Monday, May 13, 2013

Sir Alex ― Et tu, Brute?

People often discuss what Manchester United's strategy for a particular game should be. Should Van Persie start upfront? Should Welbeck be on the bench? Should Wayne Rooney play a defensive game today?
Well, heck what do you chicken shits know, I ask? 

All you glory-hunting football fanatics who have emerged after football became popular in India thanks to the excessive promotion by ESPN-Star Sports (The publicity for 'EPL' during Test matches was more than that  for cricket matches) you have no idea what a Roy Keane-Patrick Viera spat meant, or still further back  what Dwight Yorke playing upfront with Ole Gunnar Solskjær or Teddy Sheringham meant, you will never know what it feels to see Cantona cavort around the field, bamboozling the opposition as if he were playing a bunch of school kids. No you fucks don't know shit about all those emotions. You just know all these fancy new footballers who have weird, similar names (Xabi or Xavi - kiss my dark, fat ass, who cares?) all belonging to some obscure country in the asshole of some Scandinavian city or you fatfucks are suckers for some bullshit club which came to limelight only because some Oil-drilling Sheik or billionaire decided to splurge on it to evade taxes. These new-age fanboys are the same shitheads, retards who sit in obscenely opulent pubs in some city, bespectacled and full of crap, discussing the strategies about the who's who of and the how's how of football (sic). Still worse, if they aren't prying outside with their fake cologne and goatees, these bastards indulge in the pathetic banter of argument, screaming their guts out on internet forums and Facebook groups. Oh, stop it already you morons! Glory hunters, enough said.

What do you know what heartbreak and football feels like? What do you know? Do you know how it feels when Diego Forlan comes on in the 93rd minute and Manchester United is tied at home to Chelsea, suddenly the Uruguayan's footer helps the ball to the back of the net? Do you know how it feels like when David Beckham passes a perfect, physically impossible right swinger and Ruud Van Nistelrooy is there to head it into the goal? Do you know how it feels to see Scholes make one of his famous gaffes, get a red card and still blow his nose as if nothing happened? Do you know what a silent maniac like an in-form, young Giggs would do when the ball reaches to his half of the pitch? Do you know that moment when a weirdly dyed, ugly-teethed, gawky Cristiano Ronaldo makes his debut at the 60th minute against Bolton Wanderers doing all that fancy step-overs and shit. Do you ? Do you, you so called fanboys?

Enough Said. Do you know what it feels like when you are surfing the Internet on a perfect afternoon, just recovering from a hangover and you read the most unbelievable post on the cyberspere. You are almost sure it is just yet another rumor, just yet another media over-indulgence against the fort knox of Manchester United. As the hours pass by, you realize that like every horrible rumor with a bitter tinge, this has to come true. Do you know what heartbreak feels like?

Manchester United. Sir Alex Ferguson. This is what hope, dream, glory meant to me, as a kid when I was only ten years old. I have seen Manchester United grow along with me. I saw when Sir Alex Ferguson jumped in joy, with the theatrical voice of Martin Tyler and Andy Gray in the background screaming "Sir Alex cannot contain himself", I saw when Sir Alex inadvertently kicked a boot towards Becks, I saw when Sir Alex just smiled smugly to the boos at Highbury (yes, your so-called "Emirates" was called Highbury back then. Just FYI, even "Etihad or whatever bullshit stadium" was called Maine Road), I saw Sir Alex Ferguson get "sent off" for protesting his opinion with the fourth official, oh yes, with Sir Alex I have almost seen it all. Football, my first addiction. 

Picture this. You meet your soul-mate, both of you get married, you live in a far off scenic place, beautiful as someplace like Tolkien's Hobbiton, you have kids, you have enough money, you have a huge house with a mahogany wood library, you and your soul-mate make love and read each other to sleep each day. Each day, every day. However, after twenty six years, one fine morning, you wake up and you see that your soul-mate, your sweetheart, the love of your life has left you. She has left a small note by the bedside lamp stating "Sorry, it wasn't working out. I had to leave." Well, this is exactly what happened that day when the world said, the Boss was leaving Old Trafford. I was dumbstruck, numb, shivering from top-to-toe, unable to comprehend what exactly happened, all the while hoping that it was all a part of a very bad dream. But, unfortunately, it was official. The truth, like a horrible suture gone wrong, hurtful, scarring and finally, realization dawned upon me. The Boss had to leave, leave me, leave us, leave Manchester United.

You football-physics/mechanics discussing wankfaces wont understand what it means, it isn't about trophies, it isn't about those stupid points-table, it isn't about getting relegated or staying on top,  nor it is about all that silverware that is all now just a memory in the museums of Old Trafford, it is bigger than that. It is knowing that Saturday afternoons (earlier we'd have 4:30PM IST kickoffs) or Sunday nights would never be the same again. Its having that feeling of being abandoned by God when you need him the most. It is about having a serious crisis of faith. It is about knowing your life would be never the same again without your amputated limb. It is about knowing you can never go to Old Trafford and watch 'him'. It is about the dream of an young boy shattered into a billion little pieces.

It would be an understatement to say Sir Alex was Manchester United (I can't believe I am writing about the Boss in past-tense). I remember feeling pretty low when David Beckham was welcomed by Florentino Perez to Bernabeu and the latter said "David, welcome to the land of dreams". No Perez, Madrid as was famously called Galacticos, was never a land of dreams, it was just a land of stars who couldn't handle each other's individual egos. I can blatantly say that Old Trafford is/was/will be the ONLY place on earth where a young, talented kid of twelve years comes in as a student and leaves Knighted by the Queen of England - David Beckham is to that point. Becks was my idol, my hero, and the day he left Trafford, that I considered one of the saddest days of my life. Well, then again even in my wildest nightmares, I never thought Sir Alex, Sir Alex of all the people would ever ever ever ever ditch and leave us and me. Old Trafford without the gum chewing, mercilessly cold man who meant business? Comeon, you gotta be kidding me, I'd say. But, last night. I was broken. Broken way beyond comprehension. You could never understand if I said a part of me died. It would be undermining my emotion. It is bigger than that. Truth had pathetically taken birth. The Sir Alex Ferguson star was fading. 

Sir, you say, we have been through good and bad, who ever questioned your judgement sir? Who cares if we finished on the bottom of the table? It was never about strategies and tactics. It was never about fancy football jargon, it was never about whether a certain player had a drought, it was about emotions, it was about loyalty, it was about integrity, it was about you, Sir. It was about waiting for that moment to see you get ecstatic or you get angry when the team didn't perform well. It was all in your honor, Sir. All in your honor. 

Sir Alex Ferguson (I hate when people refer to him as "Fergie" - Go fuck yourselves you juvenile, chicken shits, that guy is the most feared man in England, learn to respect him) always said "No one is bigger than the club". Well, Sir, you were. You just made us so used to the idea of being around, being protected by you, that the millions and millions of Manchester United fans will feel like me, like being dumped after twenty six years of being with a soul-mate. Yes, sir. You had to leave, I understand. But, still I don't understand why you had to leave. Just another year, Sir? Just another ten years sir? Just another thirty, maybe?

If you ask me, if I will continue supporting Manchester United, the answer is yes. It is like crying for several days after your soul-mate has left and you just learn to live. Without any emotions.

I wont thank you Sir Alex, because we don't thank people that are a part of us. I will cry yet another teardrop for you.
Manchester United - Semper Fidelis

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Pebbles in the creek..



There was a girl and a guy. They knew each other since they were little kids. 
They sat throwing pebbles into the creek, holding hands, whispering sweet nothings into each others' ears.
They at times spoke in parables and at other times argued in lengths.
The girl spoke about what she wished to become. A painter, a singer, an astronaut.
The guy spoke about what he wanted to become. A doctor, a firefighter, a magician.
The girl was an immature dreamer.
The guy was an immature realist.
Together, they owned their world.
They survived seasons; They surpassed reasons.
They sneaked from school to visit the circus.
They sneaked from their homes to play footsie near the creek.
They had everything. They were perfect. They yearned for nothing
The guy's family had to leave the town as they sought greener pastures.

They both grew sad.
The boy left the place.
The girl left the place few years later too.
He promised to write to her; She promised to write to him.

Years went by and they honored their promises.
They wrote to each other every week about their lives, their hopes, their fears, their memories.
Whilst writing to each other, they realized, past and future both made them sad and happy at the same time.
They decided to meet each other.
The guy drove several miles in his old, rusty car to meet her at the creek.
The girl traveled several miles in a train to meet him too.
Even during their respective journeys, they thought of nothing else but each other.

After painful years of parting, they finally met.

They loved the familiarity that still was extant between them. It hadn't faded away.
They loved the fact that they could look into each others' eyes and still feel the same way.
They walked to town's sole bistro and had several cups of coffee. 
Then they headed to the creek. 
They sat throwing pebbles, gazing silently towards the setting sun.
Their silence spoke. Their eyes spoke.

When the darkness of the night dawned upon them, they hugged each other.
They headed towards the old rusty car.
He started driving and played a song that reminded them of their moments together..
They held hands, smiled and looked into each others... Bliss..

What these two idiotic fucks didn't see was, an oncoming truck that headed towards them at a rate of naughts. The truck crashed into the poor old car and mangled their bodies. These two pathetic morons were killed.

"Keep an eye on the road, you retards!" said a booming voice from above.



They waited long enough. The pebbles in the creek had their revenge. 

P.S. The only reason I don't get laid is because I don't have a DSLR.
P.P.S. Did you really believe I was going to write a fuckin' love story? By the way, if it makes you romantic purists feel any better, in the alternate ending of the story, the guy is diagnosed with AIDS and the girl has cancer. 
Ah, love.

Monday, March 4, 2013

The Comedy of Terrors..




Dedicated to a new friend and a few old enemies.

"I am he that aches with amorous love;
Does the earth gravitate? Does not all matter, aching, attract all matter?
So the Body of me, to all I meet, or know."
 Walt Whitman

It was Friday evening and was already the time of the day when the birds started migrating back to their nests. The glaring sun receded as the sky took over the color of a ripened orange. Dusk was setting in and the SEZ bustled with activity. The weekend was almost always a dramatic event as every employee in their respective firms basked in happiness in a near soiree that resembled a posse of school children.

She emerged out of her office in a totally out-of-place traditional costume, complete with jewelry that ranged from earrings to the whatnots of an ethnic ensemble. Stares ensued as co-workers jeered and mock-teased her as she valiantly explained to them that she was heading for her bestfriend's Sangeeth that gave her no time to even head back home and change.

"What yaar! I am already feeling strange...Give it a break..I'll kill you on Monday!" she continued grinning like an idiot making empty threats at all her colleagues who wolfed at her making her feel more moronic than she intended to feel.

He revved his bike and waited for her, asking her one more time if she needed a lift to the function hall that was situated on the outskirts of the city. She politely declined his offer not because she didn't like him- she liked him too much, that was the problem, and for some reason she felt that the exhibition of love was in other words, the biggest exhibition of weakness. He pleaded with her again, but even after his trite persuasion, she continued to wait for the cab that she had booked earlier. He continued to flirt with her and his humorous nonchalance always amused her. But she didn't want to let him come too close to her heart. She had bitter experiences in the past and she couldn't afford another heartbreak. 

Not now. Not now. Maybe later, sweetheart.

"Are you sure you don't want me to drop you? My bike is begging you!" he flirted again.
"You are so cheesy, you know that?" she replied suppressing a smile.
"Everything is better when served with cheese!" he pleaded innocently.
"Give it up already. Your jokes are no longer funny, their are puny. They make me cringe" she said, secretly bemused at his erogenous sense of the mundane world.

He finally gave up as he saw the sole taxi appear from the boisterously wide road paving towards the SEZ.
"You'll be safe, right? Call me once you reach the place." he said peeping into the cab's window as he adjusted his helmet and kickstarted the bike.
"Yeah. I will catch up with you later" she said and felt a sudden sense of longing and fear that he was leaving her.

Its just a simple cab-drive. Forget him, go ahead and enjoy.

"Take care, okay?" he said and the masculine sound of the bike changing from Neutral to the first gear buzzed in her ears.
"Bye" she said betraying no emotion whatsoever.

She looked at the cab driver and instinctively felt bizarrely eerie. His eyes were visible in the rearview mirror and they were stone-cold, they were lifeless and distant. Her body started to assimilate an abstract sense of emotion- an emotion she never felt before, a subliminal primal fear. His eyes, they were dramatically undramatic. He continued to drive as he looked once or  twice into the rearview, perhaps to catch a glimpse of the cars in the background or subconsciously trying to induce an unspeakable fear in her. Her heart skipped a beat whenever he looked at her in the mirror but she remained as calm as possible. She noticed his hair, it was long and well kempt. Not a taxi driver's hair. She even noticed his flamboyant wristwatch. Not a watch a cabbie wears.

"Do you have a lighter?" she asked him, patting on his back as he continued driving.
He did not reply, he was zen-like  in passing her the zippo he had in the glove box. Certainly not a transporter's lighter!
She tried to appear as calm as possible and lit a camel cigarette from flip-up pack and took a deep drag filling the cab with smoke.
"Bhaiyya, how far is the place?" she asked him trying to be as unimposing for some reason as possible.
"Few Kilometres more" he said without even batting an eyelid.

She was an alien to the city. The culture shock she had expected when she first arrived was at best, minimal. The people were friendly and they weren't even remotely xenophobic. The only problem was with the continual stares. But then men stared everywhere. They were born to make women uncomfortable. With the seething and distraught act that happened in the Nation's capital few weeks ago, the safety of women had become a burning issue. Everyone pressed on the need to rope in measures to decrease the barbaric acts of crimes against women but very few voiced their opinions about the biggest problem of it all - the manic male psychology. Unless the problem was addressed from the grassroots level, there wasn't going to be any paradigm shift in the attitude of the people. 

"I have to take a detour" the cab driver suddenly spoke shaking her off from the Femina-induced thoughts of hers.

His voice. Not a hint of requisition. His tone. Authoritative and dominant, as if he owns me.

"Why? I am getting late!" she nearly shrieked, maintaining her voice as distant from fear as possible.
"It will take five minutes" he said again not even bothered to appear apologetic.

The fear came back again. This time in monstrous proportions. She clutched her handbag and she was reminded that a can of pepper-spray which was unopened, was inside her laptop bag. She also knew who to call in case if something went wrong, which she hoped wouldn't.

I should've just taken the goddamn bike-ride. Why did I care about the ego?

She kept murmuring a hymn that apparently satiated a God she believed in, silently hoping he would come to her rescue. Or maybe it wasn't a big deal afterall! The taxi finally stopped at crossroads which was bustling with activity. She lit another cigarette as she noticed a well built male in his early twenties who was just like the cabdriver- well kempt and dressed in a non-airy way. She flicked ash from the rolled down window as she saw the cabdriver and his "friend" engage in a conversation in the native language. 

How I should've just learnt the language in thirty days as the book had claimed. Holy shit.

He sat in the seat adjacent to the drivers' and the driver restarted the engine. She noticed that the cabdriver's friend had a huge suitcase which further piqued her fear. She navigated through her laptop bag opening the polythene casing on the pepper spray and she knew as long as the spray was there, she could atleast defend herself. The driver continued to drive on the highway which was en route to her destination. She wished she had some kind of company to atleast help herself keep calm. Her mother had forewarned her against roaming around alone, but she dismissed her fears. 

She realized that they had crossed the function-hall just few seconds after the car swooshed by it. She now was dazed and perplexed, failing to understand what to do. She held her long finger on the nozzle of the spray and another finger dialed a call to him. 

The pepper-spray would work and he would come on his bike to rescue her. Who said, the prince arrived only on a horse! It will be okay.

He lifted her call and she didn't react immediately. She just held the phone with the call connected in her fist. She knew one sound and the two men would react pompously and prosaically. All fucking men. Maniacs. Bastards.

The cab finally stopped in an empty land adjacent to the highway. First, the friend got down and followed by the cabdriver. 

"Please step out of the car" he said as if meekly ordering her. She knew what would happen if she did so.
"We are requesting you ma'am. Please do as you are told!" said the friend, flicking his hair as it silkily fell on his sulky eyes.
"Step back assholes. I will fucking pepper-spray your eyes!" she screamed, too stunned to even react.

Why hadn't I called for help when they had passed the place!? But who would notice a single woman in a taxi which rode at 100kmph?

"Ma'am. We are requesting you!" said the driver again, politely, with indifference.
"Come near me, dare you! You jerks! Come on!" she replied raging with anger, thinking of the girl who was brutally gang-raped in the hellhole core of the nation's capital. A strange numbness enveloped her. The call on her phone continued as she could hear the voice of her man Friday from the other side. 
"I..I..am...This highway...Please come....Near..The hall...Please..Come soon" she said into the phone still seated inside the cab and felt her resistance finally fracturing as her eyes were giving up the fear.
"I'll come soon. Don't worry! Please. I'll be there!" he replied from the other end.

Please come. Please come soon. Please. It will be over before you arrive. Please. 

As she spoke into the phone and placed the still running call inside her bag, the driver spoke again.
"Ma'am. Please step out of the car!" he said now getting visibly angry.
"No! You bastards! You can't get away with this!" she screamed at them, holding back her tears which she hadn't given up control on, still.

The cabdriver's friend brought out a glistening knife which resembled the one that she had in her chummery and which she used to mince meat into fine little pieces. She knew it was the one shot she had at their eyes. One fucking spray and they'd go blind atleast till they found water or till they found a doctor. In a jail.

She sobbed, strangely. She felt defeated. She felt as if all the control in her life had been taken away from her and she spoke sobbing "Why bastards? Why? What have I done to you?!"

"Ma'am. This is the last time I am warning you. I will have to use force!" the cabbie's friend spoke for some reason violently shivering.
"FUCK YOU! Dare you come near me, I'll show you what hell feels like!" she screamed violently.

The cabdriver opened her door finally and she pressed the nozzle with all her might, straight into his eyes.

He was blinded immediately and he screamed with pain. 

"What the fuck!" said the friend as he yanked the cabdriver into his arms. She stood outside the car with her laptop bag.
"You won't get away with this! I have your cab number. I will report you assholes!" she said surprised at her own confidence and she continued to hold the spray in their direction. 
"Sister! You have to listen to us! Please listen to us!" the cab driver spoke shaking and rubbing his eyes that had metamorphosed into a scarlet red.
"We have no intention to rape you! You have to understand" the cabdriver continued, "I love him" he said pointing towards his friend.
"You what!?? she screamed, feeling an absurd understanding of the hazing situation
"Yes. I love him and we love each other. Our families would never accept us. They are after us, they want to kill us. We decided to elope. Me and him. We decided to rob you and just dump this car here and catch a bus to somewhere." the friend finally spoke in an angry, yet effeminate way.
"What....What are you...What are you talking about?" she asked finally a numbness in her throat.
"We need money... Sister...We need money... I love him.... We thought we could steal... You happened to come as a choice....We planned to steal your jewelry, your bag, your phone and run away. Please, sister. Please. Please. We aren't thieves. Don't report us to the authorities. We'll drop you at your place. Please. Please....." the friend pleaded with her, throwing the knife to the ground.

They are amateurs. They don't even know how to use a knife. 

There was a sudden calmness as she could listen to faint sobs of the friend and the cabdriver. She collected herself and spoke, "Listen. You drop me onto the road..." she said.. "Right now!"
"Okay ma'am!" the friend spoke as he bustled his lover onto the front seat.

She picked her phone and spoke to her friend who was on call still, riding.
"Pick me up on this highway....Yeah...There is a turnpike...Yeah, you can see a small signboard...Yes, there is a petrol station...Okay, I will wait there..." she said to her guy on the phone.

She looked at them both as he started the engine.

"Give him some water to drink and wash his face, you fool!" she screamed at them.
He obliged and burst into tears.
"You both are stupid? Do you know that? Your cab service would have tracked you both down anyway" she said intrigued by their love and foolishness.
"I am sorry ma'am...Please....Please....Please don't...Police" he said again driving towards the petrol station that was situated on the highway.
"You are in love. You have done nothing wrong. I don't know how to say this, but you'll be together." she said taking out few notes from her purse, "I just have little money left with me, but anyway, take it." and handed over the money to them as he stopped the car.

She waited in the car for him to arrive on his bike. The cabdriver continued to cry out in pain and she rolled her eyes and felt strange that he was in such pain. She got down from the cab when she saw him on his bike and asked the two people in the car to get going. Firstly to a hospital, then to greener pastures, as they willed. 

"Don't be afraid of people. Because in the end what finally matters is you both, okay?" she said philosophically, wondering how much of her preachy speech really mattered.

He got down from the bike and went up to hug her. She pushed him back and said,
"Bastard! You want to hug me, eh?" she said.
"I guess! I was really really really scared!" he said.
"Me too...But I realized something during this weird comedy of terror!" she said
"What?" he asked
"I love you...."

Don't stereotype. Not all men are rapists. 

Friday, February 22, 2013

A girl called her..



"The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary."
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


"Didi.. how difficult is it to get an admission into your college?" asked Ashima looking at  her elder sister.
"Its pretty difficult Ashu! There are thousands of them competing for one seat" replied Anjali looking at her innocent sister.
"So you are among the top few, di?" questioned Ashima again, as if being secretly proud of her elder sibling.
"Well, you can say that!" replied Anjali solemnly as she continued  to  pack her luggage. Within few hours, she and her father, they'd be traveling to realize her dream. A dream, she dreamt ever since she knew. A dream to heal, a dream to relieve people of their pain, a dream to help the helpless, a dream to be a doctor. She never let success get into her head. Success and failure should be always kept at bay, her parents had taught her. Her achievements over the years had been exemplary, yet she remain unaffected by them. Infact, she had a strange disconnection to either the sides of the spectrum.

Anjali looked at her family from the taxi she was seated in, who waved at her with a blend of happiness and sadness. A blend only people familiar with familial bonds would understand. A blend of happiness and sorrow.

"So beta, you are finally living your dream?" her father asked beaming with pride at the achievement of his little daughter. It seemed to him like it was just yesterday that she was a fussy, cerelac puking baby and now she was on her way to study medicine in one of the finest Medical schools of the country!
How proud I am of you, my sunshine! 
"Yes papa! I am." she replied and looked out of the taxi's window, staring at the wide open Gurgaon-Delhi expressway leading to the Indira Gandhi International airport.

Anjali sat in the airport lounge awaiting the announcement to board flight no. 6E-151 to Pune, with a book called "Life is what you make it" written brilliantly by an upcoming writer, as her father continued to scan through the newspaper. After several minutes, the time for departure finally arrived! And when the flight took -off Anjali could hardly contain the excitement. Euphoria enveloped her when it finally landed in the picturesque Pune Civil Air-base.

As she and her father took a cab to the college traversing a distance of 14 kms, the feeling finally sank in. Within minutes she saw the cantonment area of the city and eventually, her college. The best college that there was! A dream which was unfolding itself into reality. A dream only the crème de la crème of the lot could realize. The best medical school in the country for young aspiring doctors to serve both humanity and the nation. The logo of the college with the ever existent Rod of Asclepius adorning the Ashoka Pillar blared at Anjali as she finally got a glance inside the college that was in existence for six decades.

"Wow, Anju beta, your college is colossal!" replied her father looking rapt in the opulence of the campus.
"Yes papa!" she replied with a serene smile.

Never let it get to you. Never let it get to you. Success or failure. Never let it get to you.

She unpacked her bags and arranged everything in her hostel room neatly, as she had always liked. Perfection that she was, she believed in being organized. After a tedious few hours, she and her father had a silent dinner as they were exhausted from finishing the day's formalities that were needed to be done in order to fructify admission in the college.

After her father left the next day after breakfast, she was taken aback by the daunting task that lay ahead of her. An unspeakable fear persisted in her for some reason, but she pushed it to the back of her head. In the next few uneventful days, she waited for the classes to begin which finally did.

"If there's something I expect it is undivided attention and absolute discipline.." he said turning to look towards the classroom.
"Do you understand?" he barked loudly as he wasn't comfortable with uncomfortable silences. Not specially in his own classroom, the famed classroom..Classroom #2A
"Yes Sir!" replied the class in almost militaristic unison.
Anjali stared at the blackboard and looked at the Anatomical chart placed beside it.
"These are the femurs. Without the femurs we'd all be Stephen Fucking Hawkins, sans the knowledge ofcourse!" the Anatomy professor joked, but no one in the classroom had the guts to laugh.

Days passed and what began with a simple introduction to the skeletal schema of the human body developed into more complications as the dexterity of dorsal, ventral, dixtal nerves took over. Anjali soon had the onus of overcoming obstacles of meeting crazy deadlines and she did so by chugging endless quantities of caffeine, developing an amorous relationship with books in the library and finally ending up writing the first assessment examination of the freshman year of medical school.

"He is really cute. And today he walked upto me and asked me for a pen. It took me minutes to retract my thoughts and give him the pen" Anjali's friend said recounting an incident from the early morning class as they were seated in the sparsely decorated hostel mess.
"You should have asked him out" said one of the other friends sardonically, stating an obvious distaste.
"Shut up, willya? He's nice" said the first girl again, defending her version of Helios.
"I am gonna flunk in Anatomy dude!" Anjali said nervously, interrupting their conversation.
"And Ma'am why are we discussing disgusting things over dinner?" queried the other friend looking at her in mock-anger.
"Dude, I am sure I am gonna screw it up. I'm a gone case!" Anjali said again with fear.
"Chill female, nothing's gonna happen of that sort. I even think the prof's got a crush on you!" said her friend and laughed as the other girls joined too.
"Shut up female! I will kill you!" Anjali said and laughed with them.

The results were soon out and Anjali had done exceedingly well. She had aced all the exams and stood in the first five of the class. But then, just as everything was going perfectly, Anjali never saw what was coming. She could've never even imagined.

"Line up all the brats! Especially that studious female from the fourth room. That supposed nerd! Lets see what she's got!" Anjali could hear sudden noises from outside her room as she was reading Atlas Shrugged. She could hear a loud bang on her door and a hoarse yet feminine voice ordered her to open up.
It was the weekend after the first assessment examinations and the freshers had been warned to expect ragging. The seniors had arrived. 
Earlier, even when her other friends were scared, Anjali had pumped hope into them back in time, instilling rationale, saying that ragging was a part of the learning process.
"Oooh! So, here we are with Ms.Know-it-all, the pompous nerd?" said one of the senior who stared at Anjali with a whimsical contempt.

It is just plain, harmless fun. They are going to do nothing to me.

"So, girls. Lets begin!" said the same senior again who looked like a younger version of a fairy-tale witch.

Anjali. They targeted her. They harassed her. What followed was too brutal to be even written and talked about. But, after the ordeal that lasted for several hours, finally ended, they let her go.

The nightmare isn't over. They won't leave you. They'll make your life a living hell. 

She rose from the throes of her inner demons and fought her emotions. She refrained from divulging the details of the horrific incident with her parents, lest they got apprehensive. She went back to her room, numb - a certain sense of impropriety stemmed from anguish. Not just from the shame of the incident alone, but it was the fact that she had never felt so vulnerable in her life, ever. She felt a part of her had  been vanquished, stolen from her, slaughtered right in front of her. The Buddha statue was the first thing she could see from her hostel room's window. Buddha,  the king Siddhartha sat unruffled, who chose austerity after being aghast with the adumbration of materialistic existence. She felt a certain sense of rage seething inside her as she couldn't comprehend how the Buddha was so calm when she on the other hand had been subject to such terrible trauma. She was shivering from head to toe and she could barely think straight.

Why is it being meted out to me? What have I done to deserve it?

And being in an Army Medical School she realized had no clemency when it came to attending classes and she finally dwelt on the harsh reality that she had to make it to her class after a shower.

Anjali slowly recuperated from her demons, she fought them, she fought them hard. She was a strong woman. She had known fear was always bigger than the actual fright itself and with a great deal of valor she struggled and coped, things went back to normal for the week. The weekend came and to her utter dismay, it was a long one as even the succeeding Monday and Tuesday were declared holidays owing to the death of some big-shot politician.

Weekend meant only one thing. A morbid fear awoke in her and she feared the worst. Even in the exasperating melee of negative emotions, she turned to her books, which were in her words, were her man Friday. She struggled to focus, as an unhinged fear persisted in her. For several hours even after the hostelers had retired to sleep, nothing transpired. Yet, she felt cold as she covered herself with a quilt and a blanket, breaking into sweats as she struggled to sleep. It was only eleven o clock and her neighboring roommates had all gathered for their quota of a weekend laptop movie in another room. She dreaded going out of her room, as she knew she'd be the easiest soft-target for those diabolical, barbaric animals who called themselves seniors..

Finally, at one in the night, she could hear vague sounds. One of the senior females were arguing with the warden and then, suddenly Anjali's most deeply seated fears came true. A loud banging sound was audible and she knew what came next. Anjali walked up to her door and out of it and meekly submitted to fate.

"So, you are too good for us, eh!?" said the witch again as if she lived to suck people out of their happiness. 
Anjali said nothing to retort as she knew it was useless arguing logic with humans who thrived on monstrosity. What came next was too disgusting and demonic.

Ragging was supposed to be an ice-breaker goddamnit, not a spirit-breaker. 

Four days. The entire long weekend. The ordeal. Four full days, Anjali didn't bat an eyelid to even catch an glimpse of sleep. Four days. Ninety-Six hours of horrible trauma and anguish. By the fifth day, Anjali started envisioning things- hallucinating, seeing things that didn't even exist. 

What if all of these are the demons finally starting to exorcise my soul?

Her neighboring roommates had to finally relent and call Anjali's parents. They arrived immediately and were too shocked to even discuss what happened. It was way beyond their realm of thought. Anjali sat there numb, staring towards nothingness, in strange shock. The same old college emblem of the Asclepius with the Ashoka now looked like a vague memory from a vaguer past. A horrid past. PTSD, said the doctor initially and she was referred to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist gave his prognosis. He had simply stated that she was on the verge of clinical depression and felt that if she was left in solitude, she'd do the unspeakable. 

Anjali's parents decided to take her back to Delhi in the same flight that she had once come. As she stared listlessly at the college and its surroundings, and she slowly came to terms with the fact that her dream was ending, her dream had been shattered to the tiniest bits and that there literally was no going back. 

Reader, you must be wondering if Anjali sunk to a further state of depression. You are wrong. Anjali, the strongest girl I ever know, continues to fight her demons. She has put the past behind her, today she strives to struggle, to find hope and happiness. For me, she epitomizes faith, she exudes grace. 

Never let it get to you. Never let it get to you. Success or failure. Never let it get to you.


Whenever, she looks at her little sister, she asks her to live her dream. Don't give in without a fight, she seems to say. Anjali meanwhile continues to inspire many people like me, people like me who insist on being unhappy for no particular reason. Had I been in her place, I would've been broken and fractured. But, then she isn't me. She is hope. She is a girl called her...

Dear Ayn Rand reading Stranger,

You say you can count on my opinion. I have an honest opinion, please continue to inspire non-entities like me. I know you are a strong girl. You have shown what it takes to fight back. Thank You for meeting me. This one's for you! I have a certain sense of hero worship towards you right now, even as I write this :-)

Regards,
A very strange stranger! 

Dedicated to a someone I met on Omegle.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

The Wings Of A Butterfly..



Note: 
The writer does not intend to advocate, endorse or glorify necrophilia, euthanasia, substance abuse or love in any form.

Dear Diary,

I saw a butterfly fluttering its wings as I sat by the window. Though on the surface it looked unruffled, all it did was masquerade an unspoken anarchy. Am I like the butterfly? Am I pretending to be happy even when I am not? Am I masking my real self to be someone I am not?

Dear Diary,

We had a fight again. For some reason, he is stuck. His brush, he says, isn't freely flowing as he would have liked it to. He is angry not at me, but at himself and his helplessness. I am trying to understanding him.

Dear Diary,

I collated a large number of words today. Finally my literary drought has ended and words now are superfluous. I am happy. 

Dear Diary,

I was trying to read passages from my story to him, he listened for a long time, offering me insights and even telling me where I was flawed. But as I neared the end of the story, he stood up and blamed me, telling me that I was insensitive to his needs. He asked me how was I so content when he was throbbing with feelings of inadequacy. 

Dear Diary,

He came upto me and apologized. I cannot bear not speaking to him. It is too much for me. He let go of his ego and said that he wouldn't repeat it. We spoke about our dreams and all the wonderful things we would soon be able to have in the house. This new phase is exciting. We had sex and a nice dinner. We slept in each other's arms. But he seems to have become more distant to me. Earlier we used to make love. Now, it is a mere charade. 

Dear Diary,

I have never felt happier in my life. Though I regret dropping out of medical school, I finally seem to have found answers to my questions. I met a publisher today who showed a great deal of excitement when I showed him my manuscript. 

Dear Diary,

Sorry that I have been unable to write much here. I have been keeping very busy editing voluminous pages of  passages and singling out the best ones. It isn't as easy as I thought it would be. He on the other hand hasn't slept for the past two days and rarely speaks. I don't want to smother or bother him. I am letting him be. 

Dear Diary,

Today as I was editing the lines from my book, I found a startling similarity to my childhood. I designed the antagonist based on my mother's persona. I have no standing problems with her, but still, somehow, subconsciously I ended up doing so.

Dear Diary,

I learnt of an insect called the mayfly. It apparently has a lifespan of about 30 mintues! Just that. Can you imagine? I am naming my book 'The Mayfly' as it gives the existential dialogue of my protagonist who is  a dying man, who in his last moments realizes the importance of his life. We think ourselves to be great, which we are not. Our lives are just fleeting moments in terms of the Universe. We are all but cosmic dust. 

I feel bad for him, he has been drinking all day and doesn't want to speak to me. I wish I could do something about it.

Dear Diary,

Today for the first time after many days we got stoned. Me and him., we spoke a lot after that. He asked me about my classes in medical school and asked me to describe in detail the operations that I had attended and performed. He told me it gave him the exact inspiration he needed to finally paint and get back. We made love too. It was exhilarating. 

Dear Diary,

We stoned together again. He asked me about another experience in the operation theater, where I described to him about a patient whose simple lumbar puncture procedure had been messed up by the operating team of doctors, an artificial intravenous CSF had to be instilled and an operation to support the patient had to be redone. As I was narrating, he came up with a beautiful painting about a man inside a limbo who in a curious case of Stockholm syndrome got comfortable inside the vortex and refused to come out. 

Whatever be it, I am finally happy that his stroke of genius has found him. He even got his old humor back. 

Dear Diary,

He asked me to get recorded videos of operations, especially autopsies. I contacted my friend who had a cardboard box full of them and I moved them over to my place. I feel a strange nothingness as we sit and watch the videos of scalpel cutting through skin and the crafty expertise of doctors suturing the exposed areas. 

Dear Diary,

Yesterday, I snorted coke after many days. The rush that it gave was ineffable and my head has been groggy ever since. I sat dazed at the plasma screen that showed a complex cardio-thoracic surgery where a valve block had to be dissolved. While I stared in disbelief and paranoia, he continued painting a metaphorical painting. The Artery, he calls it. It is about a man who being distraught is compelled to look inside and he finds that something is blocking his life. A parasitic twin's angst perhaps? 

Dear Diary,

His paintings are brilliant these days. The problem is, I can sense a bit too much of violence in them. But, then, creativity and everyday life are two impossible ends of a spectrum. I am sure he is mature enough to understand where to draw the line. 

Dear Diary,

After several rounds of whiskey, I blacked out. He woke me and we smoked up. In my stupor I saw an intensely inappropriate video of a ruptured fetus which caused the mother to recede into a comatose. After the video, he went back to painting and he came up with his most brilliant work ever. 

Dear Diary,

My publisher tells me that the book after several corrections and several reviews is ready to be published. Now, strangely I feel that my book isn't that important afterall. He is coming up with a series of paintings for an art gallery. My book has been overclouded in the melee of it.

Dear Diary,

I was telling him about the first time I held a scalpel and make an incision into a dead body. He listened with undivided attention as I recollected my disgust during the first time of seeing a dead body of a patient- all alone who had died of a brain-stroke. He implored me to go into the details as I felt an overwhelming sense of queasiness. The after-shock made me vomit all that I had for lunch yesterday. 

Dear Diary,

We discuss a lot about medicine these days. He never asked me about it earlier. Now all we speak about is that. He seems to be interested in all that I learnt from the day one. Now that I am growing uninhibited telling it to him, he has developed a bizarre interest in the diseased and the deceased. 

Dear Diary,

He asked me what a mortuary looks like. I tried to explain to him about the insufferable pungent odor of formaldehyde and the subzero coldness. Still I was unable to convey it to him, how it actually was.

Dear Diary,

We tripped on LSD. It isn't a big deal. The pop-culture populism has insinuated an unbelievable interest in the drug, but it is just like a good quality weed. The hallucinations were pretty poor and I had no trouble whatsoever getting down from the trance.

Dear Diary,

Whiskey, weed and a line of coke later, he asked me if I could take him to the mortuary. He told me that as his theme was the death and the diseased, he wanted to experience the coldness first hand. I told him it wasn't possible. But, he knows that I know few people in forensics who could give me an illegitimate access to the morgue. 

Dear Diary,

I have finally given to his incessant pestering. We are going to the hospital and behind the forensics department, at two in the night, me and him will enter the mortuary.

Dear Diary,

It was exactly like the first time I walked inside. The strange smell hit me as the place reeked of death. He was satisfied and on the way home, he kissed me like he had never kissed me before.  

Dear Diary,

I am sorry again to be very sporadic in my visits to you. I have no one to turn to I know, and I can only hope you won't judge. My book has finally seen the light of the day as the publisher promised to release it in a month's time.

Dear Diary,

His big art exhibition is coming up. I am as excited as he is. We have been sneaking into the mortuary several times. We even saw the mangled body of an accident victim as he lay lifeless on the cold steel surgeon's table. 

When we were leaving the place, he held my hand and kissed me. His eyes twinkled as I saw love for me in them. 

Dear Diary,

We made love. In the mortuary. I tried my level best to refrain him from doing so, but I love him too much to say anything against him. 

Dear Diary,

We made love in the mortuary again. A dead body was on the other side as he jubilantly helped me to the best orgasm of my life. You may be wondering how I cannot feel a thing, but I simply don't. All I care about is his happiness. And then, I'd do anything for him.

Dear Diary,

He went ahead and touched a female dead body against my will. He said that it allowed him to get an insidious experience about understanding the beauty of death. I complied.

Dear Diary,

We have been graduating a lot from normal alcohol to cocktails of analgesics and anti-depressants. As a doctor, I know of its adverse affects. Most of these can cause severe withdrawal symptoms persisting for even years after cessation of its use. 

Dear Diary, 

He asked me to wait for him in the car while he went inside the mortuary. He was almost caught by the security personnel. He is turning into a necrophiliac.

Dear Diary,

The big day of his art exhibition comes along. He looked dapper in a tuxedo and I picked up an evening gown to match his grandeur.

Dear Diary,

Much to his dismay, the exhibition didn't go well. Critics panned him for being too worthless and vulgar. His calmness on the drive back home scared me. I don't know what to say. 

Dear Diary,

Today, my book released and I have been receiving good reviews from literary aficionados and bookshops. Something is finally going good in our lives.

Dear Diary,

He has taken to mixing Benzodiazepines in his whiskey and goes for days without speaking. I don't want to bask in the glory of my book at all, I can't bear to see him unhappy. 

Dear Diary,

His gallery owners gave him a chance to rework the paintings and come with a more melancholic display. 

Dear Diary,

Again. Today. Again. He asked me if he would accompany him. I thought he was taking me to the mortuary. But, we sat talking to a homeless guy on the street and then he injected a potent anesthetic into the poor guy's veins. Ensuring no one was watching, the man was plonked into our car's trunk and then, he started cutting the guy with the scalpel. He came upstairs and started painting. 

Please don't ask me why am I supporting him. Am I emotionally dependent? Am I insecure? All I know is I love him too much. Love is irrational, dear diary. You of all the people should know that.

Dear Diary,

He has been doing this a lot regularly. He often goes out in the night and then spends endless hours in the garage  In the morning, the whole place is clean again. 

Dear Diary,

There are reports in the police about missing people. I don't even the guts to ask him. I am an accomplice in his crime, I know. But I am more than just an accomplice in his life. I have chosen this path. I can't give up on him.

Dear Diary,

Things are going overboard. His gallery opened again. His phone has been ringing ever since. The critics call his work a fusion of postmodern angst of life and death. I have never seen him happier.

Dear Diary,

We celebrated it with a heady IV Heroin. I know it is dangerous, but I have no choice. He controls my life. I feel exasperated to even write.

Dear Diary,

I am weaning off the heroin. I have sudden chills and cravings at night.

Dear Diary,

I may be writing a lot lesser to you.

Dear Diary,

I am feel paranoia. I can see dead bodies in the mortuary. Hallucinations? I think not.

Dear Diary, 

I can't go on. I am going insane.

Dear Diary,
...

Dear Diary,

It took me days to feel normal again. He hasn't stopped his killing spree. He is doing it for the heck of it. I can't believe I loved him once. 

Dear Diary,

Today is Valentine's day. I have decided to put an end to all this. I do know what I have to do. 

Thank you for always being there.

Dear Diary,

I realize I am just like the butterfly. My wings have been clipped. 

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Misguided Misinterpretations..


Few years ago, I read "Thus Spake Zarathustra" for two reasons - 1) I had no other book 2) There was no electricity in the house that whole day. In the midst of reading Nietzsche's version about the nihilistic overman and the poetic text, I realized I was hooked, which lead me to read another of his works called 'Gay Science'. Most ignoramuses and homophobic retards equate the book to having to do with homosexuality which is the pinnacle of being bullshitty about things we don't know. In the book 'Gay Science', Friedrich Nietzsche doesn't delve on the spirit of the man or his encumbrance to achieve with the human spirit, but talks more about the poetic (in)justice man and the evolution per se has had to go through, thanks to the dogmas of religion. "God is dead", Nietzsche says in a different context than it has been interpreted to be said by most modern day atheists and thinkers.

The underlying philosophy of Nietzsche's works are too complex for a simpleton like me to understand. However, my post isn't about Nietzsche nor his works. It is about this so called cool-tag that every moron attributes himself with - that of being a devout atheist (ah yes, the irony!). I remember being in conversation with an 'ex-friend' of mine who was arguing with me about Black Sabbath and Megadeth - their satanic influence among their faithful. In the midst of the Ozzy Osbourne /Dave Mustaine fixation that she couldn't get over with I asked her if she was a believer and  she told me that she wasn't. I asked her why. She began juxtaposing her interest in angry metal and faith, stating her version in the beginning with a lot of delightful insight, but when I started to raise my innocent, childlike doubts, her atheist ideologies started fumbling, just like her words. All she managed to say at the end of the argument was that she had gained nothing from believing and that was the sole reason, she chose not to believe. Well, fair enough.

I had the privilege, the honor, I must say of being an ardent fan of Christopher Hitchens ever since I read about his resentment towards the Western journalist brethren during the ill-famed "Rushdie Affair". That lead me to finding one of his books called "God is not great"- how religion poisons mankind. 'God is not great' is a very important book as it deals with the subject of antitheism. Hitchens admitted to being an antitheist from the time he became aware of his sensibilities. It is a delightful book as it deals with the problems involved with the dogmas of religion and it does more than just mere god-bashing. There is a lot of difference between an antitheist and an atheist, please note here. A lot more than you think.

One book often leads to another, and I ended up coming across 'The God Delusion', written by a Brit called (Christopher Hitchens was on intimate terms with him) Richard Dawkins, yes, THE Richard Dawkins. The first few pages of the book are pretty tastefully written as Dawkins deals with Einsteinian understanding of the Universe and refurbished with quotes by Carl Sagan about the baloney called religion. However, as the book progress, Dawkins at times, over-indulges. He goes from merely being critical about religion to near blasphemy. Just like a question someone put up on the knowledge-sharing website called Quora, one is left wondering "Why do atheists talk so much about a God they don't believe in?" Dawkins, a gene biology doctorate defends his arguments with the Darwinian model of evolution and how a man - his nature being good or bad is determined by the 'Selfish Gene' (which again is the subject for another book) and has nothing to do with belief or faith (complete with comparisons of Adolf Hitler's conflicting religious inclinations. Dawkins maintains that based on "Mein Kampf", Hitler is a devout Catholic). Dawkins is the perfect prototype for a lawyer as he presents his version of the story not with counterarguments, but with counterfacts. He overrides the teachings stated by believers and ends up gleefully overlooking many aspects of religion and its core concepts - i.e., he only chooses to focus on the negatives persistent in religion(s). Dawkins calls Agnostics the lowest form of life. Even in his example stating the seven different types of believers, he conveniently ignores the en masse belief of people outside the Christian world (in his defense, he does state in the very beginning that the religion-bashing is based only on the teachings of The Old Testament). He brings up the topic of how children are misguided and are gullible in the darker aspect of religion (the Church's infamous sexual abuse) and away from the brighter areas of science and as to why people become what they become. In the last few lines of the book, Dawkins admits that he is partial in his  knowledge and that he is "thrilled to be alive at time when humanity is pushing against the limits of understanding". Overall, a spectacular book, I must say.

However, nowadays, with the near free availability of atheist literature, most of these debaters begin with the Dawkins' arguments of God being non-existent. In the process, they try to shovel their superiority complex and end up totally ridiculing believers, as if all the important cogs of the world-wheel are run by atheists alone. These people are the ones who you'd come across in your extended family circle, offering you free advice, immaterial of whether the other person cares about their opinions or not. Please note that I am neither supporting theism nor bashing atheism, my problem is bigger than that. My problem isn't either with pure-bred atheists or their counterparts, its with these angry-metal music listening douchebags who don't have the slightest of the clue as to what anything in the world is and just go yapping on happy in their half-knowledge! I have never seen anybody talk more about the non-existence of something as much as these pseudo atheists do. Its like a NASA scientist on LSD speak about the outer Universe even though he doesn't know about its existence. That sadly, my friend, is the problem. Dawkins can speak, Hitchens can opine, but not you, asshole! 

Ignorance. Unless, you have read all the scriptures and you have pretty decent idea about how stuff works, I think there should be a law banning stupid people from opening their mouths and voicing their opinions. What these knowledgeably oblivious fucktards basically do is, they bully people. They bully people into believing their version of the story, what I ask is, if that is the case, what is the difference between these trolls and the very concept of "religious propagation" which the Atheism looks to detest. Ignorance is the most dangerous type of malignancy that is metastasizing and cancerously eating away all the knowledge we have gained thus far. Ayn Rand was an atheist, that makes it a strong enough cause for me to be one, if I have to say. Even the existential angst of Jean Paul Sarte or Arthur Schopenhauer can be understood by their will not to submit to a higher power and as Dawkins states in his book, had Shakespeare been of lesser will and submitted to the Church and did as he was ordered to, the world would have failed to have the privilege of classics such Othello, Macbeth and Hamlet.

Again, I tell you, my problem is not with atheism nor believers or any kind of morons, my problem is with the half-knowledge fools who can't differentiate between what is right and wrong. This is again like the very problem with communism or for that matter, any 'ism' where there is an involvement of knowledge transfer. The imparting of teachings is mostly like the game of Chinese whispers, where the message from the sender to the end receiver is mis-communicated, due to all the intermediary filters causing unnecessary white noise, distorting the data. Coming back to the example of Communism, which again has been disoriented from its original intent as postulated (the word is used deliberately) by Karl Marx in the 'Communist Manifesto', several other derivatives of the parent Marxism have wrecked havoc and are responsible now majorly for a huge part of extremism. Misguided misinterpretations. That's all that there is, right now. The same is the case when people ask me to defend Rand's philosophy, which in word looks similar to the concept of capitalism, but in spirit is a diagonally opposite ideology altogether. The problem with the world right now is, people who are really blessed with knowledge and higher intelligence are choosing to keep their opinions shut, whilst those with no brains are choosing to voice theirs. 

As an aspiring writer, I can't choose between sides of the coin. To quote my own self, I neither support nor protest a cause, I simply state it. I hope the world gets rid of its ignorance soon and interprets things in a more sensible, compassionate way. This will ensure the world will become a better place to live. 

Learning Loneliness..


"You are supposed to be broken Anisha.. How are you so calm?" Shalini looked at me inquisitively.

I looked at her and smiled. I had known Shalini for nearly as long as I can remember and she had stood by me during the worst of times. I had fallen into and out of relationships several times in the past and even Shalini had, but then each time is a different time!

"Sally", I said quixotically, "Am I required to feel something?"
"No dude. But atleast you are supposed to cry it out and let go- once and for all", she said almost ordering me in a funny way to feel bad.
"Sally, first stop saying "Supposed to" like it were a part of some unwritten post-breakup bible. And secondly, I don't know why or how, but I can't feel a thing. I know it is strange, but that is how it is" I said emphasizing on the last few words of my sentence.
"Anisha, will you atleast think of some way out? I mean he has to give you an explanation. He owes you one, big time! That ....." Shalini said angrily more than anything.
"Language Shalini!", I howled, "He is a nice guy" I replied without even thinking of him.
"Stop defending him, will you? What you both are doing is not right. Atleast you of all the people don't deserve it!" she said with imploring eyes.
"I am not defending him, Sal. I am telling you the truth. He was the best guy I could ever find. Everything about us was perfect, except my fate and my destiny perhaps", I said not even philosophical or contemplative.
"Anu, you gotta stop being so harsh on yourself", Shalini said and looked me, expressionless.
"Shalini Madam, if you haven't noticed, I have never been more happier in my life. I am not being harsh on anyone. I just want to be alone and happy in my own place, so thank you very much" I replied grinning.
"Don't you even feel an iota bit of anguish in your heart? Atleast one bit? I mean it must be piercing you somewhere still right?", she said out of concern.

I carefully considered Shalin's words for she knew everything about me. She had consoled me when I sobbed over wasteful, failed emotions in the past. But, it was different this time. I didn't feel anything. The more I dwelt into my deeply seated emotions, the more they evaded me. I felt a cold disconnection from my own heart at once. As I took time to come up with a reply, Shalini continued to stare at me.

"I think I'll have another glass of Whiskey" I said totally out of context and signaled to the usher for the same.
"Anu, why are you doing this?" she asked authoritatively. Shalini was more than just a mere friend, she was almost my sibling and a god-sister and we spent an unhealthy amount of time with each other.
"Doing what Shalini?" I asked, eagerly awaiting for the waiter to act quickly on his charade.
"You know...Acting distant and cold..What should I call it? Yes.. Why are you living in denial?" she said.
"Listen Sally, I am neither delusional nor in denial. I do admit the time I spent speaking to him and being with him was the best time of my life and I would do the same a hundred times more even if I ended up with the same result. He was perfect, I was not and that clearly was the problem. You can't mend broken things. I admit I was fractured initially, but I have every right at happiness, don't I?" I said and was suddenly reminded of him. Me and him. Us.

When we first met, he was nursing a bruised heart, just like I was and that clearly was the reason we hit it off without any second thought. Everything was going great and then cracks started to appear when I flew of the handle and acted irrationally, without even thinking twice about my actions. That made him drift away from me and by the time I realized, I had lost him.

Suppressing memories, I spoke again,
"You know Shalini. There is always some person waiting for you someplace else, even when you think you have no use living a wretched life anymore. That person we oft end up ignoring and superseding them with someone else. They say, people come and go into our lives. Its not true. They never leave. You just learn to repress thoughts of them from surfacing" I said mixing Sigmund Freud and Slyvia Plath.
"But, how can you not feel anything? I mean a lack of emotion at the time of trauma may manifest later into severe emotional distraught", she said elevating the importance of emotion and being.
"Look Sal, I have to tell you this. Our relationship was wonderful, I must have told it to you a several times. I was always happy in keeping in him happy, for that's what mattered. However, at times, we were pretty turbulent and then it became more ironical than a cigarette kiosk outside a cancer hospital!" I said.
"I am not sure I follow your allegory" Shalini said and looked at me with distate.
I laughed and replied again "People enter relationships, not for the sake of sex or to socially flaunt their arm candy-better halves, they seek happiness. I realized I was defeating this very purpose when I started hurting him and stealing away his happiness. If I had to choose between letting him go, watch him being happy or cling onto him and keep him unhappy, I'd choose the former, any day. Who cares if he isn't with me. His being happy is the only thing that matters and I can't dictate his unhappiness, can I?" I looked lost for words.
"Anisha, don't you feel some kind of resentment?" Shalini asked and the waiter arrived at the table.
"Neither of us were looking for a relationship when we first met, it happened by chance. I wasn't thankful then, so I don't deserve to complain now! As I told you, I have outgrown the immobility of emotions and realized there is more to life than just all this plaintive b.s." I said, for the first time feeling some vague regret.

"Are you that broken Anisha?" she asked. Ah, friends. You can't fake emotions infront of two people - your mother and your bestfriend, they know you like a street smart kid knows his street.
"Shalini, I am not broken. I am not that great or unique, people get a worse deal than I have and still they yearn and progress to find happiness. It doesn't deter them one bit from becoming what they want to. And in the case of him, all I wish is happiness. His eternal happiness. I don't want to speak to him and hurt him further. I want to watch from a distance and see him evolve into a better person" I said meaning every word of it.
"I don't know what to say" Shalini said looking sad.
"Cheerup! Wow, you were supposed to be the shoulder I should've cried on and now I am cheering you up!" I said, smiling.
"I really am perplexed at the way you are taking the whole thing.." Shalini said.
"I know, it is like that. All I pray for is his happiness and success for him. The day he does what he always wanted to do, I'll be the happiest for him. Happiness doesn't lie holding on, it lies in letting go and that is what I intend to do" I said and thought about his child-like smile and his magnetic eyes.
"Will you love again?" she asked with a sudden childish curiosity.
"Yes. Of course, I will love again. Just because you fall and scrape your knee once, doesn't mean you stop walking. Life doesn't come with a set of rules, it is like freestyle existence and you lay your own fate as you continue to walk along the road." I said
"Will you able to give yourself so much to someone like you did?" she asked.
"Ah, Shalu, stop being so poetic about my breakup. Shit happens. And frankly, to answer your question, I really don't know. No matter how obstinate the world is, we all need a bit of love. Crazy, weird love. And I guess I am progressing towards being reborn." I said thinking about writing something.
"What do you plan to do next?" she asked
"I don't know, I can't figure out. I want to write about him, but I know he'll get angry. He is not the villain in the story, he is infact the angel who gave me a chance. So I guess, I will wait.."
"Wait for what?" she asked curtly
"I am learning loneliness and learning from loneliness. I am waiting.. Waiting so that he finds happiness and I find mine" I said and sipped the golden colored liquid, smiling. 

Friday, February 8, 2013

An elixir called exile..



Loneliness is overrated. You can always be alone and happy, not having to bear the weight of expectations and ofcourse not having the throes of having to tolerate the chirpy little bullshit of small-talk. Thank you very much! Life is all but a series of phases and you never know what phase you are in, until you move on to the next one. And yes this is a phase and I love this phase. I have my books, paper and a pen, so people can fuckoff! 

Thank you for all the few close pals who were concerned with my unwarranted disappearance from Facebook, but I've decided not to entertain you morons for a while. So much for your concern. 

I feel writing and I will fucking write because that is what I do. You can write me off, but you can't write like me! Okay let me keep my narcissism aside and come to the point about the fact I am reeling under the weight of creativity and I can assure that in the days to come, you'll read not so nice things on this space. 

The Floyd reference is also about the same point. To concur with Gilmour, its about Coming back to life, just  like I am doing right now! (I could have chosen 'Hey You' but it would have defeated my purpose and I personally prefer Gilmour over Waters, any day)

This self-imposed sabbatical, this self-taught exile is fun. You idiots should try it out sometime.

Till the next time.

The Failed Poet..

I peddle like the rickshaw puller without being thanked,
All this is a cause of my choices, the choice to be alone, the choice I have flanked..
What was I? What have I become? Does it matter anymore for the days that are left to come
An empty weight pulls me down, if only the world knew me and my glum..

Distances will continue to corrode us, happiness shall continue to evade us
Who am I talking to, where am I walking to, just like a failed orator I need someone to ramble to
I acquiesce silently into my fate, knowing nothing will change even if I choose to debate

Longing, yearning unspoken words, unwritten verses, if only I could, I would.
The hollow gives me a hope, accepting my fate, in darkness I grope.

I peddle like the rickshaw puller into a limbo,
I peddle like the rickshaw puller.....

The Failed Poetry..

It was a hot night that day, I sat at the window feeling gray,
What did I lose and what did I gain?
The expected  normalcy in me, wish I could feign.
Too many steps I walked, too many things I talked,
How does it matter, what does it pay?

There things I want, and things that want me,
But, how can I choose between fantasy and the fucking reality?
Today, all I know is that my only option is that of running away,
Needless to say, I sat that day at the window feeling gray..