Escapades

                                                               

The sun beats down harshly on my back, as I labour in the fields. Any moment now the skin will peel off my back, I muse. I dip a towel in the water in a bucket placed nearby, and wrap it around my bare back. I can’t begin to describe the relief that sets in; it is so exquisite in its wholesomeness, that I think that this must be the grandest pleasure available to man. Given that I am a poor lad farming on a semi parched piece of land in rural India, there are very few pleasures that I am privileged to. Love and belonging are not on that list. They disappeared the day she walked out on me. Tears threaten to stream out of my eyes when I think of that day, and that moment; and this happens infallibly, each time I revisit that dark corner of my memory.

She was all I had, and I was all she had; or so I used to think. The meals she cooked were made extra tasty by the love that went into their preparation… or so I imagined. When she walked out of the house each day, I felt a deep sense of loss; but I would comfort myself by the knowledge that she would come back to me in the evening, when the cruel sun had set. Only, one evening, she came back to leave forever. When she told me she had to leave, I was dumbstruck. I don’t remember asking her why, but she had explained nevertheless. She wanted to have a second chance at life, she said. One in which she wouldn’t feel fettered by her bond to me. She wanted to feel young and free again, and to feel loved. She reckoned I would survive.

As she walked down the curved path leading out of our tiny hut and onto the fields yonder, she had a spring in her steps…one that I had never seen before. Maybe she had really found love. And I wondered at the power of that newfound love, because it had made her oblivious to mine. She had said she wanted to feel loved, when all of my life, I had done nothing but love her and trust her blindly, as only I could. At fifteen, I had lost my mother forever. And all that remained were memories; but memories don’t bring pleasure, do they?

The coolness of the soaked towel on my sun drenched back though, is a different story altogether. I believe I could work like this forever, if only to have these brief moments of reprieve.

Do you see what I see

                                            

                                                                          I

Do you see what I see? Do you see the misty mountains in the distance, the trees looming yonder, and the green grass under my feet? Don’t mind me asking; sometimes I feel the need to validate the authenticity of what I am seeing. I need to reassure myself that everybody sees the world the same way that I do.

I see the world through my twin’s eyes and I wonder how she would have seen it, when they were still her eyes. I wonder whether she saw the same shades of red on the lilies in the valley as I do. Perhaps the whiff of steam escaping from that cup of hot tea ensconced in mother’s hands, held her attention for as long as it does mine. Perhaps she would have seen the faint twitch on mother’s lips as her mind goes on a wayward journey of reminiscing and sorrow. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe I see too much, because of the joy of being able to see again. When I stopped seeing things, I was only four years old. Today, I am twenty three. Nineteen years is a long time. A very long time during which, one can forget a lot of things. Like how it feels to lie awake at night and count the stars in the distant sky; or watch a movie on the big screen. I have vague recollections of doing both, but I cannot tell you how wonderful it feels to be able do these random acts of seeing once again!

I must arise from my position on the small patch of grass abreast our humble homestead in the beautiful hills, cross over to the threshold and pass yonder, all the while careful not to make any noise that could break mother’s reverie. I try and avoid her as much as I can these days; just as she avoided me for most of my childhood. When I was blinded by a stray accident at a very young age, everybody she knew, berated mother for not taking me to a hospital sooner than she did. She claimed ignorance of the seriousness of the injury, and the pressures of tending to a young family on her own. Minutes after Mahima had closed her eyes forever, I asked mother whether I could have them. Mother never replied, but the doctor did, and even before they took her away for the last rites, I was wheeled into surgery. Everybody I know berated me for devouring my sister, my own twin; mother stopped talking to me altogether.

I have but one life to live. A life that stopped being colourful too soon. I could not live like that forever, not when the stars in the sky beckoned me in my dreams, and the beautiful heroine’s dusky eyes from a long ago memory seemed to penetrate my unseeing ones.

And so we carry on this song and dance of pity and guilt, mother and I. She leaves a portion of the meal in the vessels, while I clean the dirty clothes and utensils lying around the house. The pain in this house is palpable; I am sure I’ll be able to touch it sometime soon! It is that real and alive. There are many things that have been said, and many others that have not. I wonder if we can ever forgive and forget. Surely, she sees the tears flowing out of her precious daughter’s eyes? So what if the cheeks they grace are dark and ugly? So what if the hands that wipe them off are bony and flawed? Surely, there is something in these cheeks, and these hands, that remind her of Mahima. Or perhaps they don’t, because Mahima was beautiful; I can see as much from the picture that hangs on the wall. But surely, she must remember the kicks in her burgeoning belly as she carried her twins; they were not from the pretty Mahima alone.

I see so much now, and not just what her eyes show me. And I am glad I can see as much as I do, for all these things put together are the building blocks of the remainder of my life.

                                                                            II

 The cup of tea in my hands has practically changed seasons in the half hour that I’ve held it. From a fiery summer, it changed into a wet monsoon and thereafter to a frigid winter; much like my life has, in the forty years that I’ve lived it. The carefree childhood is long forgotten, and the brief marriage is but a distant dream. My twin daughters, one fair and beautiful, the other dark and plain, were the biggest constants in my life. Mahima with her ready smile and hearty laughter, a spritely child, so full of life! Poonam, the little baby who crawled late, walked late and spoke too soon. What she couldn’t do with her legs, she overdid with her little mouth. She could talk up a storm even before she turned one… or maybe two. I don’t remember. But they were such a joy to have around me in the dark days following my husband’s desertion. The dainty china doll and the rugged rag doll; a motely pair, if ever there was one. And yet, they were mine. They were all I ever wanted. They are all I’ll ever want.

Poonam’s little unseeing eyes stared in the direction of my voice when I sang them lullabies. How heart breaking they were, those little pools of blinding darkness. They followed me around when I tinkered around the house, darting hither and thither with every little noise I made. It is surprising how much a mother sees, when her little one cannot. Mahima made up for her sister’s blindness by taking her around wherever she went. She would tell her of all the sights along the way, and little Poonam would smile every now and then at her twin’s descriptions. Our life was not idyllic, but we were happy; there was never any doubt about that. Mahima and Poonam spent their evenings talking to each other, while I fed them rotis with daal. Our dinner was always the same, but the girls never complained. Mahima did complain about my prolonged silence at the dinner table, but Poonam didn’t notice it I suppose. She never complained about anything; not about the noises I made while working on the sewing machine that sustained us, not about the lack of colour in her life, not about the unfairness of it all. In a way, that gnawed at me. I wondered what she felt, on all those long drawn out mornings when she and I were cooped together in the house, while Mahima attended school. I couldn’t talk much because of all the work I had to do, but she never complained. I wonder why she never did.

 Mahima’s accident was a bolt from the blue; no, that is decidedly an understatement. No one could ever understand what I felt, when they told me she would lose her legs. I crumpled. I stopped talking to the children. I had never been much of a talker, I had preferred listening to them talk. And now, I didn’t know what I could talk to them about. I failed Mahima in her moments of deepest anxiety. I failed to comfort her. I did not tell her that she would be fine. I forgot to remind her that she was still there, and that there was a life worth living; a life that was hers to keep. I failed her and so she decided that life wasn’t worth living; she decided to put an end to it. Just like that. On the same hospital bed where she lay, recuperating from the accident. And all that I can remember thinking of was, what good was the education, if it could not have shown her the possibilities in life? My uneducated, invalid, ugly daughter was still alive, despite all the heavy odds against her. She had never thought of ending it all. And yet Mahima had, after a fortnight of being a beautiful invalid. I could not mourn Mahima’s loss; I believe I had no feelings left in me. I had been mourning all my life and the latest blow was just too hard to deal with.

Poonam can see now. What relief it gives me, the thought that my talkative little baby can finally see. I have heard some of the harsh things that people said when she received Mahima’s eyes. One of these days, I’ll have to tell her how happy I am that she finally got to see the colourful world from Mahima’s childhood tales. I hope I can snap out of this silence soon. I hope I can embrace her, and kiss her soft, dark cheeks. I long to take her scarred hands in mine, and hold them close to my heart. 

We have played this song and dance of silence, pain and mourning long enough. I believe it’s time I welcomed her home. For it must all be new to her. I hope it will be almost like old times. I think I’ll enjoy teaching my baby to live, and see the wonderful things around her the way they ought to be seen.

the free bird

raghu watches her walking around with a broomstick in hand, ostensibly to sweep the floor, and he wonders what thoughts lurk in her brain. half an hour ago, she had dropped a bombshell on him when she said she was leaving him soon. his first instinct when he heard those words, was to strangle her. the disbelief when he had seen the picture in shyam's laptop was replaced with intense anger; and a bitter sweet longing for the past that now seemed mythical. accepting the truth was going to take some time and so he decided to accost her with some uncomfortable truths. wasn't it just a couple of weeks back that they had had that romantic dinner at the rooftop restaurant?

"hey sheela, what about that romantic dinner we had a couple of weeks ago? don't tell me you were mad at me back then. hell, we had so much fun and you didn't give me the slightest inkling of being unhappy."

"romantic dinner, eh? two weeks ago? let me see, oh yeah, the famous dinner that almost never happened, thanks to your business call. and when it did, what was romantic about it? the candle between you and me that the hotel staff had put there to charge you a few hundred more rupees? you call that romance? hah!"

"you needn't be so sarcastic. back in college, candle light dinners were very much your idea of romance."

"candle light dinners for what they meant back then. not for having a lighted candle on a table top and huge pockets of silence and discomfort all around. raghu, listen to yourself and you'll understand that we have drifted apart."

"really? where? how? i don't see that. i don't want to drift apart. i want us to be together."

"there, it had to come out, didn't it? what's with you and this controlling nature? you want us to be together. there's never any question of what i want!"

"okay hold on, there's no need for any shouting. i mean, we can talk things out calmly, can't we? i just said that i would like both of us to be together for the rest of our lives. i mean, that's what we wanted when we decided to get married, right?"

"so that was four years ago. i don't think like that any more. i want more space. i am moving out."

"you want more space? what for? look, what's gotten into you?"

"nothing, i just realize now that we were not meant to be together. we never were. it was a mistake. i don't love you, i never did."

his eyes welled up then, when he heard her say that. he wished she would be tearing up too as she said that, but he knew she wouldn't. he wished there was some inexplicable reason why she was doing this, some kind of irrational fear, some superstitious stuff, even some disease for god's sake. but he knew there wasn't. he knew now that the twinkle in her eyes in that photo his friend shyam showed him the day before, was very real. oh there was love, a lot of it infact, but none of it was for him. shyam's neighbour's friend anand had stolen his lady's heart and she had become a stranger overnight. hell, one thing she couldn't beat him at though, was pretence. she was making a fool out of herself with all this talk of him being a control freak. her eyes belied her own distrust of what she said, and it wouldn't be long before she would be forced to own up to him. he would wait until then, watching her and provoking her with these conversations. he knew that she would buckle under the relentless pressure eventually.

********************************
she hadn't been able to believe it herself at first. when anand teased her that she was in love, and not with her husband, she had retaliated.

"dude, this is just friendship. we are good friends, that's all."

"oh bull, don't give me that load of rot. you know as well as i do that you love me; good friends don't sweet talk for hours into the night while the rest of the world sleeps. that stuff is for beyond just good friends. so what if you are married? love knows no rhyme, reason or season."

"but that's just not who i am. i can't be dishonest about love for god's sake! what about our wedding vows?"

"well what about them? if you were to stick with him and pine for me secretly, that would be emotional infidelity, wouldn't it? and do you think that would be honest? would that be very much like you?"

"is that sarcasm? how do i tell him? how do i get out of that house?"

"well you could be honest about it and tell him the truth as it were. which would be dicey. you may end up postponing the event for so long that you eventually don't bring it up at all. the other way would be to shove some of the blame up his sleeve. tell him he doesn't care for you. that you've spent anxious hours waiting for him to come home and that you have grown tired of it all. something like that. baloney. lies. they help always."

"oh my, this is not what i had expected. how could a friendship change into love overnight? and why would it happen to me, a married woman of all people?"

"hah. does a legal status change the desires of your heart? face it girl, you are not happy with him. and that's why you found love elsewhere."

"maybe. but this is certainly complicated."

she had taken the short cut and decided to accuse raghu of being inconsiderate and aloof. a part of which was true, but she knew that it wasn't because he didn't love her. it was just that he had responsibilities at the workplace and a household to finance. she knew that she was at fault. but she also knew that she had no desire to feel trapped in a place where she didn't feel happy. her mother would have warned her of the fires of hell that awaited her after death. but she wanted to be happy in the one life that she had and knew. everything else was uncertain. the lure of happiness makes you do strange things. like go against the tide and walk out of a once happy life. not that it was by any means an unhappy one now. just that there was no happiness in it anymore for her. and while she had a chance, she wanted to get a share of the happiness that life with anand seemd to promise. she knew raghu hadn't bought her story of him being a control freak. but so long as he didn't know the truth, she was fine.

***********************************

"love is a funny thing. it never allows you to be in control of yourself, much less over others or situations", raghu thinks. "if i were the control freak that she accused me of being, i would have tied her up and locked her in the house. no, i am the large hearted guy, the one who lets the bird fly out of the cage to see whether it returns. if this bird does return, i'll break its wings and maim it for life, for sure i will!"

"look, no word of this to our families until we sort things out, ok?"

"there's nothing to sort out raghu. i told you what i want."

"okay, atleast give me the time to tell ma. until then, let's behave as if nothing's amiss, could you atleast do that for me?"

"okay, but do tell her soon."

a half hour later, they walk out of the house together, a picture of perfect love for onlookers. she turns back and gives him a half smile as she walks towards the bus stop, while texting anand "i think he bought it. hopefully, i'll be a free bird by next week, whew!". he returns her smile and starts for the subway thinking of a gameplan to trap his bird.

if wishes had wings...

and so the results are out and i didn't make it. does it make me feel sad? to be honest, not sad, but a little bad, yes. i hadn't expected to make it through, after gauging the impression of the panelists; they were on the lookout for someone who had a similar/related background, not an engineer with 8 years in IT. having said that, given my performance in the interview, i had a vague ray of hope hidden somewhere, that lulled me to sleep on hot nights when the chugging ceiling fan reminded me of unfulfilled aspirations.

there are some who say, "good luck for next time". i wonder whether there will be a next time. i doubt. i don't trust myself to give repeat performances in arenas that have rejected me once. i'm reminded of the medical entrance exams circa 1999. sigh, that was another era and another story altogether. would i have made a better doctor than an engineer? i doubt; infact, i can almost decidedly answer that in the negative. i may have made a good one, but hell, i am a good engineer too.

then why the need to change to public policy, of all areas, and why now, they asked. as do others, albeit discretely, behind my back. to the latter query, my answer was, and always shall be, "there is no use before date on education, and there never should be". they were reasonably amused by that, i could say, and hastened to assure me that they had no doubts of my ability academically. them grades came to my rescue i believe (sardonic chuckle). as for the former query, how does "i want to improve my country and make it a better place by some measurable standards" sound? perhaps too altruistic, eh? i believe so, though i say it myself. honest to god though, i do want to make this a better place to live in, and raise my kid(s). i want these kids to feel good about something that happened in their country courtesy their parents' generation, instead of read wistfully about the halcyon days when people sacrificed and laboured and died for freedom.

does that sound too idealistic? maybe, but hey, didn't i always tell you that i am not run of the mill? :)

definition statements :)

some things define a person like no other.

it could be the smile, or the crinkling of the eyes when she smiles, or the funny gait, or the wild gesticulation while speaking, or the pulling on the chin while mulling over something deeply.

essentially, it could be anything.

it could even be the way the person reacts to a situation, the way he manages to convince the people around him always... or something equally significant, or perhaps insignificantly mundane.

there are those however, who choose to be defined by stranger quirks; such as their blind hatred for certain people or certain communities, or their predisposition to violence and hatred and further justifying such actions with some or the other religious or communal beliefs, or their snobbishness, or their looking down upon everyone else in the world, or their religious adherence to some belief system without being open to any other possibility.

i pity the latter category.

i think it is infinitely better to scratch one's behind while in deep conversation and thereby make a definition statement about self, than resort to belittling others or shutting them off as imbeciles who account for nothing, or kill them in the name of god-alone-knows-what.

god bless us all :)

Life, as I see it

Some people waltz into your life,
And some come breezing in;
Tempestuous storms some others bring...
Occasionally a melancholy tune one ushers in,
Another, a lullaby;
A few come in silently,
A few others riding high...

Ere you wonder what brought them
Into your solitary 'stence
Some go rushing out and thence
You muse if it made sense
At all to have them there in the first place ....

And yet, if you would but pause,
And wonder a thoughtful while;
You would see them standing all in line
Gracing your sterile life,
And making it in a signficant way
A little more worthwile!

The Strife Within

Cold winds that blow in from an open window
Newspapers strewn across the floor
A coffee mug from a couple of days ago
Loud music rushing in from the neighbour's next door
She surveys the scene with detachment
Never once dwelling upon the chaos apparent
Turmoil of another kind brews up a storm maelvolent
As her heart seethes in agony of a kind that only she knows...

what do you do when nothing goes as per your plan? sit back and relax and watch...as simple as that!

and then there came the jealousy.

and resentment.

a lot of hurt.

some tears, often unseen.

bitterness.

longing.

a lot of fantasising.

dreaming of what-ifs...

i had never imagined it would come down to this someday.

and now that it has, where is my famous will power? the steely strength that the world marvels at, at times? dont they know, that the inability to show one's fear, one's hurt, one's agony, is a failing in itself? that one yearns to be able to shed the veil of sophistication and the stiff-upper-lip demeanour, if only to be rewarded with some reprieve from the burden that lies heavily upon one's shoulders? can absolutely no one see it?

have i been so bad, so absolutely bad? and if i have, were all those bad things i did, so utterly unpardonable? would goodness, even if a trifle, come in handy to pay the measure for the badness?

will i be able to laugh one day, with head thrown back, hands held wide apart, a deep heartfelt laugh, sans all sophistication, telling the world that my blues have gone? will that day dawn in this lifetime?

i had heard of mutual admiration societies, but increasingly find myself joining mutual non-admiration societies! that's my very own term for those "relationships" (or the lack thereof), between two people who dont like anything about each other, know that all too well, and have to share space for whatever weird reasons.

just when i was thinking that my life's all settled, and that at 29, i wouldnt have to go through that kind of rigmarole anymore, life took a sharp u-turn and i found myself in one such mutual non-admiration situation. it's so yuck, and i thank god that it's over and thankfully (and hopefully!) in my past...