The Path Easily Travelled

‘Happy Birthday!’- the party decors read. Friends, food, alcohol, and laughter filled the room. Somewhere in middle, the doorbell rang. Dressed in a little black dress and curly hair pulled in a messy ponytail, Samantha, the birthday girl rushed to open the door. She was expecting Varun, her new friend, a probable future romantic interest.   

However, the night had different plans for her…

It was not Varun but Ayan at the door. Their eyes met and repulsion made her almost scream. She somehow pulled herself together but she started fuming inside.

The universe works in strange ways. When she longed for nothing but a text, one call, or sight of Ayan, she got nothing. And now, when she is aware of the truth, when the aggrieved woman never wanted to hear from him again, he was standing right in front of her.

Varun appeared from behind a shocked Ayan to pull her into a hug. ‘Happy Birth Day! You look stunning!’ He uttered. She couldn’t react much. She was unable to guess why Ayan was here. ‘Oh yeah! There was a day-long power cut in our apartment and I felt bad about coming to the party alone leaving him in darkness. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Come on in.’ She half-smiled.

Three months earlier, during one breezy evening in Delhi, she met Ayan for the first time. They were a tinder match who hit it off during the first chat only. Since then, the busy professionals, who would otherwise miss texts, were always texting each other. It was one such smooth connection that she never really felt she needed to know more about him than what was being told. Maybe even before stepping out for the date that night, she was determined to like him.

Ayan was waiting in his car that night hoping for her to arrive sooner. She took her time. But when she arrived in a green peplum top and casual jeans, she did not disappoint with her curly hair pulled in a messy ponytail. She was not a usual Delhite, hiding behind fashion and make-up. She believed in being natural. And Ayan in his natural built and casually thrown over white shirt echoed the same.

It was a date. However, the moment she got into the car, she declared, ‘My broker just called. A great house has opened up. I need to see it right away.’ She was house hunting. He knew that already. So, what did that mean? Was the date already over?

‘Okay. I can accompany you there if you like.’ Ayan told her. There was no way he was letting the girl go away. He had already fallen for that curly hair. A few minutes later he watched as she paraded down the house, checking it out and negotiating with the brokers. From her conversation with the brokers, he could tell she was one badass woman for a 25-year-old. He made the observation later when in private. ‘It was fun watching you dominating that army of brokers. You are one amazing woman, aren’t you?’ He chuckled.

————————————

The birthday party suddenly felt suffocating to her. Ayan’s presence was throwing her off. She quickly got everybody to the table to get over with the cake-cutting scenes. However, she had a long itinerary planned. The party wasn’t getting over anytime soon.

In some time, Ayan found her in a corner at the party. With hesitation clear on his face, he approached her. ‘Hi! How have you been?’

‘I’m doing good. How’s your wife?’ She gave him a sharp look. His jaw dropped. When he approached her at the party, he was only expecting to be a jerk who never called back after a date. But there he felt bare, naked amidst all her friends who were strangers to him.

After the house hunting was over, while driving towards a food place, he brought up a topic they have recently discussed. ‘So did you pick up your first guitar?’ She swayed her head in a no. ‘I was expecting an expert guitarist will help me pick that up someday.’ She winked at him. He chuckled. ‘We have some time left. The expert guitarist can be at your service today, madam.’ He winked back.

It was difficult for him to say anything in reply to this lady in black. He couldn’t think of anything appropriate. After a brief pause, she continued, ‘What is it? What’s the story? She’s no good? She’s having an affair? Forced into this marriage?’ Bitterness was prominent in her tone.

‘None.’ He replied after standing still for a while. ‘Though I wish one of these was true.’

‘Is she sick? Dying?’

‘No.’ He swayed his head. ‘And I don’t want that to be true.’

‘So why do you cheat? Why are you on tinder?’ Even though her pitch was under control, her tone was getting angrier.

‘Because I don’t feel married.’ He grabbed a beer and sat by her.

In the guitar shop she stared at him as he played guitars one by one. He was telling her all of the technicalities, rating each one high in one category, low in another. They were spoilt for choices. So, she chose one which made him smile the most. As she walked out of the shop with her new guitar hanging down her shoulders, he exclaimed, ‘This is the sexiest you have been all evening. A female guitarist is my goddess!!’ He grinned.

‘You don’t feel married?’ She twitched her face as she emphasized the word feel. ‘That’s the lamest thing I have ever heard.’

‘But that’s the truth. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my gorgeous wife, but I don’t feel like I have anything to do with her. I regret that. It’s horrible that every night when she calls, I find a new excuse to cut the call sooner because talking to her feels like a chore. Talking to my trash pickup guy excites me more than her.’

‘Barely a year into the marriage and you are already bored of her. Staying in a different city and cheating on her- classic men! Ever wondered how she will feel once she finds out?’

‘I wonder how she hasn’t figured it out yet!’

‘Why don’t help her out?’ She yelled before she lowered down, trying to not alarm others in the party. ‘This is as sick as it could be! If you are so unhappy with the marriage, why don’t you ask for a divorce?’

‘What’s the incentive in that? I spend the next 5-6 years doing in and out of court and end up paying hefty alimony in the name of mental trauma that I put her through.’

‘Oh!’ She laughed with mockery. ‘So instead, you take to lying and cheating?’

‘It’s way easier!’

 Samantha was not the impulsive, hot-headed type. She would rather quietly walk away and never look back than one who would stay and create a scene. Did she feel like slapping Ayan at this point? Yes. Did she go for it? No. Were her eyes glaring red in anger, almost ready to burst out? Yes. But somehow, she held herself together.

‘And I guess it is the easiest to find out innocent young victims whom you can lead to your bed and never look back the next day?’

‘You’re making me sound like a sexual predator. Whatever happened that night, happened with your consent. I paused and asked for your consent before every single step.’

‘Yeah, except for that one tiny time when you forgot to say, ‘Hey I am married. Are you okay with that?’ She yelled. To his rescue, the music was too loud and everyone around was too drunk to care.

‘I am sorry.’ The apology felt like nothing but a joke. ‘I never thought you’ll find out. I kept all my social media profiles deactivated for 3 months since our date so that you never find out.’

‘So that’s your excuse? You didn’t think I shall find out?’

‘Excuse?’

‘You make me a homewrecker and all you are apologetic for is that I found out?’

‘A homewrecker? You didn’t know anything. And there’s hardly any home to wreck here!’

She swayed her head in disbelief. ‘I found out because I was still looking for answers even after 3 months. I found out because a magical night like that leaves you with questions if not followed up. What could have possibly gone wrong? Was I not good enough? The questions start biting you.’ She stood up. ‘You know what, get the hell out of here. I cannot stand your face anymore!’

He obliged, got up but then sat again. This time he grabbed the beer bottle tighter. ‘I was always a commitment-phobic. Every time it got serious with someone; I ran away. And I got labeled- Casanova, playboy, and what not! And as time passed by, everyone around me started getting married. I started having some FOMO. And one day when my mother asked me to see this girl, I went there and I was like, ‘Whoa! She’s stunning!’ And I said yes to the marriage. During our courtship, I didn’t try to talk or mingle at all because I felt like I’ll run away again. So, I punished myself into this marriage because I thought once legally and socially bound, I won’t have this choice of running away. Boom! A couple of days into the honeymoon and I realized I feel nothing, absolutely nothing for her. It was suffocating to realize I had pushed myself into this darkness and now I would have to live with it all my life. So, when the next opportunity opened away from home, I took the first flight and came here.’

She raised her hands indicating him to stop. ‘Your sob story is not getting any sympathy from me. Tell your wife the truth so that she realizes the one she is trying to win over is not worth it.’

‘And then what? Let the Government have the say about the rest of my life? Let the friends and family label me an adulterer?’

‘That would be only for a few years. After that, no one would care or remember.’

‘Those few years are the prime years of my life you are talking about! I am now an independent, self-sufficient man. I can do whatever I want to do with my life! But I’ll spend it hiding my face from friends and family.’

‘Isn’t that better than the lies and deceits?’

‘Why are these the only two options?’

‘Because you chose to get married!’ She yelled.

‘No, I did not. I was made to do it. Every single person who walked into any room, found me out, and told me that it was time for me to get married made me do it. This whole society which nurtures you in a way to believe that marriage is the only way forward made me do it.’

‘Are you to get back to all of them with your actions?’ She almost mocked.

In answer he said nothing. For a brief time silence hung in the air. ‘I guess I am trying to find my way back home.’ His voice quivered.

Something shifted in her. Something made her feel sorry for him. Something inside her even made her curious. ‘Who lives in that home?’

He sighed. ‘I guess I am still trying to find that out.’ He looked at her, smiled, and got up to leave. ‘It was nice to see your petite hands again.’ He observed on his way out.

Towards the end of their date night, after house hunting, guitar shopping, and dinner while walking towards his car in the parking, their hands touched for a brief second. He took a look. ‘Your hands are very petite.’ He observed. ‘Can I hold it?’ He chuckled. She extended her hand and he held it for as long as he could. When finally, he let it go to start the car, she lightly ran it down his cheek. It was difficult to remember at this point who initiated the kiss or who suggested that they should spend the night together. But one thing she could remember clearly. Somewhere in between the snuggles and endless laughter that night, she had exclaimed, ‘You’re too good to be true!’

As he left the party that night, Samantha watched him carefully from behind. Varun was there at the party. She could go and tell him everything right away. That would bring in the humiliation Ayan deserved. She could also find out about Ayan’s wife from Varun and tell her all about it. But the other option was to let it go. Samantha sighed deep, shrugged, and then re-joined the party with a smile.

Right out of the party, Ayan’s phone beeped. He checked. The notification read ‘You’ve got a new match on Tinder.’ He opened the notification, checked out the profile of the random new match, and texted, ‘Hey!’

Love Gets Us Going

In the Image: The Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh; Image Courtesy: The Internet

“Love Gets Us Going”

Ruby looked closely at the piece of paper laying casually on the submission desk with that title. Contrary to the other articles submitted for the school magazine, this one looked rather half-intended, handwritten instead of typed. She took the paper in her hands and started to read it. The handwriting, often illegible, didn’t do her much favour. But the title had caught her eyes. She couldn’t put down the paper. So, she went on. The handwriting didn’t matter much as the lucid words and truthfulness of the story had synchronized with the reader’s vision. In no time she finished reading it without knowing who had written it. The writer had chosen to disclose that in the end. But through the story, which was about a boy getting his life together while being treated in a psychiatric facility, she already knew the writer. She had heard whispers about this boy in her class. The boy (the loner or the lonely she wasn’t sure) always sat on the last bench, trying to hide from everyone. She didn’t know his name. So, she read the last two words in that paper. Neel Banerjee.

Finally, those lost pairs of eyes had a name. Neel Banerjee.

She took the paper to the selection committee of which she was a member. ‘Read it.’ She put the paper in front of the Vice President of the Literary Committee of the school.

He raised his eyebrows pointing at the wrinkled paper. ‘What is this?’

‘A submission for the annual competition.’

‘Looks like more of a mockery of it.’

‘Don’t judge the book by its cover. It’s…’ she paused and smiled, ‘…honest.’

He pouched his face. ‘Doesn’t matter. The first and second prizes are going to the school trustee’s son and the committee president’s boyfriend. The third prize has to go to a girl. We don’t want to be called sexists. So, Mr. Pandey, the English department HOD, has already picked the girl with the best ass.’

‘And this paper is the mockery of the competition?’ She was irate.

He laughed out. ‘Let’s get out of school kid. Hopefully in the real-world honesty will have some value.’

He left.

Neel Banerjee was one bright young kid once. Every teacher’s darling in the school, he always scored a straight ‘A’. And he had one mind-blowing smile! He laughed a lot. And every time he would, this slightly misplaced tooth towards the left of his mouth would come out making his face all the more alluring. It was tough to miss the tooth, the twinkle in his eyes, and the dreams it bore.

It was all a couple of years ago.

No one in the school knew exactly why it happened, but it had happened. A few psychotic episodes till the complete breakdown. Everything came to a halt- the ‘A’s in mark sheet, the attendance, the smile. Neel was kept in a facility under the watchful eyes of leading psychologists. A couple of years later, when he returned to school, his parents had to sign documents roughly stating they were aware of his condition and the school wouldn’t anyway be held responsible if he committed suicide in or out of the premises.

His class had changed too. His original classmates had already passed their boards. He now went to class with his juniors. But in a real sense, he went alone. He never bothered to make friends or even have small talk. If not for those rumours of his psychological treatment history, he would have basically been invisible to the class.

‘So, you walk home every day?’ Ruby caught Neel off guard while on his way home after school.

Neel nodded while hesitating and stealing his eyes.

‘We are in the same class. Do you recognise me?’ She asked.

He swayed his head indicating he did not.

‘Ruby’- she looked radiant while introducing herself. She extended her hand but all she got was an unsteady, blink-and-you-miss-it touch of hands. It was a far cry from a handshake.

‘Where do you live?’ She asked.

‘Just down two blocks.’

‘Can I walk you home?’

Keeping his head down he swayed his head to say no. But Ruby wasn’t somebody who waited for an answer. She was a go-getter. If she wanted something, such delicate gestures were not enough to stop her. So, she kept walking by him. ‘I read your story.’ She spoke to him enthusiastically. ‘It’s really good.’

‘Thank you.’ He spoke delicately.

‘I think you should send it for publishing in some anthology or some magazine.’

‘No. I don’t want to.’ He was getting nervous in her presence.

‘The school committee is not what you think. They will not understand the potential of the story.’

‘That’s okay. I never wanted to give it to them in the first place.’

‘But you did give…’

‘Because my mother made me do it.’

‘I know these anthology publishers. Can I make you give it to them?’ She chuckled.

‘No. I’ll walk the rest of the way on my own. Goodbye!’ He switched lane.

But she was a go-getter.

The next morning in the class she reserved a seat beside her for him. She needed to confess to him that she had sent the story to some well-known magazines. But he passed her offer.

‘It was very rude in the morning. I had been reserving that seat for you for half an hour.’ She called him from behind while he was on his way home.

‘I am sorry. But it seemed like you are trying to be a friend. I don’t make friends.’ He answered.

‘But why?’

‘I am not good enough for it.’

‘Good enough?’ She chuckled. ‘What is it like to be good enough to be a friend?’

‘Being there when they need you.’

‘And you… do you leave side at the time of need?’

‘I don’t know how to be there for myself. Let alone to be there for others.’

She took a deep sigh and gave him a jolly smile. ‘Then let’s make it optional for you. You may choose to leave at the time of need, but I promise to be there for you.’ She extended her hand. ‘Friends?’

He only gave a half-smile in return. But he let her walk him home every day since that day.

A few weeks later on one fine morning, she came running to him while he was just entering the class. She looked excited and was almost prancing. ‘What are you doing this weekend?’

‘Nothing as such.’

‘Great! Pranjal has this catering business and he just got the offer to cater to Tia Sharma’s party. Can you believe it? Tia Sharma- the national crush! I’m volunteering with Pranjal. I want you to come too.’

‘Pranjal?’

‘He’s our classmate. God do you know anyone in our class?’ Ruby snapped at him.

‘No, I cannot come.’ He hesitated.

‘But why? C’mon, it’s Tia Sharma. She’s only 19 and such a great singer! And she’s already this multi-millionaire! How can you refuse the chance to see her upfront? She’s my idol!’

‘Then you should go. But there will be a lot of people, all strangers. They startle me.’

‘That’s good actually. Then you could be supervising in the kitchen.’ Pranjal interrupted them. ‘Otherwise, in Tia Sharma’s party with all those celebrities on the floor, no one would want to hang out in the kitchen.’ He folded Neel’s wrist in his palms. ‘Please man, I am severely understaffed.’

After some more nagging by both of them, Neel finally agreed to volunteer.

Tia Sharma’s party was private but the glamour quotient was very high. The who’s who of the music industry had arrived donning exquisite clothes, hair, and makeup. The food was good, music was loud and alcohol was flowing like water. But amid all that noise and flash, it was hard to find the hostess herself. Or even if she would get spotted, posing for a picture with a fake plastered smile, she was hardly talking to anyone.

Ruby tried getting an autograph of her sometime in the middle of the party. She obliged. While she was signing, Ruby stole a glance at her. Ruby’s eyes twinkled. It was a reflection of the star in front of her. It was the hope of a starry future. Some people meet famous artists (or stars as one calls it) as it feels like an achievement to them for having met them. But some others follow them as they help them visualise their future. They find in the celebrities the height where they want to reach. And through their flashy lifestyle, they see how those heights look like. Ruby was among the latter. She was all about chasing dreams. At the age of 18, she had her life all planned and sorted. She was the topper of her class. She wanted to make sure her marks get her to the best college in the country. And then she would get a masters from some French university where she would seal the deal for a starlit career as an art critic by learning from the best. It had nothing to do with Tia’s career as a singer. The things Ruby found in common in Tia and her own dreams are the images of a winner, glittering achievements, and fame.

It was about 2’o clock in the night, post wrap up of the party. The caterers were almost done packing up when Tia Sharma entered the kitchen. It was only Ruby and Neel there, cleaning up the strains. Seeing Tia walk in, Ruby was alert. ‘Tia…Ma’am… Do you need anything?’

Tia looked confused, kind of lost. ‘Is there any food left?’

Ruby gave a shocked look. ‘Madam, I am sorry. Did you not have food tonight? I’m sorry the boys had packed up everything.’

‘Oh! It’s okay.’ She turned to leave.

‘I can whip you up some quick Pasta.’ Ruby called from behind.

‘No, that’s not good for my diet.’

‘Some oats?’ Ruby almost pleaded.

‘You know what, forget the diet! Give me some pasta.’

Ruby nodded. ‘Right away madam.’

As Ruby cooked, Tia came and sat in front of her. ‘How old are you?’

’18 ma’am.’

‘I’m 19. You already know, right? Everybody knows.’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘I don’t know how to cook anything at all. How do you know how to cook pasta?’

‘We just whip it when we are having stay overs. Our parents do not approve of stay overs and late-night parties. So, we need to be very fast and silent.’ Ruby chuckled.

Tia smiled. ‘It must be great to have a normal teenage.’

‘No way! Parents are over-protective and nosy!’ She retorted before realizing Tia said it in a gloomy tone. ‘Where are your parents?’

‘Enjoying their all paid trip to Europe. Sometimes you become too big for your parents to protect you or to understand you and your world!’ Her eyes moistened.

Ruby felt a little taken aback. ‘But they must really proud of you!’ She said softly.

‘Yeah, they are.’ She turned away from Ruby with a disheartened face. It is at that point Tia found Neel. ‘Who are you?’

‘That’s Neel. He’s volunteering with us.’ Ruby interrupted.

‘Why are you lurking around like that in the corner?’

‘Tia, ma’am, he doesn’t like people.’ Ruby hesitated. But Tia’s eyes got fixated on Neel. Without breaking the eye contact, she walked to him. ‘Xenophobia?’

It hurt Ruby to see Tia trying to see through him. Her protective instinct made her react. ‘Tia please stay away from him.’ But what Ruby did not see at first is that Neel was looking at Tia too, eye to eye. Tia’s curious eyes made his voice even more tender. ‘No. I don’t like them because they don’t understand me.’

Silence hung in the air. Voices became a mere agent to what the pairs of eyes were transpiring. ‘How bad has it been?’ Tia’s eyes welled up. There it was out in open. All it took the celebrity a few seconds to read him. Was it that evident?

‘They found me before it was all over.’ His face remained unchanged.

‘Doctors?’

‘Yeah, plenty of them. Some saved my arteries; some saved my mind.’

‘Does it get better ever?’ Her voice quivered.

‘Yeah, it does.’ He spoke softly.

A lump passed down her throat. ‘I don’t want any food.’ She breezed out of the kitchen. As soon as she left, Ruby ran to Neel. ‘Are you alright?’

He looked at her helplessly. ‘I want to see my mom.’

‘Yeah, let’s go home.’

It was the beginning of the summer holidays from the next day. Ruby and Neel couldn’t see each other for the next month. When school reopened and they finally saw each other, Ruby looked stressed, not at all her usual perky. Neel asked her what it was about.

‘Senior School Art Masters debate. I have won it straight for the last 3 years. I want to make it a 4 by hook or by crook. It looks great on the CV.’

‘What is the topic?’

‘Influence of Vincent van Gogh’s work on modern Indian arts.’ She let out a sigh. ‘There’s too much to research.’

Neel smiled.

‘What happened?’ Ruby frowned.

‘I learnt all about Van Gogh while in the facility. He used to channel his depression through his art. In fact, he drew his most famous work, The Starry Night while at the peak of depression.’

‘Yes. That’s why the emotive use of colours and distinct brushwork!’ Ruby exclaimed. ‘Do you remember Tia Sharma’s house? It was full of Van Gogh’s paintings, especially The Starry Night.’

He nodded.

‘That was some night!’ Ruby chuckled. ‘Do you remember?’

‘Yeah, I remember her.’ He said with discomfort in his tone. Something about the night perturbed him.

And a few hours later they heard students whispering in disbelief. Upon enquiring, they showed Ruby the breaking news coming in- “Teen sensation Tia Sharma found hanging in her house. Authorities ruled it as a matter of suicide.”

‘Fake news! This can’t be true. We met her just a month ago.’ She yelled. ‘This news channels will say anything for TRP.’ She turned to Neel. ‘We saw her right? She looked so beautiful! How can she commit suicide? She was so diet-conscious! She didn’t have pasta because it’s junk. I mean, guys if you are suicidal, you won’t be thinking about your junk intake, right?’

All those questions never found an answer. The news turned out to be true. Tia Sharma was no more. She left like that, no note, no answer at all.

In the coming days, it became a matter of national debate. A woke society suddenly focused on talking about mental health and breaking the taboo around it. Social media feeds got flooded with posts like, ‘If you ever feel like need to talk, just ping me.’ Everywhere everyone looked, they could only find Tia’s smiling pictures, her sensational performances, videos of her never-ending innocent laughs.

For Ruby, it felt like a strange blank. It felt like a strange fog around her all the time. It was getting difficult to breathe. It was difficult to make anyone understand why it hurt. Tia was a celebrity. Not somebody Ruby was close to or even knew properly. For a fiercely practical girl like Ruby, it was difficult to explain why the loss felt personal. So, she didn’t even try. The second jolt came when news came that an ardent fan of Tia Sharma who was suffering from depression had committed suicide. The article read, “As per the doctors, the heavily discussed suicide of the celebrity worked as a trigger that led the fan to take the extreme step.”

Now it hit closer home. She called Neel up to enquire about him. And calling him up once was not enough. She kept calling him up every hour. She called him up while eating, while studying, and sometimes even in the middle of sleep she woke up to call him up. It was about a week later, while she was doing some yoga to try to divert her mind, somewhere in the middle of taking a deep cleansing breath, everything went blank. She knew she was standing on the roof of her house and the next thing she knew was that she had woken up in a hospital bed. The doctor informed her that she had remained unconscious for more than 8 hours. She couldn’t care much. The sedatives made her feel at peace. So, she slept. When she met the doctor the next morning, a face much dear was accompanying him. ‘Your friend here tells me that I’ll have to discharge you today because you have a debate to attend.’ The doctor said with a happy face.

She turned to Neel. ‘I don’t want to go. I’m fine here.’

Neel came close and held her in the most delicate way possible. ‘It’s okay. You’re okay. You can do it.’

‘It’s not about being fine Neel.’ She teared up. ‘It doesn’t make sense anymore. What is the point of achievements if it cannot make you happy? If somebody with that much money and fame could not be happy, could not love her life, then why should we put in efforts to win at all? What if I become the best art critic ever and cannot find any happiness there? I don’t understand it, Neel. It feels like all the vision of my super glamorous, happy future has been wiped out right in front of me. And I don’t know who I am without those visions.’ Tears flushed her face.

‘Get up. I’ll take you somewhere.’ Neel turned to her parents who were standing to the other side of her bed to seek their permission. ‘May I?’

Her mother nodded.

Holding her hand, he led her through some bushes till they reached a knoll. It was a strange sight. The knoll was full of saplings which looked planted rather than naturally grown. In the foggy morning, the long green stretch looked breath-taking. Neel brought her to take a seat in the knoll, careful enough not to touch any of the saplings. ‘What is this place?’ She asked.

‘Some idea my doctors in the facility gave me. They asked me to take to gardening. I thought it was a stupid idea. But I anyway did it. Planted a seed there.’ He pointed to the longest of the saplings. ‘When the first leaf came out of it, I realised it was not stupid.’

She rounded her face in surprise. ‘Are you telling me you planted all of these?’ The assumed effort stunned her.

‘There in the facility they said, “Love gets us going”. I did not understand it at first. But the urge I feel to nurture these, the protectiveness I feel towards each of these saplings, the pain I feel when one of these dies is real.’

‘You didn’t mention this in the story.’

‘Too personal.’ He stared into her eyes. ‘Ruby, I am sorry that your ambitions seem wiped out now. I am sorry that Tia couldn’t find that one thing in life that feels so real that it almost feels like love. But the question is, forget where you aspired to reach, tell me why you chose the path that you chose. Do you feel a love for art? Would you love it when you go and speak there on the influence of Van Gogh’s painting style? Would you feel passionate when you discuss each brushstroke and the emotions that might have caused them? If you do, you will have to go there, for the love of it. Or else, just let it be.’ He squeezed her hand and she let a sigh out.

When they met again in the evening outside the debate venue, she looked a little better. ‘Well couldn’t win it this time. The other team was better. And I lacked efforts.’

‘Your circumstances were different this time.’ He patted her shoulder.

She looked at him and beamed. It was strange to beam like that after a loss. But maybe getting over the greater loss was subsiding the small loss there. ‘You said you didn’t know how to be there for someone else.’ She uttered.

‘You didn’t tell me you had submitted the story without my consent.’ Neel seemed agitated. He showed her an email on his phone. ‘Love Gets Us Going is getting published in The Bombay Review.’

‘I am so sorry. I will request them not to publish it. I know you didn’t want it.’ She panicked. ‘But the story is so pure, I thought it needs to see the light of the day.’

‘No, it’s okay. Leave it.’

She stared at him with surprise. ‘What?’

‘Yeah. All this time I have been feeling guilty that when Tia asked me if it gets better, I wasn’t loud enough. Maybe the next time when people like me and Tia read it, they’ll hear it loud enough. IT GETS BETTER IF YOU TRY.’

She smiled and brought him into a tight celebratory embrace. There in the embrace, hope filled them in as they stared at the title together- Love Gets Us Going!

Dream Of An Ordinary Day

Picture Courtesy: The Internet

11…10…9… she was staring at the lift floor position mindlessly. She didn’t need to as she would have anyway found out when it would arrive in front of her. But she stared anyway as if the lift is going to speed up if she reads those illuminated numbers. Or maybe it was simply because she found nothing else to look at while waiting. It was the same old ground floor with the same old mani plant in the broken pot beside the stairway. The pot was broken by her neighbor Sharma Ji’s 5-year-old son because he was denied any more chocolates. It was about 3 years ago, right after she came to this apartment as a newly married woman. Sweet kid! His mother? Not so much. Every time she would meet her, the conversation (more of a monologue) would be the same. ‘3 years of marriage and still no kid?’ She would spread eyes wide, wider, and the widest (shocked, really shocked, I have found the gossip highlight of tomorrow shocked). ‘All this job-shob is okay. But you must complete your family now. It’s high time!’ She would then tilt a little more towards her, ‘you must give the man something to come back home to. Otherwise, they get bored. They stop coming at all.’

The lift stopped in front of her. While getting on board, she stole a slight glance at her husband and realized he was grinning. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing.’ He was still grinning while pressing the button for floor 8.

‘C’mon!’

‘That hair through your mole…’ She had a mole slightly above her jawline through which a single strand of hair had grown. People generally missed it unless they were closely observing her.

‘Again?’ She blushed. Careful observation from husband after a tiring day in office. ‘How can you laugh at the same thing every day?’

‘How can you blush knowing this every day?’

‘I’ll go to the dermatologist and get the mole removed.’

‘Because I look bad when I smile?’ He retorted.

The woman omnipresent in all OTIS lifts worldwide spoke up, ‘8^th floor.’

‘How would she sound in real life? Will she be this mom like?’ Another curiosity he often expressed.

‘It was recorded long ago. She could be dead by now.’ She unlocked their apartment and switched on lights. As he was closing the door behind them, she held it to go out. ‘What happened?’ He asked out of reflex, but he already knew the answer. Forgot to close the lift door, again! ‘Won’t forget from tomorrow.’ He shouted. That line was as honest as the ones written on the uniforms of the waiters in their favorite pub:

“Beer is free tomorrow”

When she entered the apartment again she swayed her head at the sight. Another honest tomorrow when he’ll not throw his shoes in different directions! With her feet, she dragged the pair together and placed them neatly. She opened hers beside his, took a moment to adjust them. Straight in line. NEAT.

She found him in the kitchen, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand while using the other to make tea. She changed into her pajamas, her face dripping with water, glowing from the face wash. She put her clothes from the day in the bin beside the washing machine. A slight corner of her suit dangled outside the bin. She bent over to bring it in. NEAT.

She turned on the gas burner, put a pressure cooker on it, added rice and water and put the lid back on. She, then, joined her husband who was glued to a TV series with two cups of tea in front of him. During the commercial break, he got up and came back with a tray full of vegetables, a chopping tray and two knives. TV, tea and husband and wife tearing vegetables into pieces… At the end of the series, with all the chopping done and with Coldplay playing lightly in the background, she took to cooking while he started cleaning the fish, getting scales out of it, one at a time. Between them they took turns at cooking- she doing the vegetables, he did the fish. They were fuss-free, efficient. One’s garnishing time is the other’s stirring time- well in sync, NEAT.

Towards the end of their cooking ballet, her phone rang. ‘Boss’, she indicated him to care of her almost done brinjal fries. While setting their bowls on the table, he could hear saying ‘no’ a few times. Still, in his unbuttoned shirt and formal trousers, he asked her about the call. ‘My boss. She wants me as the second in line for the new MNC project.’ She talked with a sullen face.

‘And that’s bad because?’

‘We won’t get relieved from the current project. Two projects simultaneously- I’ll be late home almost every day.’

‘And the pros?’

‘Huge company, good location, big budget… We might end up designing a marvel. Awards, recognition, contracts for freelancing might follow.’

‘And you don’t want that?’ He looked surprised.

‘I’ll get late every day.’

‘And people win The Pritzker because they return home on time.’ Sarcastic him!

‘I can never win one!’ She retorted.

‘They all have said the same in their thirties.’

She rounded her eyes at him.

‘Okay fine. Let’s take all the women CEOs? Indra Nooyi, Arundhati Bhattacharya, Shikha Sharma… Did they reach that position without getting late at home?’

‘They must have had people in the family, good support system…’

He spread his arms and nodded to present himself. I am your support system.

‘You?’ She sneered. ‘We cannot keep a cook because you are suffering from acidity all the time.’

‘Okay, then we’ll cut the cooking time. We don’t need 3-4 dishes. 1-2 will suffice.’

‘It’s not only about that. Besides, you’ll be alone here, getting bored. And we have to start family planning too. All these is going to get difficult.’

He tilted to look into her eyes. ‘Leaving something because it is getting difficult and leaving something thinking it is going to get difficult are two different things. The second one leaves you with regret.’ Placing his hand on hers, he spoke, ‘You spent all those years in an Architecture school, I spent all those years in an Engineering college for this day when we can work, win and achieve.’ He smiled. He collected the dishes and got up. ‘Rest is up to you.’

Just about bedtime, she found his office clothes dangling out of the bin beside the washing machine. She took them, folded and put it back. She looked at her husband who was catching the news highlights on TV. He had changed into his night clothes. He looked fresh and handsome. She pulled her hair in a bun and took a Dairy Milk chocolate from the refrigerator. While tearing up the foil, she approached him. ‘Mom called to congratulate for my new project. You told her already?’

‘She deserves to know first.’ With a grin, he looked at her.

She knew he liked it when she pulled her hair in a bun. It gave him the full view of her nape on which he loved to linger.

He knew she did a bun over her usual ponytail only on nights when she was really happy or she wanted sex.

She sat beside him, relaxing in his arms. She put a piece of chocolate in his mouth. Her soft fingers touched his lips. ‘Different taste.’ He remarked.

‘New launch.’ She pointed to the chocolate.

As they looked mischievously at each other, a Dairy Milk commercial aired on the TV.

Kiss me… Close your eye… Miss me…

Dr. Vik Roy In The House- Swooning Over The New Grey’s Intern

 

 

Picture Courtesy: google.com

How many times does it happen that you visit a doctor in India and you find that board in his office has ‘US’ written in parenthesis beside his fancy degrees? Let me tell you, this happens quite often. Even my neighborhood clinic got doctors with degrees from States (And I don’t even live in a posh area). Now that tells me, there got to be a fair number of Indian medical professionals wondering around the US medical corridors. Moreover, add all those NRIs with their my-child-will-either-become-a-doctor-or-an-engineer genes, the number of Indian origin doctors there must be high. Yet in my favorite show’s 14 years old history, no Indian origin doctor has ever popped up in a substantial role.  Given to that 200+ hours of my life that I have given to watch this show, that aspect is particularly saddening for me.

But no more as the magical Shonda Rhimes has finally decided to reward me and all my fellow Indian viewers with a new Indian origin intern. Yep, you heard it right! Enter Dr. Vik Roy, one of the six new interns of Grey-Sloan. Up to the winter premiere (I’ll gush about that thrilling Joe storyline in my tweets later), we only had a few glimpse of this doctor in the show. But Grey’s Anatomy B-Team, a tiny web-series that they aired previously this month, had an entire episode focused on him.

Rushi Kota, the actor who is playing this role, is a total stunner. And if that tiny episode is anything to go by, Dr. Vik Roy is very much aware of Rushi Kota’s charm. I’m excited to see how the backstory behind that (totally crush-worthy) arrogance unfolds.

Now if you’re any character but Meredith Grey in Grey’s Anatomy, there’s no guarantee that you’ll last (read live) long. So before Dr. Vik Roy gets hit by a bus or gets a tumor or just like my doctor decides to set up his practice back in India, we are set for a real eye candy. Just imagine this brown man devising crazy techniques and saving the almost lost lives. Ah! Gimme more Grey’s, please!

In The Absence of Sunshine

 

Picture Courtesy: google.com

 

A journalist held a microphone in front of Durga Devi, a frail woman in her forties. Though half of her face was covered with her veil, one could tell from the way she remained seated in the court’s yard that she was devastated. ‘They did not give him a second chance. He said he will marry her. Still, they did not give him a second chance.’ She wept.

14 years ago, on a similar hot and sultry evening, Samir had witnessed his father pacing up and down in anticipation. His uncles and aunts were sitting here and there in their small yard, discussing names of boys. Behind the poorly painted green closed door he heard his mother scream. She was in pain, lots of it, he could tell.

Over the past few months, he had seen his mother’s belly grow in an uncanny way as if there was something inside her and her skin was desperately trying to hide it. Upon asking, his father had informed him that he was going to have a brother soon. His 4 years old head could not understand the relationship between a growing belly and the arrival of a nonexistent person. But whom could he have asked? His mother was busy vomiting in between house chores. And his father seldom talked to them without yelling.

The old withered door opened and the dhai maa came out with a sullen face. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. The little boy could feel it. Was it his mother? Is she gone? His heart skipped a beat at the thought. He felt like rushing into the room but stopped as his father approached dhai maa.

‘A girl, isn’t it?’ His face was beaming with anger.

Visibly scared to her core, dhai maa slightly looked up and nodded. All the chattering around them came to an abrupt halt. Samir observed his father. His fist tightened and jaw clenched. His eyes turned red and he stormed into the room.

His mother, Durga, was lying on a plain cot, which served as a bed in most the poor, rural households. She was still reeling from the pain of childbirth. Though a stand fan, the only source of electrically generated airflow in the house was at her disposal, she was still profusely sweating. She lay there, like a patient in need of water and tending; her drowsy eyes declared her need for sleep. The dhai maa was busy tending to the newborn.

Reaching his mother, his father got hold of her torn blouse and in one rapid move, he brought her weak body forward and thrashed it hard. ‘I told you, we need more boys in the house. I told you, not a girl again. You witch, you again turned my boy into a girl in your cursed belly.’ He slapped her, once, twice, thrice… she looked moribund, too frail at that point to even utter a word.

He loosened his hold on her. She was about to fall on the ground, but he held her again. This time, grabbing her hair, he kicked her in the belly, the same belly which a few minutes ago gave birth to his child. Blood came out of her mouth and before he could curse her again, she passed out. Her body let go, she fell on the floor and he kept kicking her senseless body until the relatives ran to him, uttering cautions. From the distance, what reached Samir, again and again, was, ‘she’ll die. Leave her, she’ll die.’

 

10 years later, on one fine afternoon, Hans sir was delivering his lecture in school. Hans had the reputation of being a good teacher. The teenager Samir followed him religiously every time.

‘When it comes to the personification of inanimate objects’, Hans said, ‘we use the masculine gender for anything big or strong, whereas for the soft or affectionate objects, we assign the feminine gender. For example, let’s take, Ocean and Sea. Now tell me,’ he addressed the class, ‘which one is stronger or mightier between these two?’

Samir raised his hand.

‘Yes Samir’, Hans prompted him to speak.

‘Ocean. It’s bigger.’

Hans’s face lit up. ‘Yes. So in the case of personification, we use ‘he’ for the ocean. Whereas for sea, we use ‘she’.’

After the class was over, Samir turned around to look for Raja, his friend. He was, as usual, sleeping on the last bench. He walked up to him and sat beside him, waking him up in the process. ‘Why were you absent yesterday?’

With sleepy eyes, he looked at Samir. ‘I was at Altaf’s. Did you miss me?’ He uttered the last sentence with an unnaturally heavy tone.

Samir’s expression shifted. With a little apprehension, he nodded, ‘yes.’

Raja got up from his seat and started towards the school ground. Samir followed him. ‘What was there at Altaf’s?’

‘Cannot tell you.’ Raja kept walking on the ground till he reached the boy’s toilet.

‘Why?’ Samir stopped at the toilet gate and waited for him.

‘Because you are a kid.’ Raja sneered. Samir was, in fact, younger to him and smaller too. Raja was two years senior, who failed to clear the 7^th standard twice. Physically he was a full grown healthy boy who could have easily been mistaken for Samir’s elder brother.

‘But you are in my class.’

He rolled his eyes at Samir before aiming his hand, which was holding his penis up till then, at him. ‘If you call me your equal again, I’ll slap you with this hand.’ Samir looked down and quietly walked away.

After the school broke, he spotted Raja hanging out on the ground with Altaf and Soni. He quietly walked pass them, but while at the gate, they called out his name. He turned around. ‘Come with us.’ Their smirking faces frightened him. They grabbed his hands and started to pull him with them. He followed without putting up a fight.

Altaf was wealthier than most of the children in the village. While most of them lived in old, withered houses with tinplate roofs, his house was small but made of rods and bricks. He even had an LCD TV in the house. There was something else besides the TV, Samir noticed, a black box short of. His curiosity was soon answered as Altaf pressed a button on the box and plate came out of it with a round shaped structure inside it. It was a CD player, Samir realized. He had read about it in his books. Altaf put a CD inside it.  Samir watched as everyone’s expression soon shifted. There was excitement in them about what was going to be unveiled in front of them. It was not the same kind of excitement, Samir noticed, they exhibit when Bollywood movies were shown at the village ground using projectors. It was rather the type of excitement they show when Altaf brought chocolate in the lunchbox. ‘What if somebody visits your house now?’ Soni asked.

‘Then I’ll tell them to go away.’ Altaf sniggered. His father worked in town and was only home at night. His mother had died when he was an infant and his father had never married again. He was the only child and the second member of the family of two. Other than the night time, his house was a safe haven for them.

A movie started. A girl, too white to be Indian, walked inside a big house wearing a tiny skirt and a white top. There was something about the girl, the way she dressed or the way she walked or the way she looked, Samir couldn’t decide, made his belly churn. He had previously heard the boys in the school whisper about ‘blue films’ but he did not know what it was. He had guessed it had something to do with a blue screen. ‘Do you know what it is?’ Altaf asked him.

‘No.’

‘Keep watching.’ If Samir had better knowledge of this world, he could have said he was seeing the lust in the 16-year-old’s face. In no time, the girl in the movie had stripped off all her clothes. For the first time in his life, he was watching a female form without any clothes on. He was not sure if he wanted to run or cover his eyes. There was a boy in the movie too, or a man may be, who was now holding the girl tightly from behind and kissing her hair. He jumped out of his seat and turned around. But Raja and Altaf grabbed him and made him look forcefully. ‘Watch it. You’ll feel good’, Raja whispered.

He sat between them again and started to watch. He felt so many things at the same time. There was a malaise in his body, especially on the organ that he till date only used to pee. The discomfort was so much that wanted to touch it to stop it, but his friends were there. He jumped out of his seat again, this time to go to the washroom. But Altaf grabbed him from behind and in a prompt motion, unzipped himself. He handed him over his male organ. Samir felt electrocuted. He wanted to run away, but they were holding him tight and he did not know what else to do.

The following days, Samir stopped going to school using illness as an excuse. He did not know how to face Raja, Altaf, and Soni again. Shame and fear worked inside him at the same time. He wanted to talk to somebody but whom could he have talked to? Mother? Father? Brothers? Sisters? No one seemed suitable for such a thing. One day, two days, another day again, skipping school continued until one day his father beat him so much that running away to school seemed the only option. In the lunch break, Altaf placed a chocolate in front of him and stood beside silently. Samir was beaten, sad and hungry, and there was a chocolate lying in front of him. He took the whole bar in his mouth at once and they all laughed as he was now unable to chew it. When evening came, he followed the group again at their insistence. But this time they did not take him to Altaf’s house again.

Mandaar, the village in which they all lived, was as beautiful as any other village in Bengal. Paddy fields spread till the Horizon, water bodies and red soil- at sundown, it looked heavenly. The four of them cycled through the swathe to the highway. They stopped on a small bridge right over the canal. The municipality had cemented broad railings at both the open sides of the bridge to prevent accidents. They parked their cycles nearby and sat on the railing. Samir asked, ‘What are we here for?’

Altaf replied, ‘The beauty.’

In some time Samir understood what he really meant. There was a girls’ school nearby and it had just broken. Girls in groups started marching through the road towards their homes. Suddenly he heard Soni yell at them, ‘Beautiful!’ His tone was rather mocking. Soon the group except for Samir started addressing them, ‘What a size!’, ‘Nice ass!’, ‘Look at them swinging!’  Altaf collected a few pebbles from the road and started throwing at them aiming their breasts. The girls started to run. Not a single one turned back and protested.

Samir whispered to them, ‘These are girls from our village. They may know us. What if they tell their parents?’

Soni replied, ‘Girls never talk about these in their homes. Don’t you have sisters? Don’t you know?’ Between him and Soni, they both had more than one sisters at home. But Soni seemed to know much more about them.

Altaf placed his hands on Samir’s shoulder. ‘Now you, stop being a girl and start shouting at them. Pick your girl and tell her how you feel about her.’ He grinned.

Samir did not dare do so at first. But after a while, when the number of girls passing by started to decrease, and their groups started to get small, he called out, ‘lovely’. At first, his voice was too low for them to hear, but he started to raise his voice a little more every time till a girl actually heard him. She looked at him, then looked down and hurried past them. It felt overpowering for him. The ability to scare someone- as if his helplessness from the other day at Altaf’s house had been replaced.

That day when Samir returned home with his new found glory and pride, his elder sister’s shattered face welcomed him. Unable to tolerate her husband’s abuse anymore, she had left her in-laws house. ‘He rapes me, baba. He rapes me.’ She sobbed.

And the next thing he knew, his father had slapped her already bruised cheek. ‘He’s your husband. Not some other man that you’ll talk about him like this.’

Helplessly she looked at their mother hoping she would back her up. The mother, lean and pale, came forward and assured the father, ‘I’ll talk to her. She’ll understand.’

‘I have nothing to listen to.’ His sister revolted. ‘I cannot go back to that house. They’ll kill me, mother.’

‘And I shall kill you if you say another word like this.’ His father was about to raise his hand again but was stopped by his mother.

‘Give me some time. I’ll make her understand’, she pleaded.

‘One hour. And then I shall drag her back to that house. The entire village shall be spitting at us otherwise.’

The mother remained unsuccessful in her endeavor of making her daughter understand. One hour got over. The father grabbed her and started dragging her through their courtyard to the rickshaw standing at their gate. His mother protested, ‘You cannot do this.’

His father, pointing his fingers at her, replied, ‘Woman, you cannot tell me what to do or how to do.’

4 years later a full-grown Samir came to meet Altaf, Raja, Soni and two new members of their group in the afternoon by the canal. They watched the group of girls pass by. By that time, Samir had dropped out of school and used to help his father in farming. Sometimes, the five of them used to travel to town to pick the best-rated pornography movies from some clandestine street stores. They picked up category wise too. Bondage, emf-cmnf, public were among their favorites.

Amidst staring at school girls and discussing their features, Soni broke the news of Rahina’s marriage. Rahina was the village girl Samir met in his younger sister’s marriage. He stalked her for a few days and then, one day proposed his love to her. Their relationship saw a few months of innocent love till one evening, while hiding behind their school and kissing her, Samir dropped his hand on her breast for the first time. Without waiting for her reaction, he started to press it hard. Instead of pleasure, the 13-year-old Rahina, whose breasts were still developing, found the experience painful. She asked him to stop but he did not. Unable to cop up with the tremendous pain, she slapped him. Shocked at this, he hit her back. What followed was repeated attacks at each other. Of course, the thirteen-year-old Rahina was no match for his eighteen years old physique and she ended up badly beaten and bruised. When she reached home that night, at first she tried to lie about the bruises. But upon being seriously cross-questioned by her mother, she gave up, wept and narrated the whole event.

Later that night, Rahina’s parents visited Samir in his house and started to beat him. Samir’s father came to his rescue. Upon hearing the incident, he replied, ‘What was she doing there in his school with him? She went there on her on will. These all were bound to happen.’

‘Are you telling me she deserved to be beaten up?’ Rahina’s mother yelled.

‘I am telling you, you have raised a daughter of bad character’, Samir’s father yelled back.

After some more yelling, both the parties had calmed down and reached a settlement. According to that, Samir would not talk to anybody about this incident to save Rahina’s reputation and both the teenagers would never see each other again.

The following morning, Samir’s father handed him over tickets for the same evening’s train for Kolkata and said, ‘Find work and be on your own. Try sending some money home every month.’

Behind him, Samir heard his mother whispering to his father, ‘You should talk him about the incident.’

‘I am his father. I cannot talk to my son about such an issue. I have not thrown my dignity away like Rahina’s parents.’

‘That bitch could not keep her mouth shut!’ Altaf said. Patting Samir, he said, ‘I’ll miss you brother.’ The train was in two hours.

Leaving his family and friends behind, with a resolution to take his revenge against Rahina, he stepped into Kolkata. The city was no Mandaar. High risers, large cars but what struck him the most, were the women here. In between looking for jobs, he observed them all the time. They were everywhere, roaming around till late at night and most of them dressed like men. The couples wandered openly, hand in hand; the women even called their husbands by their names (back home, this would have caused much stir). The girls sat, ate and roved with boys candidly.

He was still unable to wrap his head around all these when one evening he reached a shopping mall to take up the work of a janitor. He was waiting to meet the manager when a gang of girls caught his attention. There were five of them, all in miniskirts or dresses. Their legs, up to their thighs, were visible. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He has seen heroines in movies wear these clothes, but in real life out in open in this country- it was something beyond his imagination. To add to his surprise, they were not the only ones. So many women out there were wearing such revealing dresses.

He found a girl, alone, standing by a railing, wearing a miniskirt and a top that left her shoulders on display. Her legs were so bright that he almost felt intimidated. He started to walk towards her and stopped at a few hands distance. He kept taking in her view from top to bottom. The girl became conscious. She turned to other side and pretended to focus on her mobile. Samir thought to himself, why is she dressed like that? Is she a prostitute? He looked at her again. She was breathtakingly beautiful. How much would she charge? He tried to calculate the amount of money he had with himself. Only a few pennies. He anyway walked up to her and asked, ‘What’s your rate?’

And the girl slapped him outright. And the slap was not like Rahina’s which only hurt his pride. His skin was actually hurting. ‘You dog! Go ask your mother and sister the same.’ She said and left. Everyone around them gave him a disgusted look. He previously thought Rahina had brought him insult. Now compared to this, it felt Rahina did nothing. ‘You whore!’ He called her from behind and paced up towards her. But three men dressed in black stopped and wrestled him to the ground. They threw him out of the mall and threatened to call police if he showed up another time. All these for a prostitute?

A few months later, he acquired a driving license and started working for a cab company. He started doing night duties as night time fares were more. By then he had learned women also smoke and drink here for fun. But he couldn’t bring himself to accept these. He felt lonely here. He missed his friends. He missed scaring girls away. No one here was scared of him. Every time he tried to catcall, they insulted him in return. Moreover, his female passengers- they were all over him, talking to him in a high pitch, directing him, ordering him and even pointing out an error in fair calculation. They are girls, they cannot know better math than me! 

At one evening, he found another female passenger onboarding his cab. She looked vexed and was talking to someone over the phone. After telling him the destination, she instructed him to take a particular route. ‘That’s the longer route, madam.’ Samir replied. From her breath, she seemed a little drunk.

‘No it shall take less time.’

‘No madam, it’ll take you more time. I know a shorter route.’

‘Just stick to the route I said.’ She instructed sternly and returned to her phone. ‘Listen, tell your husband if he ever raises his hands on you again, I’ll take police to your house and make sure to send him behind the bars. You are not alone, okay? I’ll not let a man torture you.’

Her voice, her tone, and her words- he found them infuriating. Who are these people? What is this arrogance about? He wondered. Through the rearview mirror, he glanced at her. Her dress, her hair, and her skin- she looked regal. Does she think money gives her the power to lock men up for every usual thing? Who is she to dictate how a man shall treat his wife? Inside his chest, rage was rising. And suddenly the girl yelled, ‘Hey you, I told you to stick to the other route!’ Unconsciously, he had taken his usual route to this destination. ‘Stop the car right now.’ She howled.

His head hurt. His jaw clenched. It was getting out of his hands now. ‘Shut up and sit back.’ He screamed at her and sped up his cab.

‘Stop the car. Stop the car.’ She was getting out of breath. Through the rearview mirror, he looked. The minutes before arrogance on her face had faded away. Apprehension took over. He felt so powerful knowing he still had the ability to frighten people.

‘Stop or I’ll call the police.’ She threatened. He turned, snatched her phone away and threw it out of the window. A victorious smile appeared on his face. The girl tried to open a door of the running car. But the child lock was in place.

The girl started shouting for help which made him panic. It was late at night and there was no one in the vicinity. But still, it was a locality. What if someone shows up? He knew he had crossed the line here. He tried to think of a way to get away. There was dump yard nearby. He drove towards that.

‘You’ll not get away with this. My father is in police force. He’ll see to the end of you.’

The threat hit him and his entire life came back to him in fragments. Rahina, her slap, her father’s misbehavior, Altaf’s touch, the girl in the mall, the security guards’ threats, every girl who misbehaved- he turned to her and opened the lock. ‘Go!’ He said in a gruesome tone. The girl opened the door and ran for her life.

A few seconds later, he jumped on her from behind. She fell on the ground. She begged for mercy. He grabbed her hair just the way his father grabbed her mother’s and entered her just the way they did in those forced pornographies. ‘Do you think you can order me around because I have been quiet? You drunken bitch! You whores have troubled me enough in the past few months. Not anymore.’ At first, the girl tried to fight back. But then she gave up. ‘Remember this, I’m a man. A man.’ He thrashed inside her. ‘You don’t tell me what to do. You don’t tell me how to do.’  He had always wondered how it would feel to enter a woman for the first time. But that night, he did not give it a thought.

 

‘Durga Devi, are you saying she should have married her rapist?’ The journalist asked.

‘That’s what we do in Mandaar to save both the children from humiliation.’

The journalist looked furious but she continued, ‘Durga Devi, your son confessed to raping and assaulting the victim. Do you think she should have taken her complaint back?’

‘She should not have complained at all. Who goes to the police to talk about such matters? Shameless girl! Who will marry her now? Whose children will she bear? She ruined her own life and my son’s too. Now he’ll be behind the bars for twelve years’ She wailed.

The journalist motioned to her camera person to stop shooting. She took a few deep breaths to control her angst and resumed the live telecast again.

A Day in Kala Pani

A few years back, I had the chance to visit the picturesque Andaman. The crystal blue water meeting icy green flow in the horizon, the corals, the Jarwas, the greenery- if heaven was about beaches instead of mountains, I could have said I have roamed on it. But then, even if heaven was about beaches, could I have called the Andaman the heaven on earth? The answer is no. Because as fascinating as the scuba diving was, deep down, the Andaman will always remain the land of Kala Pani for me.
There are very few historical places in the country where history resides till date. The cellular jail in Andaman was one among them. As you step on its soil, the heart piercing history starts whispering its excruciating narration in your ears. You feel it, the isolation, the torture, the growling in your stomach- as if till date the wind is silently thrashing a whip against every Indian skin it finds.

The jail’s architecture is a proof in itself that this building was commissioned in the first place to stop the rebellion for a free India in which we are breathing today. Every 15×9 ft (14.8 ft × 8.9 ft to be exact) cell only faces the back of another cell so that during the colonial period, there could have been no communication between the inmates. The motto of British invaders, the primary authority of this institution, was solitude. However, every inmate here had two clay pots for company all the time inside the cells. One was to be used to store water and the other was to be used as a toilet. Yes, brave men had to store their own excreta in the pots, live with it the whole day, yet in the morning, in that damp, nauseating cell, the first thing they uttered was, ‘Bande Mataram.’

It would be a lie if I say the inmates, the brave freedom fighters, lived in complete isolation, at the mercy of British whips. Once in a while, they did get to see each other. Because the rulers made sure they live in confinement but die out in open. The brothers they grew up playing with, they attended school with, were hanged right in front of them. There was a gallery around the hanging room made particularly to make the inmates live through the horror of seeing their fellow fighters die.

15th August, the day we now consider a picnic day, ever became significant because our ancestors chose to go through these plights. Over family and friends, they chose their nation, their pride. In history books, we’ve only read a few name. But there were hundreds of brave men caged in this prison alone. They do not have a Wikipedia page to their name. But ask your Grandma, she knew some of them- men and women who fought, who lost, who battled till their last breath.

As for my previous question about the Andaman, I can never call it heaven on earth. Because, during a simple vacation, it got me to sit and think. Did all these men live beside their own excreta so that even 70 years later, their future generation could be still cleaning others excreta using their own hands? Did they leave their newborns behind to fight for the nation, so that 70 years later, their great granddaughters could be raped on their way to college? Did they watch the horror of seeing their brothers from other mothers die so that in a free country, their future generations would be killing off each other in the name of religion? Or they could be imprisoned on the basis of their choice of meat? Did they chant ‘Bande Mataram’ forgetting about their throbbing skin, so that the future generation poets could be threatened with incarceration because they chose to write against political super powers?

It was supposed to be a vacation; sunlight and beach, instead Andaman tormented me with the martyrs’ relentless sobbing and its blood filled soil. Really, for a country with such vandalized and shackled past, how did come we think that we are in the luxury of being inhuman today?

IF Jaime Was Having A Conversation With Tyrion Now- S07E03 Review In Pictures

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Earlier Than Time

I know that sounds lucky, but let me tell you the lesson that I have learned in my 28 years old life. Even the most beautiful things can look regular if you have not wished for them in the first place.
I was only 19 when my parents found me a perfect groom. And I was lucky to have found love in him after the marriage. So there I was, blessed with togetherness without having known the pangs of loneliness, having a kid even before being acquainted with my maternal instincts and being a house maker even before figuring out what I want to be in life.
And then our love was lost. And at an age where most of my friends have not met the love of their lives. 

We compromise like every other married couple. The only difference is, they fight for each other because they know how unhappily single they were before they had each other. But I fight for him because of the daily needs of my kids and ofcourse the fear the social stigma .

So here I am, young and fat, having lost my interest in looking beautiful for someone, sitting with my husband to watch a movie. It is a moving love story of a couple who fights against all odds to be with each other. Out of nowhere, I ask him a question, ‘Would you have fought for me if we were not so easily married off?’
He gives me a blank stare and then utters, ‘I had a tiring day. Shall we have dinner?’

Poetry for Your Soul-1

Heaven in Us

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I think we are not a match made in heaven. Things made there are pretty perfect I believe.
I think we are one made in here, on earth, flawed, full of differences, insecure and suspicious of the other’s love.
Then on some occasions, we decide to dress up, compliment each other and go out together to celebrate.
On some days even better, we lay at each other’s side, immersed in silent reminiscence of the first time of everything. The first time we locked our gaze, held our hands, touched our lips… And then, in the sensation of the moment butterflies appear in our stomach. The undercurrent of love uncovers, sweeping everything else in. We kiss again, in utter silence.
We are not a match made in heaven.

We are a match made on earth with little pieces of heaven embedded in us.