him. He turned to go back to his seat and caught a glimpse of the elderly lady and recoiled. Then he steadied himself. For a moment he thought he had seen the face of his grandmother who was long since dead. Sure, this lady had a similar profile but of course she couldn’t be her. He went back and sat down on his seat.

The bus was moving at a very fast speed. All he could make out outside was a darkened street with an occasional street lamp passing by. However, there seemed to be something different about the lamps. Their light, it seemed to him, was blurred and ethereal. I really ought to get my eyes checked. He looked at his watch again and found to his surprise that it had stopped working. The three hands were all stuck in the same place. How odd, he thought. He tapped at the glass and then tapped harder, hoping that it would set it right but nothing happened. He brought the watch near to his hear and to his ever increasing surprise heard the regular ticking as if the watch was working fine. He was getting anxious now. His wife would be waiting. He was feeling hungry and was tired too. He had to come back to work early in the morning! Where was the bus going?

He looked uneasily behind to catch a glimpse of the blurred faced passenger but could not discern anything about him. Faintly he thought that the man was smiling, as if he was caught in a practical joke. He was getting impatient and irritated. He walked to the conductor again and saw that his eyes were closed. He shook him by the shoulder (the audacity!). The conductor slowly opened his eyes and looked at him with hard dark eyes. Where are you taking me? Where is this bus going? He asked, not really intimated by the looks of the conductor. The conductor shook himself free of his grip and closed his eyes again. He turned to the driver, furious. Stop! Stop the bus right now! I need to get out, he shouted but the driver merely looked at him coldly and turned his stare back at the road. He looked out of the closed door and saw that they were moving too fast for him to attempt to jump out. Also the door was closed and he did not know how to get them to open. He doubted that the driver would open it for him.

Angry and disappointed he returned to his seat. On his way back he tried to strike a conversation with the old lady. Hello, he said but she did not even look at him. Do you know where we are going? He asked, trying to be friendly but was met with a stony silence. He returned to his seat. He looked at the other passenger, sleeping and thought he ought to wake him up. He shook him by the shoulder and the guy woke up with a start. Do you know where we are going? He asked. Yes, to the place, the sleeping man told him. What place? He insisted. The same where everyone goes, he said and promptly fell asleep again. He thought he should go and ask the other passenger in the back but then returned to his seat again, looking outside the window in dismay.

He saw that they were passing through a graveyard. He strained his neck backward and saw that it stretched on forever. The same, forward. He was scared now. His home was very far from the graveyard. And he had never seen a graveyard so long. He could make out the different tombs as the bus rolled on. Then it seemed to him that the bus was slowing down. He strained his eyes and began to discern the markings on the tombs that were nearer to his window. As he continued to look on, his eyes began to grow heavy. He was tired. He eased a little in his seat, uneasily content in the knowledge that he had no idea where he was, why he was wherever he was, and that he could not do anything about it at this point of time. He began to feel drowsy and then dozed off.

Grass. Lush green. Black. Shining black shoes in a little boy’s feet gently trotting on the grass. He remembered flowers and a little boy’s finger on the soft petals as they unfolded in the morning hours, the dew lingering on it. He remembered a fragrance which he had forgotten. He remembered sitting in the sun with his books. He remembered the forgotten lines of a poem he had loved as a small boy. He remembered his mother. He remembered her kissing him goodnight. He was back in the garden and the sun was shining brightly. He was enjoying the winter sun. Suddenly, the sky darkened. He looked up to see dark clouds. He turned around to go inside the home but found that the doors were barred. He banged on the doors with his little hands but no one answered. He called out for his mother but there was no reply. There was a large crack of lightening and he shouted in fear.

He jerked out of his sleep, disoriented. He was in the bus. He looked outside the window and saw the tombstones. He called out to the bus driver and the conductor to stop. Please let me go home. Please. But no one heard him. Even the old lady did not turn around to look at him. He sat there brooding about the dream he had. He had forgotten about the days of his childhood. He had thought that these images had been lost along with the many things that he had forgotten but now suddenly they had crept up. He recalled those lost moments, the innocent child that he once was. He remembered his mother. He had not called her in years. He thought about his grandmother and suddenly felt guilty about not having come to attend her funeral. He had been too busy at the office. He looked around the bus and his eyes fell on the sleeping man. He looked vaguely familiar.

Suddenly the sleeping man opened his eyes and looked straight at him. You remember me now? He asked, smiling a little. He shook his head. Oh! You don’t? I am the one whose job you took after you pointed out that error in the accounts. Don’t you remember? He remembered then. It had been years ago. He had found an error in the accounts and instead of pointing it out to the accountant he had taken it to the management who had promptly fired the accountant and had promoted him. Do you know why I had made that error, the sleeping man asked. I had a daughter who was very sick and I urgently needed money. I had thought of slowly slipping the money back in but of course…the entire scheme failed. You could have pointed it out to me. I would have begged you for a couple of months. No, no! I am not blaming you. Don’t worry about that. It really is alright. She did not suffer much. I met her. She died that very night. I had a rough patch from then. Didn’t really have money. Could not find another job. Was heartbroken. I died some years later under the old bridge near the office where they found my body after two days. I don’t blame you. Don’t look so pale! It really is alright.

Then the old lady turned around and looked at him. It really was his grandmother! Oh come on boy! You were always so pale. Doesn’t your wife feed you? She asked in the same way she used to, warm, friendly, yet slightly disapproving. I was angry with you. Very angry for a long time. But then that man (she pointed to the man sitting at the back) helped me through it. I had been waiting all these years for you to take the bus ride with me. I was almost convinced that you would never come. You could have at least come to the funeral. But then it’s alright. All is forgiven. When you were a child you used to come running to me whenever you could. I guess you have grown up now. You have changed.

He was terrified and hurt. His heart felt heavy. The entire thing was weighing on him. The guilt. The fear. The graveyard outside the window. Everything. He started to cry. Please! Oh please! Just let me go. My wife. My children. They are all waiting for me. They would be worried. I am sorry. I never meant any harm. I promise…I will become a better person…please! His grandmother came near him. It’s alright son. We know. She put a comforting hand on his shoulders. Then the conductor got up from his sleep and called out. The Place. The man in the back seat got up and came near to the small group. He could still not make out his face but he had a pleasant voice. Reassuring. Warm. Come now. All is done. Come and finish it now. He placed a hand on his shoulders and guided him down the bus. The sleeping man and his grandmother followed. The conductor and the driver stayed at their place.

They were still in the graveyard. The man guided him to a section where the graves looked fresh. He looked at the graves and recoiled. The first one had his name but indicated his age as 12. The next one was the grave of a girl of ten, followed by the grave of the sleeping man. Next was the grave of his grandmother. Further on he could see the grave of his mother. We are sorry child. She died today when you were at the office. Your wife tried calling you but you did not have the time to take her call. Remember? You told her off. She couldn’t take the bus journey, of course. She was too tired. Further on he could see one more grave but could not read the name.

The man who had been sitting in the back seat now gave him a bunch of flowers. Put one on each of the grave and all shall be forgiven. Be at peace with them all now. He took the flowers with shaking hands and with tears running down his face, placed one on each of the grave. He reached the last one. It was his own grave with today’s date inscribed on it.

*

The early morning newspaper carried (in a side column) the news of the death of man at the bus stop. It seemed that the man had died naturally with a calm smile on his face.

- Parekh, Pravesh

January 06, 2014; 11:45 PM

The idea came to me originally as I stood at the bus stop a few months ago waiting for a bus, lost in thoughts. I would have stood waiting for quite a while before realizing that I had to take a bus. I ended up on an almost empty bus with a few people on board. That is when I thought…how would it be if it were a bus that would take us to death perhaps? A bus ride that was perhaps carrying the dead? At that precise moment I was reminded of a short story that I had read (and forgotten all about it) years ago. “The Omnibus” by “E.M.Forster”. After a month or so I read a short story by “Gabrial Garcia Marquez”:”I only came to use the phone” which had a similar theme of someone landing up where they are not really supposed to be and then the resignation to fate. I realize that perhaps many writers have thought on similar lines and would have written far better stories. When I started writing this one I barely had a recollection of being on that bus and wondering what if it suddenly ends up on an infinite road and never stops. I had no idea where I would be taking the story. Now that I have written it, I realize that I have not done any justice to either the experience or the concept. Hence is this half-baked, half-cooked, perhaps unsavoury story here.