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?

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.

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?”

Fireworks from an orange peel

She stood frowning over a selection of doll’s clothes that lay scattered all over her bed. After a long moment of consideration, she selected a little blue frock. She then turned her attention toward a pretty doll that lay slumped over a book of fairy tales. She picked up the toy gently, and hugged it. She sat down on her bed, placed the doll on her lap, and began combing its long hair. She tied a blue ribbon in the doll’s hair, and gazed lovingly at its face. Then she dressed the doll in the frock that she had selected for it earlier. The little girl wore a blue dress, too. Her short, curly hair lay neatly over her head; a single lock fell down playfully upon her smiling face. She smiled and laughed often, for no reason at all. People, for some inexplicable reason, loved being around her. She was a happy creature, but she never spoke much. She spent most of her time alone in her room. People said that she had thoughtful eyes. She was tall, slender, and had a light gait; she had a confident manner about her. She had a distinct way of doing things. She never behaved like the other kids of her age and though aware of this fact, was never bothered by it. The extreme differences between her and the children of her age group never seemed to be alarming—only slightly arresting.

She seated the doll on the bed and sat upon the floor, by the bedside. She proceeded to scrutinise her work and upon ascertaining that the doll looked adorable enough, she turned to her friend and sought her opinion. “How does it look now?” She had paid no attention to her friend’s presence in the room till then. Before the other child could answer, she reached over for her favourite book, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-glass, and offered to read it aloud to the other. She spent the next hour patiently reading the story to her attentive audience. She loved to read. She loved the way words could be used to make wonderful stories. Her grandfather, a writer, used to tell her about ideas and words and how one could play with both to create beautiful things. She forgot about everything else when she read: nothing else mattered—words commanded her attention in a way only few other things could. She stopped reading and closed the book carefully when her friend lost interest in the story. She was faintly annoyed—she wanted to read more.

Her friend wanted to go outside to play, but she wished to remain indoors and gaze at the beam of sunlight coming inside the room through a gap in the heavy curtains on the window. She picked up an orange and peeled its rind off. She kept the fruit aside, and stared curiously at the peel instead. It felt rough and dry against her skin. She held it firmly by her fingertips and squeezed it. Juice squirted out of it. She held it against the bright beam of sunlight that fell on her bed and pressed it again. The liquid spray expelled from the peel sparkled brilliantly in the light. It filled her with awe. “It’s like a firework,” she whispered to her friend. Her friend turned around to look at the orange peel in her hand. She grasped her friend’s hand and pulled it forward into the light. “Doesn’t it feel warm? Don’t you just love the touch of sunlight on your palm?” She asked her friend. She then told her friend to grab an orange peel and to follow her instructions. But she didn’t notice that her friend didn’t join in—she was lost in the world of her own thoughts. The rays of light fell down upon her bed through the palm of her friend—a friend who was a mere figment of her imagination in the heartbreaking reality of that room.

The man in the crowd

The weak December sun shone down faintly, upon the crowd below, through small holes that it had managed to pierce in the thick fog. A slender figure detached itself from the crowd, moved forward and set fire to a bus that stood abandoned by the roadside. His shining black eyes stared at the fire blazing in front of his face, and his hands punched the cold morning air joyously. His lips threw forth memorised slogans that were barely audible and were soon drowned by the majestic roar of the fire that now embraced the helpless bus. He stood still in front of the burning vehicle for a moment, smiling victoriously. Then he realised that he needed to keep on moving—motion comforted him in some strange, inexplicable way. The crowd had cheered him on and a few people had come forward to help him set fire to the public conveyance. Their leaders stood behind them, too coward and prudent to participate, silently celebrating their victories over the impressionable individuals before them.

He had been running on the empty roads like a madman since the past half hour. His throat was sore from shouting, but he kept on screaming into the young air. He had forgotten why he was out on the streets setting fire to vehicles. He remembered no more why he was shouting with a hundred other people—all strangers. He had forgotten the reason why he chose to be there, on a cold morning, with people he didn’t care about. The cause was forgotten; the drive remained. He felt nothing. No thought crossed his mind. He acted as if a will far stronger than his own controlled him, directing his actions. He behaved not as an individual, but as a part of a crowd that seemed bent upon destruction—of what, the crowd no longer was aware of. A hundred people shouted the slogans written on the placards and banners that they carried; they held these high up in the air above the heads. They weren’t aware of the words that escaped their lips anymore—the words had always been meaningless to their obtuse minds that had now stopped being aware of the existence of the permutations of letters altogether. The syllables that seemed to have a will and life of their own, tumbled out of the unaware mouths easily, forcing the weak lips apart and escaping into the air drunk with the confused, frightened shadows of the demonstrators.

He looked at the poster he was carrying—an old man stared back at him blankly; a garland adorned the photograph. He couldn’t recognise him. He made no effort to recollect who he was, though he had a strange feeling that he was fighting for that man. The thought bewildered him. He felt disoriented. He was confused. He snatched a club out of the hands of a man in the crowd, and smashed the windshield of a car parked nearby. The sound of the shattering glass filled the emptiness within him. It suddenly reminded him of the reason behind his actions; it showed him the source of his anger. He wasn’t fighting for the man whose photograph he carried; he tossed the poster away, on the road, as soon as he realised this. He was fighting for himself; he was fighting against the injustices that had been flung at him; he was fighting against all the missed opportunities; he was fighting against the people who refused to accept him; he was fighting against a world that refused to give him a chance; he was fighting against friends who expected him to become a person he didn’t want to be; he was fighting against the people who had taken advantage of his anger and channelled it to serve their own purpose. He suddenly became aware of who he was. He looked around. The mindless crowd was busy shouting empty slogans, in support of a cause they didn’t fully understand. He looked at the leaders who walked in the front, guiding the demonstration. They walked slowly, occasionally whispering orders to a group of faithful followers, smiling at the work of the crowd that they led through the deserted streets of the city.

He held his head in despair. He knew not what he would do next. He wished to be told what he could do to save himself. He looked at the leaders again. He felt a strong desire to kill them. He stood straight, determined at last to follow his own will. Angry tears glistened in his eyes. A woman behind him noticed that he carried nothing. Of what use is a mute demonstrator who has neither a weapon, nor a poster on him? She came forward and handed him a torch. He shifted his gaze from the leader he was busy staring at, to the torch that had been handed to him. He looked into the eyes of the woman who stood beside him. She looked back at him kindly, as if she understood him. He smiled at her, resumed shouting slogans, and joined the crowd in its activities again—the crowd that accepted him as its own part.

The girl who pitied the moonless sky

A cold gust of wind, carrying an overwhelming scent of bitterness and grief, entered the room through an open window. She entered the dark apartment, closed the door behind her, and slowly walked over to the window in her light gait. She leaned against the windowpane and looked at the sky, searching for something. The moonless sky was a mournful shade of black. Not a star had come out that night. Silence lay like a thick, impenetrable veil over the face of the earth. She regarded the sky with pity. She stood at the window for many long minutes: a sad figure surveying the night in a hopelessly uncaring world. Then, she turned away from the window and sat down at her desk. The desk, with countless things strewn all over it, didn’t seem to belong to the well-ordered room. But, it was the only place in the world to which she belonged. The piece of furniture was her home.

She picked up a half-read book from the desk. She flipped the pages of the book in the dark. The texture of paper brought a faint memory from another age to her mind. She picked up a pen from the desk, held it tightly in one hand, and tried to remember something. Tapping the pen impatiently, she tried to recover a part of herself. But that part of her belonged to another time, and another life. She felt a deep sense of loss for all the things that had been taken away from her. Feeling sorrow rise within her, she threw the pen and the book carelessly on the cold floor of her room. Her mouth was dry. She picked up the cup of coffee that stood on the desk, and took a sip of the bitter liquid that lay fuming inside it. The familiar taste calmed her. For a few moments, it consumed her attention and she took no notice of the question that was forcing itself upon her. She breathed deeply and put the cup away hastily, spilling hot coffee on her hand in the act. She withdrew her hand instinctively and then paused, thinking about what she had just done. The question now presented itself to her: could she do it?

A sharp knife that had been borrowed from the kitchen lay on the desk, beside the coffee. She held her hand over the cup of coffee. The steam dancing above it didn’t feel warm enough. She then placed her fingers on the smooth blade. It was cold. Very cold. A tear rolled down her cheek. She grasped her wrist and rubbed her thumb against her skin. The love for her own flesh weakened her resolve. She felt a pang of fear. She let go of her wrist and drank the remaining coffee.

She gently lifted the cold blade with both hands and placed it on her lap. Nothing happened. The world had already forgotten her. She desperately tried to think of something that would be worth living for; she looked back through the years to search for the ties that bind- there were none. Cold wind slapped her face. It reminded her of the awaiting task. She sat deep in thought, dissecting her fears. Then, she proceeded to understand clearly her intent. She made a decision, and waited in silence. She stood up. Her bare feet touched the pen that she had thrown away a few minutes ago. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and slashed her wrist in a violent movement. The pain washed her grief away. She smiled for the last time as the dead life within her came gushing out.

The Gift

It was a starless night. The crescent moon bathed the Earth’s face in a feeble light. Leela sat lost in thought beneath the black sky, stroking her long hair. Her dark hair flowed down till her waist, draped elegantly over the rags she wore. She loved her hair more than anything else in the world.

She tore her gaze from the black emptiness that stretched above her and turned her attention towards the dilapidated hut that was home to her younger sister, Parvati, and her- their parents had died the previous year in a train accident. Parvati, a 9 year old girl, and Leela, a young girl of 14, were left alone to feed themselves. Their hut was a miserable little thing with mud walls, dirty plastic sheets for roof and no proper floor. It stood on the edge of a slum built near the railway tracks at the outskirts of the city. A strong, repulsive odour emanated at all times from the area.

Leela sighed and went inside the hut to lie down to sleep on a torn bed sheet sprawled across a jagged floor. A train hurried past the tiny settlement, making a deafening noise. The slum-dwellers were used to the sound of trains- they slept on, undisturbed.

Next morning, Leela woke to the smell of kheer. Her sister, Parvati, was busy cooking the Indian dish for her birthday. Leela fetched a piece of stained cloth, the ends of which were tied into a knot; she untied it and counted the money kept inside- too less. Sadness came upon her. She realised that she wouldn’t be able to spend money to buy herself anything for her birthday. With a heavy heart, she picked up her begging bowl and went outside.

Parvati, who was watching everything silently, finished making the kheer and took some out in a bowl. She handed this to Leela, who was standing outside the hut gazing absently at the tracks, and wished her a happy birthday.

“What birthday, ré? Poor people like us do not celebrate such occasions. We have not a single reason to be happy. Why should I celebrate the day on which this miserable life began?” Leela replied.

Parvati stood at the door, holding the bowl full of kheer that her sister had refused to eat. A lone tear raced down her cheek. She stood there for a long time and then, she had an idea. She hurried inside, placed the vessel containing kheer in a damp corner and ran out of the house.

The hot April sun glared down at the dusty Earth. Parvati walked around in search of pieces of cardboard, discarded newspapers and plastic. She collected these in a tattered jute sack. Her bare feet burned whenever they came in contact with the tracks made hot by the unforgiving heat.

The sun crept across the sky and evening came. Parvati returned home exhausted; a mysterious smile was upon her face. She found Leela waiting for her.

“Where were you? I was so worried! Why did you have to stay out so late?” Leela inquired.
“Oh, I fancied a long walk.”
“Come, let’s eat something. You look so tired.”

They had dinner in silence. Later, they sat outside the door of their hut and gazed fondly at the few stars that dotted the sky. Leela was stroking her hair like she always did. Parvati studied the expression on her face- something seemed to be troubling her.

“Parvati, look at my hair. It’s so dirty. Heat and dust have ruined it. I can’t even afford to keep it clean.” Leela said, more to herself than to her sister.

“I have something for you here.” Parvati got up from her place and slipped a small shampoo pouch into her hands. “Happy birthday!”

Leela looked at the gift in her hand. “Thank you, Parvati.” She said, tears streaming down her face. “Is this why you stayed out so late today?”

“Yes.” Her sister replied.

Leela realised then that she did have a reason to celebrate her birthday, after all.

What Sam saw

After four long and dreadful years, a period of utter chaos came upon the earth. The third world war had come to an end, yet its perniciousness had engulfed many hearts in melancholy and had rocked many others, painfully and brutally, to eternal sleep.

The setting sun displayed its kaleidoscopic range of colours in the Western sky before slowly disappearing over the horizon and into the earth’s womb. The stars slowly dotted the evening sky, as the darkness grew within and without.

A blast of cold wind slapped the face of a lithe, tall figure making its way through the corpses littered along the lifeless streets- streets that stretched on and on like a wearisome argument. Some people lay dead; others silently wished for death to put an end to their suffering. A beam of light cutting through the fog illuminated all. The figure passed, shining a torch to light his way.

What he beheld horrified him; it chilled him to the bone. He saw fear, terror, despair and hopelessness, painted on the faces of men, frozen in time. He saw burnt houses, the homeless sprawled on the streets, and orphans weeping. He saw people sitting near wooden barrels, which they had set on fire to warm their cold hearts with. He saw tear-stained faces, and wept. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, washing away the layer of gunpowder.

Sam walked on; his sight fell on dead children near the burnt school building, their faces stained with blood and rolled flesh. He tore his gaze from the horrid scene and looked skyward. Only a few stars were to be seen. The sky was covered with thick clouds of smoke. A chill ran down his spine as another blast of cold wind slapped him.

Sam moved on. A cloud of smoke got blown away by the cold December wind. The full moon threw forth its light. The dead sprawled by the roadside were bathed in the moonlight. He summoned up his remaining energy and flung the gun in his hand into the darkness he was trying to get away from. Is this what he and many like him had brought to pass? Why did they fight? Just because they were told to? It was not in their power to decide whether to fight or not, he thought. He felt something soft beneath his boots and stepped back to look at it. It was a small hand covered in blood and mud. A lone tear raced down his cheek.

The Wise Man

I came upon five quarreling savants in heaven one day. All of them desired to read a particular book, that was written by a forgotten sage aeons ago. They believed that the book would bestow Divine Wisdom on them.

‘Why do you quarrel?’ I inquired. ‘You could all read it one after the other.’

‘You do not understand. Whoever reads it today shall attain wisdom. The words on these pages shall vanish when midnight strikes. There is not Time enough for five of us to read it sequentially.’ The oldest answered.

‘You could share it and read it together, then, or one could read aloud and the others could listen. All shall benefit this way.’ I replied.

‘Do not meddle in such matters that you do not understand.’ One of them replied angrily.

At length, they came to a decision: each was to have two chapters. All would achieve equal Wisdom this way, since the ten chapters in the bookwould be equally divided among the five savants.

Midnight came, and the words vanished from the book. They proclaimed that they had become wise. Then, they held counsels to determine the message that they would pass on to their people. The quarrels started again. Each disagreed with the others.

I listened to their words closely. Each quoted different inferences obtained from the two chapters that he had read. Their Wisdoms were contradictory. Each had a different opinion of the Truth.

* * *

I traveled further, and witnessed a similar scene years later on planet Earth. I saw that men had divided up the land into pieces, which were called nations.

‘Why divide the Earth, when you can all live together?’ I asked someone.

‘The Earth was made to inhabited by humans, but it is not immortal. It shall be destroyed one day, and the day is not far now. Wise men have fought over the issue of who should inhabit the Earth till doomsday.’

‘And what did they decide?’ I inquired eagerly.

‘They decided that for the good of all, the Earth should be split up, and every group shall have a part of it to live in. Thus, the groups shall be distinguished from one another, and rule their own lands. This way, all shall live, and shall have their own part of the Divine Gift.’

* * *

Years later, I met the sage who wrote the book that the five men were quarreling for. I told him about my journey and the events that I had witnessed in my travels.

‘What is the reason behind this foolishness of men, O Wise One? What wisdom do they require?’ I asked.

‘They require the same wisdom that they already possess, but choose to ignore. Just as men cannot achieve knowledge by reading a chapter of a book or by dividing the book among themselves, they cannot live on the Earth in peace if they divide it. It is meant to be shared by them.

‘That book cannot be torn and read, for individual chapters do not offer wisdom. That way, no one would understand the Divine Wisdom. The book is meant to be read as whole. Similarly, the Earth cannot be split into pieces. That way, no one would experience the joy of having the Divine Gift. It was intended to remain as one single planet, not many small nations.’

And, as I contemplated his words, he vanished.

* * *