Transformation

 Another day. Another airport. It is a little before five in the morning and the bleary-eyed traveler wades their way through a relatively small mass of people. Several of the shops are closed – remnants of a day gone by. As I make my own way through the people, couple of hours to kill before hopping off to my destination, I can’t help but be reminded of days gone by. Not that there is necessarily much to remember. Ramblings. Musings. The difference is sometimes subtle.

As the clock hands (unfortunately, digital ones) slowly move past five, the shops start opening up. Employees who have woken up early just to help people like me deaden the sound of the ticking of the clock. The stores are all open now and I walk through a couple of them – not really sure what I am looking for but pretty sure that it is not here, not now; and even if it was, it would certainly not be for sale. Not to me, for sure.

I eventually make my way to a bakery-café – every time I pass through this part of the airport terminal, I try and stop by. The staff is friendly and warm. I remember that their scones taste pretty good. I also remember that they forgot to warm my focaccia once. And you get free refill. A few travelers are ahead of me, getting their morning cup of caffeine fix. I order two scones and a cup of coffee. Black, please. Just like that darkness inside your soul that sometimes threatens to eat you up. Almost immediately I am handed a plate of scones and an empty cup (which I can fill up from the fountain of everlasting life in the corner). The person behind the counter does not even look at me – she is absorbed in a world of her own. The special kind of being self-absorbed that typically happens early morning, when you try and huddle up to yourself, bracing yourself for the cold (world) outside. She doesn’t tell me that I can refill my coffee. Oh well.

I settle down at my usual spot (at least I think it is my usual spot) – someone has moved the chairs around so that I have a slightly different view than the last time I was here. I can’t be bothered to move it around. Slowly, I nibble at my scones, making dents into its shell. Occasionally, nuts tumble out, seeking their release from the confines of their scone-world. I am facing a kiosk which typically sells socks and some knitwear. There is a person behind the sales counter, carefully folding some grey material. I realize that they are the curtains that hang around the kiosk when it is closed. Slowly she puts them away under the counter, a resting place of their own. 

Someone begins to play the piano which is very close to the spot where I am sitting. Nothing too jaunty but not too subtle – a sort of wake-up tune. The music fills up the place. The person behind the counter seems oblivious to the few passersby who applaud the first piece – she continues to jab away at her terminal screen and making some notes on a piece of paper. I am almost through with my first scone and the cup of coffee is threateningly close to being empty. The refill offer would have been nice. The next piece starts, and I think it sounds a little bit like the opening tunes of The Arrival of the Birds or maybe Transformation by The Cinematic Orchestra. A few more seconds in and I don’t think that is true – probably something else that I don’t recognize. But it is nice. It seems to be breathing the people around me with a bit of a life. 

Suddenly, it is no longer five in the morning but maybe five in the evening – there are people having their coffee and buns, their eyes lit by the glow of warm lighting that surrounds them. It is dark outside, but nice and cozy inside with piano music filling the air. The piece ends and the third piece starts. She is still oblivious to the music around her, making notes on her piece of paper. Makes me wonder if it is someone’s job to come in every morning and wake the place up. She doesn’t register the music because it is routine to her. For the rest of us weary travelers, the escape is a boarding gate away – off to somewhere else. But for her, and others like her, the idea of escape is probably different.

I notice the hint of a transformation within me. This whole time, I have been thinking of writing. I haven’t written in years – it is probably a long forgotten, slumbering something. I might try and write about these musings (ramblings), I tell myself. The music ends, there is no applause. There is no fourth piece – the person has probably gone off somewhere else, their morning duties completed. I struggle and finish off my second scone and drain the dregs of coffee. Nothing around me has changed. The person behind the counter continues to do something with her computer terminal and piece of paper, the café staff are slowly clearing up the plates from the tables, a passenger with headphones around her ears has remained oblivious to everything and continues to watch something on her phone, and the endless queue of people passing through the duty free counters remains unending. Cést la vie. What can you do?

~ Parekh, Pravesh

7th October 2023; 06:33 AM

Oslo Airport (en route Montreal via Copenhagen)

The Arrival of the Birds

This is a sequel to an older post "The Passing of the Birds" which can be found here.

She smelled of funeral. He craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of her but could not spot her. The whiff of the perfume he had caught began to fade away. He turned around wildly, desperately trying to drink it in, to capture it, to smell it…deeply, but it waved off into oblivion. It sparked memories of a time that had once been…

It had been a really long time since he had seen her last. He did not even know if she actually existed or was a figment of his imagination. But then who was to say what was real and what was not? Or rather who was real and who was not? People told him that he had become a shadow of his former self. He wasn’t even sure if he had a former self. Things change, people change, life changes. It’s a gradual process. Can one draw a distinction between what was and what is now? But then, he argued back: if she indeed was real and if he had indeed seen her, shouldn’t he be able to draw a distinction?

Frankly, it was muddled and confusing. He did not have the heart to go into it. It was clear that his arguments were convoluted and self-contradictory. His thoughts recessed back into her memory, if indeed memory it was. That’s how it would usually be the case. He would be busy musing about things and his thoughts would converge onto her. That smell. The smell. Her smell. He wondered who’s funeral it actually was. His? Certainly not…he felt awakened to subtleties. He felt awakened to what was beneath the surface, to the colours seen in grey…

And he wondered about the birds…it seemed that the birds had really left. He had become deaf to their song. Or to music in general. The songs he had once loved, those CDs were packed in a box, stashed in a closet and forgotten. Their lyrics and melody a mere illusionary memory. He strained himself to try and remember the tune of one of his favourite numbers but could not. He sighed heavily. They had been replaced.

*

He came back home and settled back into his chair. The road to the café had been routine, the timing though different today. He had been inevitably delayed and had not been able to reach the café at the hour. Had I been missing it all along, he wondered now? What if the hour had changed and he simply kept to the old hours and hence stopped seeing her? A chance event had forced him off the usual track, and he had caught the perfume again. He wondered what it would be like to see her again…would she recognize him? More importantly, would he recognize her? Of the latter, he was completely sure. He would recognize the funeral in the perfume immediately. Even today, the perfume had been different. Yet, tragically the same. It was a different funeral at different time.

An envelope of heaviness encompassed him. He wanted to sketch. He wanted to paint a landscape in all the glory of monochrome. Black and white, streaked with greys. They were the same. He wanted to listen to tragically beautiful sad music but could not get himself to get up and put something on. He thought he heard the opening tune of Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen but it passed in a moment. He thought of all the beautiful music out in the world, the kind that would smother you in their melancholy till you became one with them. It was like one kept absorbing the sadness in them till the bubble broke and one was suddenly released. Like a prisoner on life sentence, suddenly finding himself free, just when he was getting used to it. Would he want to be free?

He felt himself getting restless. His thoughts were all over the place. He felt average. Mediocre. He felt his frustration at being unable to paint the picture he wanted. As if he were an artist who wanted to paint in black and white, but only found himself with colour tubes. Or a musician who wanted to compose the most heart-breaking violin solo in history, and found himself without one.

He forced himself to think back about the chair under the tree, the birds, and the whiff of the perfume…from three years ago. He began to calm down. What if his timing all along had been wrong? Would he go at the changed time tomorrow to see if she passed by, shrouded in her black dress, black veil, and black gloves? He briefly wondered about why he had never followed her to find out whose funeral she was going to? Somehow he felt confident that she was going to a funeral, not coming from one. But would that make a difference? His finding out…

*

Next day he was at the café since morning. It was slightly clouded, the sun cool and shaded behind the clouds, but not particularly grey or gloomy. He hoped beyond hope that it would get oppressive and overbearing. That would be a sign that she would come! He knew it was senseless and illogical to believe so, but he continued looking up once in a while, hoping the clouds would turn black. The usual hour came and he felt himself stiffening up. However, nothing happened. It would be another few hours before the new time. He sighed and waited. The hour came and almost passed, but nothing seemed to happen. He was disappointed. He was restless, anxious, sad, and filled with a different kind of melancholy. The melancholy of missing someone you never knew…of losing something you never had. The pain of separation upon being united…he looked up in the sky one last time before he got up to leave. In the distance he saw a flock of birds passing by. He did not hear their song but he knew what it was. It was the arrival of the birds.

- Parekh, Pravesh

September 29, 2016

05:52 PM

MBIAL, NIMHANS

Curiosity?

I look in the mirror. Who do I see? Hair unkempt, overgrown round the ear. Eyes, bloodshot. Tired. Anxious. Lips, slightly chapped. Beard, untrimmed. Stubble. A face. Don’t I see anything unusual about the ear and nose? No, I don’t think so. Do I?

I look in the mirror. Where am I? Is it my home? I am inclined to believe so. Must you believe what you think? Someone would know. That is, again, something I believe.

I look in the mirror. I think there are two of us here. You and me. Do you have a name? Not that I care to know…only curious. Mildly so. I don’t let me curiosity show, in case you are wondering. Are you? No, no. Barely curious. It doesn’t really matter.

Have you ever had too much caffeine? Perhaps on an empty stomach? Hypoglycaemia setting in, hands begin to shake, you are jittery, on the edge, tunnel vision, perhaps? Yes, you have? Good…good. Have I too, you ask? Of course, more than enough number of times. Recently? All the time…all the time these past days. Are you curious to hear about it? I don’t think so. Am I curious to know if you are curious? Is it a mice in the corner of the bathroom? I believe no…there is nothing to eat. Soul? Do I have it?

How do you deal with the loss of someone you never knew? How do you deal with the loss of something you never owned? I own you, I say. Do I detect a smile? Are you mocking me? But you can’t, I tell myself. Are all my questions the result of curiosity? The answer to it is curiosity? I wonder if it is the coffee rather than my head talking. Ah, damn it! It’s a loop. All roads lead down the same end…wait. Are there different roads? Yes, you tell me. How do you know? You have only walked down one, I say. You are silent.

When was the last time I slept? Must have been a long time ago. I am sleepy. I am in that phase where sleep is just behind the eye, tingling it, coaxing it to droop a little. But of course, it can’t close yet. There is too much caffeine in the blood. It’s the only thing that I have been having. Coffee is a diuretic. Even my urine smells of caffeine. But how do I know, you ask me. Have you ever smelt caffeine? No. That’s all I say. That’s all I can say.

I step out of the bathroom, but you are still there. Come out. I am tired. I need to sit. No? Very well. I will go out and sit. You can stay wherever you are. Be specific, you mock me. I can’t. I don’t know where you are. Don’t you want to know, you ask. Please don’t toy with my anxiety, I plead silently. I know you are in the mirror. I know you are my reflection. No, I am not, you sing along cackling away silently. Damn you, I curse as I stumble towards my room. I am going to sit down. Should I make another cup of coffee? Do you want one, I ask. You do not reply. Well…maybe a little later.

There is no furniture in the house. It’s an empty house. Yet, I see someone sitting. I blink and rub my tired eyes. Fine by me. Sit wherever you want. Do what you want. It’s not like I have a say in the matter, do I? I should ask my reflection if it is tired of all the standing around. Perhaps it wants to lie down? Is it a he or is it a she? It is an it, I tell myself firmly. I am not interested in knowing. My curiosity is limitless…or is it? I am curious to know. Am I? Loop inside a loop.

I walk around the house, slowly. My tired feet want to rest. I walk into the kitchen. There is a kettle. There are a large number of cups lying around, some with stale coffee in it, others with coffee dregs or with a few droplets of coffee in them. Whoever has been drinking so much coffee? Perhaps my reflection? No, no. It is not my reflection. But it ought to be someone’s, I ask myself. Does it have to be? How would I know? Am I the reflection of someone? Is someone the reflection of me?

How does it feel to be inside the mirror? Where is my reflection when I am not looking at it? It does not belong to me anymore. Did it ever belong to me? Who is sitting in the drawing room? Is it the reflection? But it wanted to stay wherever it was, right? How do I know if it was lying? Who am I? Where am I? Do I care? Or is it me telling myself that I don’t care? Perhaps the reflection is making me think that way…is it really? Can one do such things? Perhaps a reflection can make you think of yourself in ways you have not had previously? Isn’t that what reflection means? But that’s a different reflection…is it a reflection of the reflection? Do I see what I think or do I think about what I see? Do these questions matter? Why are so many cups here? Did I buy them? But is it my house? I think I have lost something…what is it? Oh yes, my reflection. Does a reflection have a reflection? Ad infinitum? How would I know? Do I need to know? When do the questions end? Is there an end? Death is an end…is it the end? Does someone know? Somebody should know…someone is screaming…perhaps my reflection inside my head? How did it get there? I close my eyes for a second…or is it a minute? 

Where am I? Oh, the kitchen. I must have come here to want something? Not sure. Perhaps a cup of coffee will clear my head…I should make some…

-Parekh, Pravesh

August 06, 2015; 11:35 PM

T-70, Chandigarh

Chinese Takeaway

It was one of the most miserable days ever. He woke up that morning to find the other side of the bed empty. Expecting a sumptuous breakfast, he got out of bed and strolled towards the kitchen, stumbling a little as his eyes refused to open completely. He was expecting some delicious pan cakes and a cup of hot coffee to open his eyes. Any minute now he would be greeted by the aroma of melting butter in the pan. Mmm…lovely morning. He reached the kitchen to find it empty, the sink having dirty dishes from last night. The Chinese takeaway from last night smelt.

He called out to her, “Honey?” Then he called out again. “Where are you?” singing it out as if playing a game of hide-and-seek with his wife. She did not reply. He went around looking for her but found no trace of her. He made a face, the desire for pan-cake disappearing to the smell of last night’s leftover. Maybe she has gone for a quick run, he thought to himself. He decided to take a shower.

He spent a long time in the shower; hoping breakfast would be ready by the time he stepped out. He stood in front of the mirror for a while, staring at his bulging tummy. Hmph! He flared his nostrils and lifted his head to see inside them. Then he stuck his finger inside and began nose picking. It was a habit she despised but then she was not inside the bathroom with him.

After finally stepping out of the bathroom, he called out to her again. No reply. He bumbled about the house wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, his belly protruding obnoxiously. She hated it. He found it cute. Surely she loved it as well but only pretended to be angry. Now he began to worry a little. Where was she? He went back to the bedroom to fetch his mobile phone when he saw a paper next to it. He lifted it up to read. It only had two words on it:

“You. Asshole.”

He read it a few times. It was his wife’s handwriting for sure. If only there was an “i” in there, she would have drawn a heart over it. But then what did the message mean?

He gave her a call.

“Hey! Where are you?”

Silence.

“Hello? Hell-oooo”

Silence.

Call disconnected.


He called again.

“Hullo?”

“What do you want?”

“Where are you? I have been looking for you”

“Oh yeah? For me or for breakfast?”

He blushed.

“You know. A bit of both”, he mumbled.

“Screw you.”

Call disconnected.


He called again.

“What the hell do you want, you pig? Are you such an oaf that you can’t figure out what’s happening? You will get the divorce paper today. Now don’t you dare call me again. Get lost and go to hell.”

Call disconnected.

He didn’t know what had happened or why his wife would be so angry. Maybe the food last night had really upset her? He knew he couldn’t call her again because she was furious. Maybe I will wait for her to call. He waited for a long time hoping she might call and secretly hoping she would come back with some great breakfast as a compensation for getting mad at him even though it was her suggestion to order Chinese food. He had to change from his comfortable pyjamas to a pair of jeans and then go and collect the food. While waiting for her call, he munched a couple of packets of biscuits. Surely, she would not get angry for eating up whatever was lying around. He hadn’t even had breakfast!

He woke up a couple of hours later to his phone ringing . He was slumped on the couch with biscuit crumbs over his bare body. It was his manager calling. He winced even before he answered the call.

“Where the hell are you?”

He opened his mouth to reply but instead came a very unexpected and thoroughly unpleasant burp.

“You lazy ass! I want you in my office within half an hour”.

“But…”

Call disconnected.


He muttered to himself and began to get dressed. He tried to comb his hair but realized that a part of his hair towards the back of his head was standing up, refusing to get combed. He opened his closet to take out a tie but realized that his wife was not around to tie the knot. Mumbling, muttering, and thinking about lunch he reached his office, four hours late.

As he was going to his cubicle, he ran into his only friend-James-the janitor. James never really said much and he rarely had any opinions, thereby making him a good companion. And he ate less so he could pick food off his lunch plate. James listened patiently as he told him all about the incident with his wife. When he finally explained his Chinese food theory, James stared at him for a few seconds before saying, “you are an asshole” and then he went away. He stared at James in disbelief. His wife, his boss, and now James too! Everyone on Chinese food or what?

He finally walked into his manager’s office. One look at his uncombed hair, open collar, and bored eyes, and the manager burst out in profanities. “You are fired. Get lost” he added towards the end. He walked out of his manager’s office and decided to have lunch before leaving the office. The only good thing about Mondays was the addition of some French fries in the canteen lunch menu.

He walked out of his office carrying whatever little personal possession he had in his cubicle. He went to a nearby orphanage where he used to go every Sunday afternoon to read to the children. Often he would play with them or do other activities with them. They were very surprised to see him on a Monday but the children cheered him when they learnt that he would come to them every afternoon. He never really had any talent but every time when he made a fool of himself, the children loved it. The time he spent with the children…it was the only time he never thought of food.

Later in the evening that day, he went to a nearby park and settled down on a bench. He wondered if in his brief married life he should have told his wife where he went every Sunday afternoon. She would assume that he went to some idle friend of his. He played a little while with a neighbour’s baby, making funny faces for the baby to giggle at. When he finally got up to leave, it was dark. Would she be back by now, he wondered? Then his thoughts drifted away to dinner. Chinese takeaway?

-Parekh, Pravesh

January 13, 2015

01:52 AM

NIMHANS (SH-15)

Content?

They were lying peacefully, side by side, under a warm and cosy blanket. The bed was comfortable and the air had the faint smell of her perfume. It was dark and silent. The fan moved slowly, the curtains drifted a little from their position and returned back. Almost as if playing a game. Presently, she changed her position. Earlier she was lying down on her back, looking at the fan through half closed eyes but now she turned to her side, facing away from him. The room was filled with her smell again as he inhaled deeply. For a moment, he thought how strange it was that they were under a blanket with the fan on but then he shrugged the thought away. It was not important. He looked at the circling motion of the fan and thought about the circle of life. She did not need to see his face to know what he was thinking. After a while he turned to his side as well, face towards the other side, away from her.

There was a window on his side through which a faint haze of light could be made out, now that his eyes were adapted to the darkness. He felt a glowing warmness in him but it was not because of the light. He thought of her and the faint lines on her face, but he did not need to turn to her to see them. She counted his breath mentally to know that he was at peace and she smiled faintly. There was so much to tell him and so much to tell her that it would take the entire night but they would still not be done. But it was alright. They did not need to talk to tell it to each other.

*

And she slept peacefully in the heat, not a trickle of sweat down her forehead while others tossed and turned in the heat, finding no respite. The floor was hard, the room stuffy with so many workers trying to sleep but a faint smile lingered on her face, content and happy.

And he slept peacefully in the cold, with nothing but a crude blanket over him while the animals in the stable and other workers shivered and remained awake. The straw bed was uncomfortable; the room smelly with the smell of animal waste but a warm glow lingered on his face, content and happy.

They did not need to be with each other to be together.

-Parekh, Pravesh

February 19, 2015
10:30 PM
NIMHANS (SH-15)

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.

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