Meme

Awais tagged me, and now I’m part of a blog-meme. So, here goes…

8 peculiar things about me:

1. I’m addicted to lip balm.
2. I never cut my nails. I always file them.
3. When I was a kid, I used to believe that I was the Ruler of Hell. I still call myself that.
4. I have named my stuffed animals and other important stuff (iPod, camera, etc.) after characters from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I also talk to them.
5. I hate reading crumpled newspapers and magazines. My parents aren’t even allowed to touch the newspaper until I finish reading it.
6. I detest Jane Austen’s books. Pride and Prejudice, in particular, was atrocious. (Quite a few liberal arts majors have tried to point out to me why it’s a masterpiece, but I prefer being called an ignorant moron instead.)
7. For some strange reason, all guys I fall for later turn out to be:
   a) ethical vegetarians,
   b) extroverts,
   c) left-handed,
   d) liberals, and
   e) obstinate.
8. I love listening to rap music. I listen to it even while studying. I also have a “rap journal” in which I write all my rhymes. (No one’s allowed to read ‘em, though.)

I tag: people who love cucumber sandwiches.

A Million Delhis

It was an uncomfortably hot night. Delhi was an island in a sea of humid air, barking dogs, impatient feet, bright street lights and faint recollections of boring TV commercials.

The burning stars, some of them hidden behind wispy clouds, seemed to be vaporising slowly in the heat. The moon had disappeared; a warm breeze seemed to suggest that it had evaporated off the sky. It had stopped raining. The streets were still wet. Everyone around me seemed to be in a hurry. I stood still for a moment, and gulped in the humid air.

I had stepped out to get away from the world of laidback smell of the air conditioner, hour-long phone conversations, and tiresome monotonicity. I looked around — a thousand scattered reflections of my own face stared at me from shop windows and puddles of rainwater. It was like walking inside a thousand-sided glass ball — light threw at me lifeless, two-dimensional imitations of my body from all directions.

I trudged on through rivers of gossip, concrete, muffled yells of children coming from houses, and hysteria. I cursed the chaos.

I walked toward the metro station at a slow pace. A wave of commuters passed me, staring curiously. Was it so obvious that I was searching for another city far away from this sea of noise and confusion? Was a teenager, roaming around aimlessly at night, a rare sight? I was trying to get away; I was a culprit. The stares seemed to be unfriendly. I lowered my eyes and stopped walking. The night was filled with the squeal of a train pulling away from the station.

I looked around once more for something that perhaps never existed, sighed, and turned away.

A few minutes later, I saw a beggar. Seeing me, she stopped on the other side of the road. I searched in my pocket for money. She immediately came toward me and lit up when I handed her a ten rupee note. I turned up the volume of my iPod — Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony drowned out the noise of the kid arguing with his mother a few feet away from where I stood.

I took a turn into another street. It led me back to the Metro station. I stood at a dark corner, looking into the distance. No one else was near. Silence enveloped me. Light from a few apartments reached out to me across the distance. I smiled at that other Delhi that I had set out to discover — the Delhi that was a delightful mixture of silence, peace, and after-rain smell. Suddenly, I realised that Delhi was, at once, a million different cities. And they were all there, within me: noise, silence, blinding lights, darkness, boredom and discovery. I looked up. The stars seemed to wink at me.

Appears in the Capital Letters section of Outlook Delhi City Limits’ latest issue. Feels good to write for people who actually allow you to post your article to your blog. Meh.

I was alive once. Now, I just do Real Analysis.

A yellow Butterfly passed me by. A second, and a third. Butterflies in a decidedly Un-Butterflyly city. Like three pages from One Hundred Years of Solitude carefully preserved in a yellowed textbook. I glanced at my watch – math lecture would start in five minutes. One of my favourite lectures, yes. But the Butterflies were too beautiful.

In the end, I chose Real Analysis over three quivering drops of joy.
In the same way that I often choose bluegrayblue over purplegreenyellow, smug assumptions over doubt, and human company over solitude.
Almost bewitched by beauty. Almost, but not entirely.

In the hour-long lecture, I was counting Butterflies in my head. Onetwothree. Three yellow Butterflies inside my head. Butterfly-lover in a decidedly Un-Butterflyly city.
Like a lost cloud hovering over No Land.
Like a pair of sneakers belonging to a man with No Legs.
Almost bewitched by Butterflies. Almost, but not entirely.

Halfway through the lecture, it started raining. Happy crystals of infinite beauty fell down toward the earth, colliding violently with a Sea-less city. Puddles of shattered crystals accumulated on the ground. Nature’s apology for absence of the Sea.

I thought about my three yellow Butterflies. They must’ve been out there somewhere, fluttering yellow Butterfly wings in a charming Butterflyly manner.

I, on the other hand, was trapped in an hour-long Butterfly-less world.

It stopped raining when the lecture ended. I rushed downstairs to a noisy crowd and No Butterflies. Raucous people in a decidedly Un-Butterflyly city. Acquaintances, not quivering drops of joy.

Real Analysis could’ve waited. Next time, I’ll choose to be bewitched. Entirely.

Untitled

evening wakes up to the
oddest shade of summer, and
i kick specks of dust to the
sky where they hang silently
like shining stars. one, two, three
and now, look, a million –
undifferentiated.

no pattern to follow, they
look at me inquiringly.
i laugh, and kick a few more
up into the sky. goodbye
i say and i look toward
the perfect horizon, where
a bird dances to its own

odd and summery music, and
drifts all the way to paradise.

I want to go back

Impatient days silently fall around the tapping sound of my fingers on the keyboard. Conversations between fictional characters fill the emptiness in my head — I am haunted by all the people whom I have created bit by bit, night after night.

Who was I before I started writing? I do not even remember that person anymore. I spend whole mornings tending to heartbroken heroes and distressed, courageous heroines. I spend entire afternoons building their world, — toiling in the heat — laying its structures brick by heavy brick. I am weak now, and tired. I do not know which world I live in — mine, or theirs. The cup of coffee in my hand, on which I am getting drunk, asks me a question: “Do you even wish to know?”

I am not a single entity anymore. I am all the characters that I have created. I am born with them, and I die with them. Their words are mine. Their breaths are mine. I start a new life each time I begin a new story, and I end that life when the story ends. I am not just one person anymore. I speak a million different words and do a hundred different things, at once, when some small part within me wants, so desperately, to just go back to the person I was long ago.

I want to go back now. I leap from world to world, retracing my steps, searching for the “real” world — the one where I was born. Did someone move it? What shall I do now? What now?

“Calm down,” the coffee tells me, “isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

In the distance, I see you. I remember your face — I had created you long ago. You’re still alive, eh? I will kill you!

I slice open
A trembling hand—
Your hand.
Or is it mine?

i go missing

the sound of rain is a thought in my mind
grumbling
tumbling
singing
splashing
mingling

out of the blackness of the sky, a new god
like others before him
same old
tame mould
so cold
i won’t enfold

in the rain, no play
to this god, no pray
i am astray
i lose myself in my little island
i go missing
no more masked gods for me

the sound of rain is a thought in my mind
a gentle, reassuring song
out of the blackness of the sky, a new god
him i won’t worship
hiding in my little island, i wait for the drama to end

Our shared secret

the moon is silent tonight.
maybe, the confused wind whispers,
he will sing again. i smile
at the moon—nobody knows
that we have taken refuge in silence.

Somewhere deep inside

Most writing is the result of a particular combination of a moment of frustration, a moment of discovery and a moment of keen introspection. Writing is a lot like dancing in a closed room, in this manner—you shut out the world, in annoyance, when you discover some disturbing fact related to yourself and then you try to know yourself better even as you try not to probe too deep. There’s this strong desire to study your own self, accompanied by a cold fear of what you might discover in the process. Yes, it’s a lot like when you close your room and dance to your favourite track—your technique sucks, your movement lacks grace, and you don’t bother to perform well simply because you know nobody’s watching. And when you open the door and step out you realise that you didn’t dance that bad, after all. In fact, someone might even like it. Your random movements suddenly transform into something wonderful. I dance like that. I write like that, too. But I wouldn’t know if they’re really related that way, writing and dancing—I just make up such nonsense when I’m bored. When I’m bored, I come up with all kinds of crap and give a speech to Zaphod. Zaphod is my loyal iPod. I listen to him, and he listens to me. He sits with me on the couch, and listens without interrupting me. He never makes faces, he doesn’t scowl, and he doesn’t tell me to shut up. I like him. He’s a good listener. I have never been a good listener. I interrupt people a lot when they talk, sometimes I start to argue with them even before they finish speaking, and I refuse to listen to them if they say disagreeable things. I also interrupt them when they say something interesting—I tell them to repeat it so that I can write it down. I like to write down things that people say. Once, at a party, I saw this girl who was dancing beautifully. I went up to her and requested her to repeat a movement so that I could write it down. ‘How can you write down a dance step?’ She asked, amazed. I told her how dancing is a lot like writing. She was impressed. You must be pretty frustrated, I told her, to dance in such a wonderful manner. The expression on her face suddenly turned into something hostile, and she stormed away without a word. People never understand me, I guess. That’s why I talk to Zaphod. He doesn’t understand me either, but at least he doesn’t misinterpret my words. He never thinks about what I say. He simply listens. I guess that’s what makes him a good listener—good, but stupid. Shruti is a good listener, too, but she isn’t stupid. She’s one of the most intelligent people I know. We’ve been best friends for fourteen years, ever since we met on our first day of college. I have to pay her a visit in the hospital today—she had a heart attack.

I sit by her side in the hospital. She looks up at me with tired, sad eyes. Her eyelids are half-closed. She speaks in a whisper, and her face becomes unrecognizable with the strain of effort every time she says something. She asks me whether I’ve brought her flowers or not. I haven’t, I tell her. How could’ve I been so thoughtless? We don’t talk much. I just hold her weak hand in mine and we sit like that, without talking, for a long time. But when you’ve been friends for years, you don’t need to say anything to each other. ‘Will you come to see me again,’ she asks as soon as I get up to leave, ‘sometime soon?’ I nod my head. Of course I would.

Back home, I sit on the couch with Zaphod in my lap. I tell him about Shruti. I tell him about our first day in college. I tell him about all the wonderful moments we’ve spent together, and the shared memories that we treasure. I start wondering about why we love each other so much. What binds us? I haven’t a clue. The doctors say that I might lose her—that makes me feel strange. Yes, strange is the word. I tell this to Zaphod. He sits still in my lap, lifeless, and suddenly I miss Shruti. A hint of some unknown feeling greets me, and I discover what binds us together. I should’ve taken flowers for her today. But I don’t say that to Zaphod. I stand up and walk to my desk. I must write our story. I don’t want to forget any part of it. I sit down to write what happened when we first met. I write about her friendly eyes, about her opinions that I’ve always disliked, about our common crushes and about our shared passion for Ibsen and Guevara. With fierce inquisitiveness I set out to discover how we became best friends, afraid, at the same time, that it’d lead me somewhere so deep within myself that it would be very difficult to come out again. Ever.

I’ve tried a new style: dialogue between characters has been minimized, and the protagonist’s thoughts form the story.

This piece starts with an assertion, and the conclusion emphasizes it. To be precise, I have built this story around a statement. The protagonist states an opinion in the beginning and then progresses to other things. (Towards the end, her thoughts become slightly disconnected.) She gets frustrated when she realizes how disappointed her friend must’ve been on learning that she hadn’t brought flowers—that, and her frame of mind, end up reinforcing the beginning.

The protagonist believes that most writing is the result of a particular combination of a moment of frustration, a moment of discovery and a moment of keen introspection. I don’t agree.

I miss you, my love

Your kiss, years later, lingers still
On my trembling lips;
Doomed am I
To a lifetime of love.
Concrete, neon, plastic,
Tetrapods in the sea,
Dreams and disasters—
Memories of these, and
My love for you, haunt me.

A thousand miles away,
In a dry land,

I am damp inside.

This one’s on Mumbai. I wrote it a few days ago, when it was raining in Delhi.

The Beautiful Woman

She sat at the edge of her bed, holding a looking-glass in her hands. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. I glanced at the label of the beautifully wrapped gift I held: To grandma, on her 73rd birthday, with lots of love.

I entered the room, placed the gift on her dressing table, and sat down on the floor by her side. After hesitating for a moment, she placed a trembling hand on my cheek. I wiped a tear from hers.

She remained motionless for some time and then lifted her head to stare, sorrowfully, at a photograph hanging on the wall. I turned around to look at it—a beautiful young woman smiled back at me.
“It’s granddad’s favourite photo. You were a beautiful girl, grandma.” I said, gazing fondly into her eyes.
She kept the mirror on the bed, took my hands in hers, and whispered, “Am I still beautiful?”