Seeking Roots

I don’t know if I have bored you with the same rhetoric earlier. May be I had, and as is my habit, I did not commit to what I proposed. That’s me.

I am not sure if this time I would be able to honour my commitment, I guess I will be. For it is coming from the genuine depth of rootlessness that I am writing this now, sitting at the office, listening to the intoxicating sound of heavy rains.

I am committing myself to writing in Bengali, my mother tongue.

For writing in any language, the literary type, you have to have that command. I can understand the plight of the Indian writers writing in English. Most of them, except a few, are educated in an English medium school and have no knowledge of their mother tongue. They cannot write in their mother tongue even if they want to. For all I know, Indian languages are far more complicated than English. Even if one is fluent in speaking it, it needs skills to try and write in it.

I am a sensitive guy. I am compelled to write my feelings almost everyday. But the tragedy is that for the last few years, the idea of connecting to an international audience had struck me. I was almost hypnotized and day dreamed of becoming a global ‘author.’

But I guess, you can forgive me for that wishful thinking. I was just very young and like any other young man, had aspirations above the potential.

I have a workable English language skill. I can write news stories perfectly well and fast and can communicate what I saw and what I need to communicate to my audiences. But when it comes to communicating the feeling, I can never do that with my poor knowledge of English language.

I talked to my editor that day about what is lacking in my approach to writing stories, about our project … what he said was bang on. You need 10,000 hours of practice to master any craft. That would turn out to be at least three hours of practice for over a decade.

I am sorry. I don’t have that time with me. I have spent at least 5,000 hours practicing stories in Bengali.

The basic structure is there, I can write stories as I think I want to write. When I write in English, I have perfect control over my subject. I don’t have control over my language. The language is what is pulling me from getting a perfect nirvana in my art. I cannot communicate the beauty, smell and touch in English which I can easily write in my mother tongue.

What the heck, my Bengali was sweet once upon a time. I was a regular in magazines! I had even my poetries published! Where is that language now?

I have lost 75% of that skill worshiping a language in which I don’t think. I still and will continue to think in Bengali before translating it in English.

What precious waste of time!

It depresses me now knowing that I have ignored my sweet Bengali. But looking back at it, I find it perfectly useful. English is how I will earn my bread. I needed to know the language to be faithful to my profession of choice. My continuing endeavor will be to master it further.

But my mother tongue is something that would earn my creative satisfaction. I need to nurture that like before, when I used to dream of writing regularly in those prestigious Bengali magazines.

So, what is in store for you? No more tortures from my side. Only when I would feel like writing some impromptu stuff in English, creative or mundane, I will surely heed the call.

Did I miss saying that you were the ones for this much of improvement in my English? It was horrible when I was fresh out of university and started writing non-text book stuff in English.

I thank you all my dear friends, thanks for enriching my writing skills in my acquired language and thanks for gently guiding me to the right usage of a word whenever I faulted.

Did I disappoint you Ian? Are you feeling dejected and betrayed? For you spent hundreds of hours editing my copies and re-writing those to make it proper English! Kindly forgive me. The idea is not to cheat you.

I have realized the futility of connecting to an international audience. Writing has become a much more sacred ritual to me than what it was before. When it is the question of religion, please allow me to worship my God my own way.

Please allow me to go back to my roots. I am as proficient in my mother tongue as you are in yours.

When I was in school, my Bengali teachers taught me to write, when I was in crisis, fjam taught me to stick to my passion and when I was sure about my passion, you taught me how to achieve perfection in pursuing it. My dear Ian, your influence in my life is much much more than instructions in English.

It’s a larger scheme of things, over and above the language. It’s about the subject itself. It’s about the thought process, the same neurotic vibes, blessings of the muse, that you and I both receive the same way. You taught me how to capture those and how to celebrate that. Your greatest gift to me was that.

Just that, our ways of putting it in paper will be different from this point.

Sabbatical Yay!

It’s a very slow day in office. Voting is going on in Mumbai and the whole world is closed, except the newspaper offices. People are also enjoying this brief break from rusty Mumbai life. As per the initial reports, the turnout is only about 10% in polling booths. Why trouble yourself standing in the crowd in this heat when you can sleep the whole day!

But …

Why should a business paper be open when the stock market, banks or any other financial institutions are closed is beyond me.

Anyway, the boss is pretty calm today. He is a great journalist. He was trying his level best of rubbing his enthusiasm to me but with all my non-activities I have hopefully conveyed the message to him that I am not interested in being a great journalist as him. After several brave attempts including some bursts of inspiring lectures, he has realized his futility and is pretty chilled out with me now. These days he asks me about the weather instead of developments in my beat.

I have successfully conveyed to him that this is job for me and I have passion for it, but not ‘burning’ passion as he wants to see.

Let’s see how long this calm continues. I better do the most of it. I better write a blog post before the bossy wakes up from his slumber, he afterall, sometimes forgets my message to him.

All the star reporters are playing cricket outside. Earlier they used to make my life miserable calling me again and again to join them. But I have demonstrated to them my love for my chair and preference for arm-chair journalism and arm-chair cricket, i.e. watching India Premier League sitting on my chair instead of gathering like bees around the TV-hive. They now know that nothing except cigarettes attract me. But these people don’t smoke. So it takes some effort between us to communicate with each other. Most of the time they do the effort.

Of late, I am thinking of taking a break. Journalists, who in their entire career has achieved nothing, call it “sabbatical.” I know at least five six great useless creatures who have taken a sabbatical after five-six years of doing nothing. My boss, on the other hand, is the most diligent workaholic I have ever seen. I have never seen him talking about taking sabbaticals. At the most, seven or fifteen days leave to recharge, but that’s not sabbatical.

I doubt if he is forced to take sabbatical for a month, he will start a hunger strike at the gate of this office.

But I want a ‘sabbatical.’ I fit the bill perfectly. In my five years of journalistic career, I have done nothing, achieved nothing and I hope to remain the same in my next thirty years.

I fancy myself with that old bloke from the vernacular media who comes to the press conference every time to have free food. The guy is a fragile frame of his former self. As fragile as my news stories.

His body just needs a good shake-up to breath its last. Going by the bulging bags under his fish-like eyes, bent spine, withered skin, I am sure this guy is the happy playground of all kinds of diseases, diabetes to start with.

Yet, this septuagenarian savors a kilo of the sweetest sweets, finishes almost one whole cooked sheep, and eats rice equivalent to a produce of about a square-hector field. If the press conference has drinks too, most of the time people carry him office after the conference. During the conference, he snores. Yet, he comes back for the next conference perfectly fit.

He is my inspiration. I know if he can survive in this profession, I will also. For that I don’t need to be as active as my boss.

My colleagues have realized I am like that ancient stone. You cannot move me. If you really want to disturb my peace, you start worshiping me. They come back to me for some inspiration and pastime when they think they have done enough for the day and are dead tired. With my inspiring talks of non-activity, I give them the much sought after peace of mind.

They don’t disturb me anymore.

I am a perfect guy to flaunt a ‘gone-for-a sabbatical’ tag. But I have to wait for sometime before that. Meanwhile I can go for a fifteen-day vacation and go unnoticed. Far from the madding crowd, if I may be allowed to say it poetically.

I am making some effort in searching for the ideal place. During weekends I am going to far off places to check if my mobile picks up signals. The place where my mobile won’t pick up signal should be the perfect place. It should be “not reachable” whenever contacted. People should not get me when they want. But I should be able to get them whenever I want. The place should be cheap and should have an abundance of chicken and mutton serving restaurants. Booze should be duty-free and the only channel to come there should be Doordarshan. Internet should be unheard of and cable television a dream-come true. Yet, there should be electricity. I should be able to sleep properly with the fan on and mosquito repellants diligently doing their duties.

Oh yes, newspapers should not come there. If you have noticed, the world plunged into sadness after newspapers were invented. Before newspapers, literatures were like Ramayana, Mahabharata, Iliad, Odyssey -- all those great books of superhuman activities. People instantly realized they are not able to match the heroes there and so they didn’t dare to be active, instead sitting calm and composed under the great banyan tree and believing whatever the interpreter told them.
Post newspapers, literatures are like “Hard Times” “Ulysses”, “Outsider”, “Sons and Lovers” and the mother of them all – “War and Peace”. Basically all those troubled-conscience pieces that was possible by writers who read newspapers and started thinking parallel. Not only reading man, the writers were journalists too. All those sad lots …

I also read newspapers. I read them everyday to find out what people in my beat has written and to crystal-gaze as how my day in the office will start.

On my way to the office, being one smelly sardine in the great moving can of sardines, I device clever answers to save my arse from the inevitable question of my boss, “why have you missed this?” My day start with that and ends with, “What? No story for tomorrow too??? I really don’t know how you …”

I hate newspapers. Newspapers should be a strict no-no at the place of my mini-sabbatical.

Oh yes, the most important of all. It should be a paid leave.

There is no incentive in going to a place just for doing nothing when I am getting paid doing the same thing in office everyday.

Laughable stuff

Sorry for not writing here for so long. Sorry for my last post that hurt you. That was intentional. I wanted to pick up a quarrel with somebody, I was fighting with myself, a weight that I wanted to throw at somebody and relax. Sadly nobody gulped the bait.

I am sorry for myself.

Journalism is taking away too much of my time. It discomforts me a great deal when I think about it. But the joy of this profession is that there is no accumulation of profit. You get your due then and there. If you are in a newspaper, you get your reward the next morning.

The fun ends there though.

Next day is a new day, a new challenge, a new tension about what you will write now? Today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s wastepaper for the readers. For reporters, today’s newspaper is the filthiest of waste paper. When you were writing the article, you were busy, bosses were happy. Now you are done. Now you are story-less, worse than being penny-less in the world.

But still, you somehow pull yourself to dig a new hole to taste water. Over a period of time, it can become addictive, I guess. Of course, over a period of time, you get to know for sure if you fit the bill or not. Either you get excited or the profession will throw you out. You cannot sustain in journalism if you don’t have passion for it. No fooling business here.

Babes and blokes with those shiny eyes dreaming of becoming pseudo-famous, a word or two for caution – this profession is not glamorous.

Anyway, instead of trying to become the role model in journalism, I better cough it clean. I have conceded defeat. I am a failure in my pursuit.

When we were kids, my father’s favourite word of advice was “dream for the stars, and you shall reach the moon.” How true he was. I always dreamt of becoming a writer. Always. Ever since I was a child, I had this fascination for writers. When I was in college and university I used to roam around College Street, the Mecca of Calcutta’s book loving crowd, just in case I catch a glimpse of a writer! I frequented coffee house, secretly planning to catch hold of a writer and be his apprentice. That never happened. Nobody thought me fit for an apprenticeship. Nevertheless, I made some good friends in some “let us pool and publish” magazines and managed to print some of my juvenile short stories. I started behaving as a writer, as in, intentionally forgetting things and pretending to hear people calling me after a time lag of five seconds.

But then, it tired me, the acting part. I realised I have a long way to go.

I didn’t want to become a journalist. It happened. How it happened is an interesting story for which the aforementioned magazines play a role, but that I reserve to tell you some other day. Nevertheless, I became a journalist. I dreamt for the star, I reached the moon. My father’s wisdom came handy.

Now I cover treasury, the most uninspiring thing for you. And banks, including the central bank of the country, bit interesting, if you chose to take interest in financial systems. But then, my journalism starts and ends there.

People ask me about stock tips. Since I am a ‘financial journalist’. I am supposed to know everything about the market and my recommendations should make the person rich in just a fortnight. When I try to reason that my ‘expertise’ lies in bonds where the minimum lot of trading is Rs50 million, people refuse to believe that I don’t know anything about equity. I am a journalist, I am supposed to know everything under the sun.

Worst, people ask me what is my assessment about the upcoming election. Who is most likely to form the government? What would be the equation like? When I explain that I am a business reporter, they come back to the stock tip. When I tell them, with all my feigned humbleness, that I cover bonds and I have a workable knowledge on bond market, people think I am trying to be modest, or I don’t trust them, or I am a true ‘professional’ – not to divulge secrets. The worst comes when some of them give me a scornful look. It translates into roughly something like this, “If you are a journalist, I must be King Arthur” and “what the fuck you are doing in journalism if you don’t know anything?”

I wither in front of those suspicious looks. I can’t help but to look for cover.

Nevertheless, in my personal space, I am happy with what journalism has so far offered me. People who matter in my field know my name. I get mails (fan-mails? Hate-mails too!) from the readers. My parents feel proud to see my name in printed words. I get to meet the celebrities and heavyweights you see on television and newspapers everyday.

And I get the chance to wonder at their ordinariness.

The ghost of a writer just left me a couple of months ago. Till then, I was torn between my career and my dream. It did no good. Neither I wrote substantial anything, nor I concentrated at my job in hand because I thought this is not my world. It’s almost like betraying the wife for the mistress.

But my neglected profession, as if just to lure me into her arms, is giving me rich rewards. That day I wrote a column. Actually not. I contributed in a daily column in the absence of our consulting editor. He didn’t write that day and instead told me to fill his space. That doesn’t make me a columnist. But yes, it IS writing a column for sure. An unthinkable honour for a junior reporter. You don’t write a column unless you are an expert in it. I am just learning about the bond market, yet, I wrote a column on it.

I was excited.

I called up my mother, “Maa, I am writing a column today.”
“What? You are not writing about banks anymore? Your bosses are angry with you,” she was tensed.

I had no choice but to tell my simple mother that things are fine here in office. But I didn’t try to explain her about the significance of a column.

I called my father, “Baba, I am writing a column.”
“Ok.”

I wanted a word of encouragement from someone. I wrote that old man in England a mail. As expected, there was nothing but encouragements. I knew this. He is predictable. He doesn’t believe in hurting people with his words. May be because he is a refined Englishman, may be because he is a genuine good man. May be because he thinks I am too sensitive and not capable of handling his criticism. But I knew his response, it didn’t encourage me at all. He is predictable in his mails to me.

I am staying alone these days. I missed my friend I wanted to call him and share this piece of news with him. I knew he would be happy, genuinely happy for me. I knew that. He always celebrated my happiness and shared my pain.

But he has hurt me somehow, I don’t know how. I didn’t call him. I won’t share my joys and sorrows with him anymore.

I called my former boss, who also happens to be my good friend, in the pretext of enquiring about a friend’s job application. I broke the news casually, he was excited. I felt happy. Really happy, but feigned to be “it’s normal. I am not a columnist really. It’s just stop gap.” But I was happy.

I wanted to call this guy who I consider my elder brother, who shielded me from all the workplace turbulences throughout my career with him. But he had left Mumbai two days back and I was not sure if I should disturb him with my ‘trivial’ news. Anyway, we are in the same organisation and he will see my name in the paper.

I called up this coolest guy in the world. A man I consider the kindest yet the most brutal in the world, the most moody and the most magnificent. I wanted to talk to him and after sometime I wanted to break the news. Because I believe in his emotions. If he congratulates me, I know it would be no formalities. But he has discarded me from his life I guess. He seemed not interested in talking to me. I knew he was brutal.

“Say something. Why are you answering in monosyllables,” I said. Thinking shall I break the news now? My personal feat?

“I have nothing to say actually,” was his cold answer. I bade him good bye.

True. I have nothing to say too.

Finally, I broke the news to my spiritual guru. We were having beer. He was elated. It was genuine. Suddenly the world seemed all draped in colour. Suddenly it seemed, I have achieved something big. The sparkle on his eyes told me I am happy seeing somebody happy for me.

Suddenly I wished my parents and sister and brother were here. That predictable old man was here. My friend and former flatmate was here with me. I wanted to have my former boss and the meanest and coolest guy at my room with me.

I wished they would demand a party. I wished I would be beaten up for refusing to give a party.

I swear I would have emptied my bank balance if they would have asked for a party.

Yet nobody asked for it.

Mood Swings and Rehman-Gulzar

I don’t know why it should happen. But presently, I don’t need you at all. You must have noticed I am deliberately insulting you or throwing my nasty tantrums on you. You have seen my nice side, but you must be surprised to see my mood swings. I really don’t know why it should happen.

I just want you to leave me alone. Comfortable in my cocoon, I must hibernate and emerge as something totally unknown. I was never a very extrovert and never intend to be. I know I am a good man and I can consciously never hurt anybody, physically. But you are becoming too much intrusive in my life, without actually knowing so. You are dragging me to every party when all I want is just to slip unnoticed in the vast human ocean. When I left my home some five years ago that was upmost in my mind that I will be lost in this vastness and I and only I will be there in my world.

But increasingly, you are trying to make me social, which is dead against my will. I just don’t want to interact with you, I just don’t want to meet you, I just don’t want you to expect me doing something that would please you. I am back to my usual self. That of extreme selfishness and I want you to respect that.

Having said that, let be assured that I love you and I do care for you. I am just begging you for a space of my own.

Thanks for your understanding. Goodbye.

BTW, Rehman got two Oscars for his “Jai Ho” and Gulzar for his lyrics. I guess they both have truckloads of those metal statuettes already for their other songs. If not, fuck Oscars. You don’t know quality. You are still driven by the marketing hoopla. You have preferred your other singers over Rehman or other Indian composers and musicians and lyricists for eternity. And you thought Jai Ho is an extreme example of a good song. Come to India not with dirt in your eyes, looking for slums and garbage. You still require the wisdom of seven births before you realize what is real India.

Go, get a good translator and read what our “bollywood” lyricists have written for ages. You will feel ashamed for the shallowness of your “I want to fuck you” lyrics.

Case in hand: “Na jaane kyun, hota hain yeh zindagi ke sath, achanak yeh man, kisike jane ke baad, kare phir uski yaad, choti choti si baat” or “Kahin dur jab din dhal jaye, sanjh ka dulhan badan churaye, chupke se aye. Mere khayalo ke angan me koi sapno ke deep jalaye … "

(I am not trying to translate it, I am very poor at it. Request somebody to translate it in the comments section. Please. Kindly do it.)

The human drama

It was a cold, very cold night. The young lady was tossing and turning in pain on her bed. This was going on for the last three days. The baby was refusing to come from his mother’s womb. Yet, the doctors won’t operate her because there was a serious lack of anesthetic and cesarean birth was a rare operation that time. Certainly a costly affair that this lower middle class family coudn't afford. Besides, being a government hospital, it was under-equipped. There was no way but to wait for the baby’s wish.

Perhaps the baby sensed, it would be too hard for him to adjust to the world, perhaps he was not satisfied with the world where he would spend his mortal life.

Suicidal missions were not heard of that time but the mother of the young pregnant lady was cursing the baby – he was determined to kill himself and his mother, almost as if in protest.

His would be uncles were pacing restlessly in the almost filthy hospital yard. Taking turns to be present there. Making sure that the tiniest of the difficulty won’t hurt their dear sister, one of eight siblings. The elder son of the family worked in a x-ray clinic, assisting the radiologist in taking photographs and developing the films. The one younger than him would work as a collection agent for a bank earning 2 per cent commission on the proceeds collected daily. The elder one would cycle fifteen miles to reach his job. The younger one would spend twelve hours of his day cycling the town and collecting daily current account deposits from the traders. Between two of their earnings rest the entire burden of their family. They had to marry their sisters and secure a bit more comfortable career, and if possible, marry themselves.

The boy’s grandmother and aunt from his father’s side were patiently waiting for their grandchildren. They were sure it would be a boy, because it would have been a disgrace to have a girl child. Imagine the strain on their loved son’s finance to brought up a girl and to marry her off!

The grandmother was bit anxious for their daughter-in-law but she was sleepless over her grandson. No harm shall befall him. Her family should not sacrifice the child to save their daughter. If they had to choose between one, she will fight till death and make sure that the child was saved. They will arrange one more girl for their handsome and able son. He after all, was in a government service! And was a science graduate!

The father of the kid, meanwhile, was coming to office regularly at a distant land. More than a thousand miles away from where the mystery was unfolding. He was least bothered about whether it would be a daughter or a son. He loved his wife, though he didn’t acknowledge it, but he knew that. And he was anointed by the holy rhymes of Wordsworth and Shakespeare. He was one of the few in his batch, who would read English books and worse … understand them and enjoy!!!

But it’s a disgrace to be at your wife’s side during the childbirth. There was no insult more in this world then to show love to your wife. His mother would kill him if she comes to know that her son has fallen for a woman whom he got to know for little more than a year. Besides, he couldn’t stand his sister's taunts. Although they were from the same town, they never met each other before marriage. His mother told him whom to marry, the girl was told a groom has been arranged for her ... and they were husband and wife in months.

Being one’s woman’s side was a shameful act for both the man and the wife. But he wanted to be in the hospital, he almost decided to, but all his modernist thought was defeated by his fear of termed as an “hen-pecked husband.”

The child was troubling the mother for the last three days, but may be he took some pity on the poor lady and started kicking his mother, demanding to come out fast, as his habit would turn out to be, he would want to do everything in a hurry. Even if that would mean half of his thing remain unfinished.

The lady started crying loudly as the pain intensified, doctors and nurses crowded once again to her. The doctor being a man in his sixties and the head nurse none other than the boy’s grandmom from his father’s side. For she was the head nurse of the hospital. She was from a royal family who dared to marry someone much poorer and run away from her family to settle in this town of Gaya, Bihar. But when her husband passed away, she did all sorts of odd jobs to raise her four kids and to educate them before specializing in delivery cases and become a midwife in the hospital.

After draining the frail mother all her energy, the child finally emerged in a bloody state. The grandmom, also the head nurse, promptly noted down the time and place. “10.45 PM, Gaya, Bihar.”

It would need the doctor to beat the child real hard on his butt before the child would start breathing, filling his little lungs with the smell of all sorts of medicines.

The horde of just-now-became family would then hear a cry very similar to that of a cat’s meow … meow …

They would erupt in joy!!!

The grandmom would rush out from the delivery room to hug her counterpart, the mom’s mom. “Congrats didi!!! It’s a boy! It’s boy!” The old ladies then would hug each other in joy and cry together! The baby was healthy and the mother safe too!

The boy’s complexion was Lal (red)! Pinkwash! He was the first son in her family. Now her husband’s family would survive and the lineage preserved. The proud grandmom claimed her first right in naming the baby of her family. She named her “Laltu.”

The elder brother of the new proud mom (still dizzy and unsure what’s happening around) would jump in triumph. He would empty his pockets and throw the money to the other nurses who demanded money for the good news. His best friend would immediately dispatch to the telegram office to send a telegram to the new proud father, sitting in Jaipur, Rajasthan.

One neighbour present in the hospital would rush to the girl’s house to give the good news hearing which the youngest son in the family, still in school would declare he won’t go to the school and won’t touch his books for seven days because he was “very happy”, a state of mind which he preferred to be often rather than being having “stomach ache” going to school.

Precisely twenty-nine years after that human drama enacted in Gaya, Bihar, the child would write this piece sitting in Mumbai, Maharashtra, wishing himself a happy birthday and thanking the family, his greatest strength, to stand beside him all the time.

And would silently apologise to his mother for troubling her so much and would whisper “Maa, I love you.”

happy new year my friends.

i am writing something just not to miss the opportunity to wish you all. even though, i am not very inclined to write anything these days. it's not that i have dried up or that i don't feel the urge to write something, but somehow i am not able to pull myself to write something here. so i thought i must grab this opportunity and fill something on my blog.

so, what's your resolution this time? i don't have any resolution, for either i have become too matured (read cynical) or i have realised the futility of new year resolutions. just a small 'thank you' to all of you for giving that emotional support throughtout the last year, actually ever since i started this blog.

as we all know 2008 was an eventful year. india and pakistan was almost there in the warfront (or was that only for the public?). i almost decided to go and live in pakistan, honestly.

i will tell you the reason. see, pakistan is so fond of flaunting its nuclear arsenal, i won't be surprised if they would use it at the first chance. and guess where it would fall first ... yes, in mumbai, right beneath my arse.

so why do you think i planned to leave for pakistan? well, i am pretty sure our 70-year olds will never use nuke. the whole world knows that, including condo rice and hu, not to mention asif, ali and zardari. so, i was just thinking, the only way to be safe during the war is pakistan. and guess what, i would just take my one month's salary in indian rupee to the country, i am sure, the pak's economy would be so fucked up after the war that they would need some hard currency. you must be thinking why indian rupee when dollar is there? well, i don't want to call my friends fools here for i know you are all intelligent creatures. just to correct your thinking ... united states gives them f-16s and sting missiles ... not dollar, ask condo if you don't believe me. now remained what? renminbi? the currency is so undervalued that it won't fetch a parle g packet.

of course, i will get truck full of pakistani rupee in exchange of my one month's indian rupee.

in fact, i have shortlisted some houses for me in islamabad. in fact, when i discovered that most of the places shortlisted are actually hotels, i promptly rejected them, for the country's cave dwellers are fond of hotels these days and as per the tradition, when they leave they blow their abode up. i lovedd mush's mansion though. how much he would charge me for it? half my salary? ummm ... hard deal.

how would i go to pakistan now? why? by boat of course. i will sail my way to karachi listening to my ipod -- thee greatest invention by the us of a.

anyway, please come to see me, i assure you a royal treat.

but of course, it all depends on when the war would start. i am waiting.

meanwhile, have a BLAST!

Hello!

Argh … it hurts. I better not touch my leg. Probably it is broken. Doesn’t matter as long as I am not touching it. This state is pure bliss. Oh, I never thought pain could be so beautiful. White pain.

But I should not touch it. The pain should come in waves. It’s like music. It has its own rhythm.

Are you feeling pity for me? Are you? Bless me! Praise the Lord! You are thinking about me right now! How can you not think about me? The object of my love cannot be so inhuman. Though, of course, that indifference in you was what killed me at the first place. I came looking for that fine soft line on your stern face and could not get out.

I know you don’t agree to what the respected men of your locality did to me. I am not a thief. Neither I can think bad of anyone. They left me unconscious. Praise the Lord again, right in front of your window. I guess, that’s the room you live, don’t you? I can vouch though that that’s the room where you practice your singing skills. In my pilgrimage to your lane, your voice was the only contact between our souls. On the waves of your tone, I have sent several messages, “I have come. I have come.” Didn’t you get those? Don’t lie.

What’s the time now?

Oh, your well-wishers have taken my watch. You have thieves among your protectors. Better choose better men next time. But you haven’t chosen them, I am sure.

What? Your window is still closed like everyday? As if nothing has happened? But how can you hide the fact that you are watching me intently through those cracks. I can see that through my third eye. You know love makes your senses sharp? Love is blind they say. Blindness sharpens your other skills. Have you ever seen a blind man meeting with an accident? Your saviours said forget it as an accident. How can it be? A blind man can never meet an accident. Even if he is about to, somebody holds his hand. I know you will come and hold my hand before it’s too late.

It must be past nine. My parents should start worrying for me after ten. For I have never entered home after ten. You see, in social terms, I am a ‘good boy’.

I know my shirt is wet with my blood. But you can feel the heaviness of dews when you stay calm. You can hear their sound. Again, it’s music.

I can hear that distant sawmill making logs of the vast trunks. The wind is carrying its sound, sometimes muffled, sometimes clear. I don’t know which side the wind is blowing.

What are you doing now? Apart from thinking about me? Are you studying? I am sure tonight is a bad night for your studies. You are probably writing my name on your philosophy notebook. I am sorry to disturb you like this. But allow me to, I am enjoying it.

Ha ha. You have to open your window tomorrow morning. You will find me here, at the same place. I will greet you good morning. No, I will not sleep today.

I will not allow anybody to move me from this place unless you come and tell me to go. You will see, if you tell me to go, I won’t take anybody’s help. I can limp and go home. My legs are broken but my heart is all charged up. But you have to come and order. Or plea!

You have one more option. Let the world sleep. You come near the window and let’s talk. Don’t worry, you won’t be disturbing me. Really, I am telling you, I don’t need rest. I am comfortable here. I never got the chance to sleep in the grasses. Looking through the grasses the world looks strange. I didn’t know this world exist. My world was always three-four feet above the ground level. I guess yours too. Hey, I must tell you, it’s fun. Try and sleep on the grasses, turn your face and look horizontally. I mean practice my pose now. You can try other poses but I can’t, probably they have broken my neck too. Thanks heavens for that.

Can you hear that frog croaking? A snake must be swallowing him right now. A small poison-less snake. What is that frog saying? “Help me?” no, probably not. Who will help him? Another frog? Ha ha. May be … he is calling his Gods for the injustice. I am sure he has his mate waiting for him in some burrows. They are not as pretentious as we are.

Just as we should call our Gods before breathing the last, he is probably calling his Frog-God. You must be knowing that if you do so, you will not only book your seat in the heavens but all your sins will be forgiven. But there is a bad side to it. Once you are in the heaven and all your sins forgiven, you will not be allowed to take rebirth, for we take rebirth to pay for our sins committed in the last life. In the process we do some more sins and the overdue spills over to the next life. Imagine, if we don’t take birth again, what a waste it will be. We won’t be able to come to this beautiful earth again. I won’t be able to fall in love with you again!!!

Don’t worry; I have committed enough sins to claim a rebirth. Have you? Hey, don’t you want to come to this lovely earth again? I would suggest you commit a crime tonight. Come to me not heeding your parent’s warning. Come. Kiss me.

Hey, open the window. Let’s debate what’s the frog is saying? I wager that the frog is saying foul words to the snake for not having enough poison and delaying the death. What’s your take?

What did you say? Ha ha ha!!! True, I never thought that. The snake didn’t brush its fangs for a month. Ha ha ha! I must tell, you are hilarious! You ought to be, for I didn’t love you for nothing.

Tell me one thing. You really didn’t love me? How can that be? When I was in college, I read a short story where a little boy, tortured by his step-mom comes and narrate his hardship and sorrow to the river. The river didn’t give much importance as she had her other usual engagements. The boy, being a simple little boy continues to narrate the daily injustice mooted to him for weeks and months and the river became his friend. One day, when the boy was beaten up badly by her step-mom, he comes and cries profusely to the river. The river starts crying too and swells and takes the boy in her refuge.

Of course, there is a sad part to it, if you interpret it in that way, but my whole point was to let you know that if you love even a seemingly lifeless thing as water, the water also loves you. But you are a human!!! And you claim to be not in love with me? I don’t buy that. I know how much I have loved you.

Yes, yes, go ahead. Protest. And this protest should go on for eternity. At the end of the dispute you will acknowledge that you have loved me.

Ok, as you say, skip the topic. But don’t go now. Let’s talk.

Say you get married to a rich and successful man. Say you bear him a child or children. Then what? Will you be happy? Won’t you feel sorry for turning me down? Won’t you feel that in the process of securing a future, you wagered your life? Your love? May be I cannot be as rich as your would be husband. May be I won’t have that social status. But who knows? Won’t you take a chance for the sake of love? Which one would you prefer? A happy life or a prosperous one? Come choose. I am the happiness and the other one is the prosperity. Come choose. Come on …

See … you are not sure. If anyway you are not sure then you should always choose someone who appreciates you. I bet if you chose to ignore the other one, he won’t give a damn. He will move to some other good alliances. But if you don’t choose me, I would be devastated, can’t you see that?

Honestly, I would have done this long time before. But I was afraid of the threats from the so-called well-wishers of your locality. They threatened me that they will beat me dead if I am spotted again doing rounds of your house. But was that very disturbing? I would just peddle on my cycle around your house for an hour and leave. I have never disturbed anyone, I have never called you, I have never looked at any other girl. My cycle was never the cause for a traffic jam. Then why should they threaten to beat me up? Ha ... when I asked them these questions they have no answers but to hit me on my face and break my glass. You know what, that was a costly frame that my uncle brought me from Italy. That was my best gear to impress you. I am sure you have noticed the almost not-their frame and appreciated my taste. But then, those lousy fellows broke my glass and promised me of more action if I enter your locality.

I obliged for about two weeks. So I waited for you at the station. I waited from ten to twelve in the morning to spot you. But then, probably you took the earlier train. Next day I was there from eight, I didn’t see you again. Last week, I was there waiting for you at the station from five in the morning to two in the afternoon. You didn’t come. Were you okay? What happened to you, I was naturally worried!

You tell me what can I do but to come to your place resuming my daily routine of pilgrimage?

Let me first thank you for letting me hear your voice. You were scolding your brother for not studying. I have never witnessed this side of your personality. I must tell you, I was very impressed. But then, just when I was returning, they caught hold of me. Did you see what all weapons of mass destruction they brought with them to beat a frail guy! Ha ha. I couldn’t help laughing to see their mighty weapons!!! They didn’t know I cannot even protest if a child slaps me. Poor guys!

Probably I went unconscious after they hit me on my head from behind. Fools. They have left me right where they rounded me, bang opposite to your window. Ha ha. Who won at last? See now, I am talking to you. Morons.

Yes, coming back to it … trust me, there is nothing to frown about love. Love is neither a disease, nor a chemical reaction. Love is as pure as the word pure can be. There is nothing immoral if two young souls fall in love. The so-called pragmatic elders probably get a sadistic pleasure in preventing two souls from drinking the wine of bliss. But then, we can discuss more about it when you agree to my proposal and be my girlfriend. Till that time I will continue doing what I am doing.

No, I don’t agree with you. You can call it madness but you cannot call it stalking. Stalkers try and talk and even touches! I always maintained a 500 feet distance while coming after you. You can never claim that I ever talked to you. You can never claim that I came within a metre of you, sans when we are coming from the opposite direction and crossing each other. Hey, does the same thing happen to you watching me? I don’t know why my heart pounds just when I see you suddenly. It’s almost as an electric current passing through my heart! My earlobes become hot and red. I flush. My brown cheeks become red!!! Wow!!! What an amazing feeling love is! After I see you, my entire day passes as if I am in a fairyland. The park, the ponds, the dogs … heck, the beggars … all look so dreamy and beautiful!

Hey, I want this to continue all my life! Hey, I want to remain a romantic deep in love with you all my love. Hey girl, I love you too much to live or die.

No, please don’t think that the tears are there because my body is hurting. I am crying because God gifted me this power of love! I love God for that. I am blessed. You are blessed too! I pray to God to bless you with His extra-ordinary gift. Hey, I know you are blessed too.

What did you say? I can’t hear you properly. It’s coming so faint. I don’t know why but the sound of the ocean is increasing now. I can clearly hear the waves. Is there any ocean here? I don’t know. How strange. And I claim I lived here since my birth. But you must be wiser. You must take me to the ocean and set me free. I am tired of this life. I am tired of people who wish well of somebody and can beat somebody badly for somebody’s wellness.

Hell, leave the topic. Anyway, the night is getting darker. But what’s that strange colours in front of me? What are those blue lines dancing? Oh look it’s yellow now. Swear … it’s purple. Hey, I am enjoying it. Is this a special day? I didn’t read it in the papers today that the sky would be painted bright tonight.

You know what? I am shivering! Are you?

Ok tell me, what will you do when you see me five years from now. What if we meet at the same spot here? You married with two kids and I am still the vagabond. Half-mad as they say in love, still thinking about you? You will feel sorry, isn’t it?

But I won’t make you realise that I am sad without you. I will pretend that I have fallen in love with the new chick in the block and doing rounds of her house. No, I can’t see even a trace of sadness in your face.

Well, if good senses prevail and you become mine and we marry, for sure we will erect an obelisk here, at the spot where I am now. Let it be named the obelisk of love. I am not talking sense, am I? Hmmm … those well-wishers of yours really got me this time. But I forgive them. Really, I do. You cannot love someone if you have the slightest hint of hatred towards anyone.

So tell me, would you or would you not? Hey, may I get a glass of water? I can’t talk to you anymore without having some water. My throat is drying up.

Thank you! That was the sweetest water I ever drank! Oh! You look so lovely my love. I have never seen a more beautiful woman in my life. Can I hold your hand?

Ah, it’s like rose petals.

No, don’t blush, don’t blush, I mean it.

Ah, the warmth of your blushes must have transferred to me. For I am feeling warm again. Why do I always feel so, when I touch you, even in my dreams, I get such energy to fight back the world? Why my heart warms up? I love you!



Sorry, I can’t hear you anymore. The ocean waves are getting louder and louder. Have you ever pressed your ears against a conch shell? You get to hear the sounds of the sea. That was my favourite pastime as a kid. I am feeling like I am blessed!



I am sorry my love, I can’t hear you anymore. I can’t see you anymore. I can’t see anything but a myriad of colours. Colours that you can imagine, colours that I have never seen. Ah!!! I can see a bright light flashing at the end of the tunnel.



Sorry, I don’t know where I am walking. It’s not the lane of your house, there’s just a bright white light, and it’s getting tinier. As if a round door or something is closing the way from inside. I must see what’s at the end of it. You wait here, I will come back.

I must run my love, without you for now. I don’t want to miss you. I must leave you here, for I don’t want to risk you there. I don’t know what’s at the end of the tunnel. I will tell you once I get back from there.

You must take me to the sea and set me free.