The Girl - VIII

...after The Final Question

An Epilogue to Chronicles of The Girl

She immersed her face in her palms on her knees and for just this while he knew she was more vulnerable than him…

The seething storm of emotions that she carried, imprisoned within the distracting stillness of her persona had soared to its pinnacle, as she fought herself with all the might she could summon. Apparently, the ferocity was too overwhelming to be restrained any more. It is in moments as these, where our deviously programmed brains find themselves grappling with unprecedented stimuli, for which they have never been customized to yield a rehearsed response, that the purest, most instinctive form of an individual is laid bare. It’s as if you’re The One seeing the Matrix, one bit at a time.

Within the revealing silence that loomed over, shrouding them from the rest of the world, she told more about herself than he could ever have known. When the siege finally receded, the tumultuous emotional commotion had given way to the illusory charm of a familiar smile. Standing before her, a silent beholder to the emotional revelation would be the closest that he would ever be to experiencing time dilation.

Words seemed to evaporate from her lips, leaving behind lonely phrases and useless syllables, painfully insufficient to bridge the gap between mind and tongue- incidentally, the story of his life. In a parallel universe, he would have sat next to her, holding a hand perhaps and in the comfort of silence let the march of time and warmth of touch calm her restless soul. In yet another, he might have dropped on his knees, searched deep into the decapitating infinity of her wonder struck eyes and told her something that she would never forget. In some other…

“I don’t know what to say…” she murmured, running her palms from across her lowered brow, all the way to the back of her head, her unsteady fingers rearranging all the lustrous locks on the way. Then she looked up, the daunting uncertainty writ large on her face over powered only by the hint of a wry smile bordering between innocence and playfulness. Those weren’t exactly the most inferential 6 words. In fact, they lay exactly half way between ‘Yes! You know…’ and ‘No maybe…’ But at least he had something to theorize.

“I can walk you to your hostel, we will never speak a word and keep wondering in awkward amazement and mournful wonder for the rest of our lives as to what went wrong that afternoon…” he suggested, looking deep into her eyes with an uncharacteristic fearlessness.

“Or we could move on…” he reasoned, “…forget about this, at least for a while, in which case we can go for a cup of coffee or something else…” That was not an instinctive response. Those were prepared words that he had chosen with immense caution and great care over a very long time.

They left that moment on the empty bench and walked into the sun. The gentle warmth of the December noon took some time to melt the ice and let all vital signs get back to normal. The walk to the local market was barely noticeable amidst a new realm of conversation and he realized women are the most genuinely curious species on the planet, or so it seemed.

Much to his delight, the gaping seats of the most undeservingly over-priced restaurant on campus longed for companionship. They occupied either sides of one of the lonely tables and a hot frothy round of coffee was served. Being with her there in that moment- with the realization that she knew, at least an abstract of it all- felt more reasonable than anything under the sun, especially those semester finals. It’s truly amusing how we can go about complicating life, blurting all kinds of stuff but not saying the things that we truly want to say.

The warm cup of coffee made steady rounds between the table and her lips, briefly interrupted by a few words. Those deep eyes, now like windows to her soul, seemed busy searching for an elusive something, way below her normal line of sight. She seemed far more composed now, perhaps humbled by the events of the day, but collected. And that was when he found her the most beautiful. Whatever comes their way, whatever happens, for him she will always be The Girl. And with anyone else, if and whenever, it will only be a partial derivative of what it has been with her- far simpler and with lesser power. With that thought, they left the place to its emptiness.

The slow walk on the shadowed road under the canopy of trees was serving a comforting climax to the eventful afternoon. It had turned out to be far more predictable than he had fancied, except for all the emotional turbulence.

“Hey”, she called out, “whatever happens… this doesn’t change”, as they reached her hostel entrance. The soft touch of her fingers in his palm during the generous hand-shake was a stark reminder of the current predicament. He took it as a consolation before seeing her off. With the semester break underway and the ever-extendable hiatus, it might be a long time before they’d see each other now, perhaps even forever. He knew, and had factored it into the scheme of things- maybe it was for the best. A lot had been said but so much still remained- only he knew.

He walked away, replaying and refreshing what could possibly be the last memories of the Girl.

PS: It took her two and a half months to conjure up a reason as to why they weren’t meant to be. It was right out of the opening pages of the first edition of “A Girl’s Handbook for Dumping Proposals”. He could see she was trying hard- her best- to make him feel better, walking besides him through the same shadowed streets where they had last met on that eventful afternoon, the same streets he had come to fancy over time that he’d walk by with the feel of her gentle fingers in his palm, until their long fading shadows would advise them to call it a day.

But perhaps, it was not meant to be. Who can ever know?

You can never make sense of such things in retrospect, joining the dots on their way back. It’s more instantaneous, momentary and subject to transient human whims and fancies. You can’t subject them to the cold judgment that you reserve for the rest of the world, for you don’t deserve a girl for being the hero of your own tale. Such things happen, just as easily as they don’t.

“We accept the love we think we deserve.”

Perhaps, she will always be there, or thereabout, standing between him and anyone he wants to feel for, or against the balance of probability- anyone who feels for him.

BUT most importantly, she will also be a stern reminder of how for just once in his entire life, subliminally, he had allowed himself to be so vulnerable for someone. That may be the only way you can truly experience that treacherous emotion called love, but every hour, every minute and every moment of those months spent playing that day in his head over and over again, will shout and rebuke him for never letting that happen ever again for the remainder of his life.

There are two kinds of people in this world- the loved ones and the ones who tried a little too hard…

Thank God I am an Atheist

"Science and religion are like two sides of a coin. One relies on heads, the other believes in tales."

As a child who was brought up in a traditional Hindu family and taught in a typical convent school, I find myself in a rather dubious predicament here. After all those years of chanting prayers, reciting hymns, seeking blessings and making wishes, it almost feels like being bitten at 99, back to square 1 by the longest reptile on board in the game of snakes and ladders. 

Back then, learning by repetition, we are taught not to ask the questions that matter. Now that the good old days are over, it is time to rock a few boats. Treading on what most would term ‘thin ice’, if I turn out to be particularly clear, you have perhaps misunderstood what I said!

Born and brought up in different ways of life- religion that is to say- all of us possess concepts of faith that are derived out of differing texts and when it comes to matters of the Almighty, we are seldom on the same page. The question therefore- for most of us at least- is not whether or not we believe but WHY do we do. The truth may set you free but first it will piss you off.

Most of us believe in God, the Creator- an all powerful being who would have ‘caused the first cause’ and set things rolling to eternity. But, while religion believes, science doubts. It is so because if the ultimate purpose of this all powerful being was to create intelligent (or arrogant?) beings who can raise such questions, then He couldn’t have done a more inefficient job, for the human race wasn’t even around for 99.9999% of the time elapsed since the moment of creation. Therefore it is fairly reasonable to wonder whether or not He created the universe with a purpose and if so, what? 

People working at the frontiers of physics, perplexed by this revelation, are trying to confirm “God Particle” and are closing in on a model of our universe which is ‘finite but with no boundaries’ i.e. completely self contained, having no beginning or end. Then, as Prof. Stephen Hawking quite mischievously puts it, ‘what place for a Creator’? 

Some others believe in God, the Preserver- an all knowing being who knew apples HAD to fall down and not go up, that Carbon HAD to form long chains and crazy rings and who knew how to write and replicate 3 billion lettered codes, comprising of A, T, C and G- the DNA- with errors less than 0.6%. Is it surprising that we can identify laws governing our universe that never change when we also know that the same universe prefers a state of uncertainty and chaos over determinism and order? After all, there is no logical necessity for it to obey rules. 

But even preservation doesn’t quite seem to rank on top of His list of priorities, for natural forces directed by Him have left extinct 99.9% of all species that have ever lived. It seems that when the answers provided by the likes of Newton and Davy and Darwin seemed too complex or heretic to explain the mess we find ourselves in, we chose to believe someone up there orchestrated all of this in six days (by the spoken command “Let there be…”) and rested on the seventh. 

"God created nature to amuse and confuse the man. Man created philosophy to help God do so."

The laws of science that have been developed over the last 300 years have been able to explain the workings of our universe in all but the most extreme conditions. That is, we have a generally accepted theory of exactly what transpired after the Big Bang. But in the dearth of ideas as to what happened before it and in the lack of strong evidences as to what caused it, this event continues to be regarded as divine intervention or the work of God. 

Therefore, we ought to assume that an all knowing all powerful being chose a set of laws- or in the language of elementary mathematics, some very specific ‘initial and boundary conditions’- that govern our world. But if that is true why he now chooses to abstain himself from intervening in the large and small scale workings of the universe, continues to be a mystery beyond the grasp of my intellect. It’s almost like a referee who patiently chalks out the rules of the game but leaves the arena right after the opening whistle and kick-off (perhaps to enjoy it from a suitable vantage point), never to care enough about the score, the fouls or the result, knowing all the while that somehow the smartest of the players will eventually understand the rules and hopefully learn to play by them!

“You can have all the faith you want. But when it comes to this world don’t be an idiot because you can tell me that you put your faith in God to get through the day, but when it’s time to cross the road, I know you'll look both ways.”

It’s a funny world that we live in today, one that reeks of uncertainty and insanity and is sporadically marred by hatred and terror. So, if it makes some even a teensy bit happy to realize that what they read in their Moral Science texts- that everything happens for the good, that they’re here for a purpose etc- is true, then so be it. That is their belief, a notion of a ‘personal God’, someone they thank every morning and evening, for they believe He ‘gives them their daily bread and forgives them for their sins’. For people who couldn’t care enough, religion is shared belief. And belief is nothing but (unquestionable?) faith in something/someone we trust. Needless to say, it is nonsensical to waste time and energy proving/refuting the existence of something we only believe doesn’t/does exist.

"We are all atheists about most of the Gods humanity has ever believed in. Some of us just go one God further."

It is however, the concept of ‘absolute morality’ of religion that is most deeply disconcerting. Wars have been waged, heretics have been burned and blood has been spilled over centuries whenever religious fanatics blinded by shared delusions of some militant faith have tried to force-feed people their notion of personal God. Was there ever a more horrible blasphemy than to say that all knowledge of good and God is confined in this book or that place of worship? 

Nothing exists in this world apart from atoms and empty space, everything else is opinion. So is good and bad. We create our own demons. What one might consider bad or evil might just turn out to be a different way of life, a radically different way of looking at the same thing. Religion and morality are, and should be, mutually exclusive things- two uncorrelated random variables. Remember- we create our own demons.

I don’t believe in God but I’m afraid of him. Perhaps, in our whim of ignorance and arrogance, we have all been blinded or as Amish said ‘…we beheld gods in what were great men of the past, for we believe that such great men couldn’t possibly have existed in reality. We see magic in what was brilliant science, for our limited intellect cannot understand that great knowledge. We retain only rituals of what were deep philosophies, for it took courage and confidence to ask questions. We divined myths in what was really history, for true memories have all been forgotten’.

Perhaps He has laid all the signs of His existence all around us in The Matrix or within the enormous bounties of nature and is patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper- placing the question of His existence squarely before us all. Perhaps we are not human beings who have a spiritual experience but spiritual beings who have a human experience. Perhaps the only difference between you and God is that you have forgotten you are divine.

"Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother."

I find it fitting to borrow the words of Robert Langdon- “Science tells me God must exist. My mind tells me I’ll never understand God. And my heart tells me I’m not meant to.”

The Girl - VII

The Final Question

The caring warmth of the afternoon sun chasing the distant horizon seemed almost as surreal as the mildly stimulating embraces of the December breeze. The unearthly silence of the most abused street asymptote to the local market, the fortunate yet suspicious absence of civilization, but above all the overpowering magnetism of the girl, almost characterized his most intimately cherished dreams.

It was an aura of musical silence, when an unselfconscious touching of the forefingers would ruffle the alchemy of attraction, as if yearning to evolve into that invigorating sensation of contact poets call ‘romantic’. The feeling of her-charming-self walking beside him was, for all he knew, ‘Nirvanic’. Capitalizing on the graceful setting he had so tried- and destiny contrived- to accomplish, he knew it was time…

Last Night
Had it not been for the blissful silence in his wrecked hostel room two nights after the last semester final, the calming company of solitude which was Vitamin D to him, the comfortably numbing chill of the invading winters and of course for the ‘chance blessings of causality’ he so loved to call ‘signs’, he would perhaps never have managed to muster up enough courage to compile the 4 kb text message that now flashed on his cellular phone-

‘You free tomorrow? Can we meet? Any time.’

It had taken him 6 edits, 4 recursive reconsiderations, 2 spell checks and what seemed like an eternity to set the SMS to the precise point on a scale calibrated between ‘a casual encounter’ and ‘downright desperation’- working with just 26 alphabets can be tricky sometimes. His left thumb hovered over the ‘Send’ button as if possessed by those Gods of love he had never believed in. Few minutes later the questions were a stream of electromagnetic waves, bouncing off the nearest cellular tower to the intended destination.

Nearly all his friends had already rid themselves of the place and there was little reason for him, or The Girl, to still be there and yet now he knew there was nowhere else he’d rather be or no one else he’d rather be with. Perhaps the universe does conspire…

‘Yeah, sure. 11:30?’ she replied. Everything seems longer when you’re waiting for it.

‘Fine by me. See you tomorrow then. Good night.’ The way to a girl’s heart is indeed through her mobile. He mentally checked Step 1 of his Getting the Girl user manual.

12 hours from now he’d know exactly what he’d brought upon himself.

Morning
Moments leading up to the afternoon were surprisingly comforting. Maybe it was because he had always programmed himself to accept any possible response. Human mind is an amazing thing- regret, grief, despair, pain- it forgets almost everything, so you can go out and have some more.

At 11:20 he was headed to the meeting point.

Everything in the universe seemed like a blur against a constant foreground- her. He would find her in a stranger’s voice, in a sudden laughter somewhere, a phrase, a scent, a song, everywhere. Poets wrote about this, and singers sang about it and perhaps it was real, perhaps it existed. Who can ever know? They said love needed some falling and he was afraid of heights.

He saw her coming and instinctively realized he hadn’t seen a mirror that morning. By the time they met, he regretted it. She had deep soulful eyes and long hair that cascaded over her shoulders in countless ringlets, an infectious smile accentuating her loveliness. A long winter jacket enveloped her lissom form. There was that usual dignity about her he found appealing, sometimes appalling. Before her he looked like a leprous troll.

It took him a while to reboot couple of his crashed senses and by then she was already talking. Spellbound, and mentally preoccupied, there was nothing he could have added to prolong the conversation. Small talks was a social exercise he did not possess the stamina for.

‘There is something I need to say. Can we sit?’ he somehow managed.

She seemed pleasantly surprised by the interruption and followed him across the road to a desolate bench. He wasn’t sure she possessed the knees required to hear what he had in his mind and the uncomfortable silence that loomed over for the next few moments probably gave it all away.

So she sat beside him with that characteristic aristocratic grace, resting an elbow over her crossed legs and hiding a hint of a smile by the forefingers of the palm which gently held her chin, as if ready for the story. You should see how beautiful (and intimidating) women look when they are quietly expecting you to talk. He was moved by the sheer poetry of her face but as mercury boiled out of his emotional thermometer, he started making sense after a few gibberish syllables.

He had always believed that, statistically speaking, out of a zillion possible permutations of words in the English language, there did exist one which exactly encapsulated all that he wanted to tell her that day. One that could cause sentimental inductance and make her resonate at the same emotional frequency. Something he could say that she would remember for the rest of her life. But that perfect proposal is only for the movies. Guys like him always have to manage. So, what followed was the most unsophisticated prose but he meant it more than she knew, in case that matters.

At first it did seem like a story, one of that hopeless sentiment people call 'love', and she listened intently. But as more astounding subjects and predicates came up, the girl realised. She buried her face in her palms on her knees and for just this while he knew she was more vulnerable than him. For just this while he did not have to plan conversations in his head he would never end up having.

He left nothing for a tomorrow that he knew might never come.

The Evening
The bulky guy seated next to him was rocked back from sleep as the rickety Roadways bus hit another bump on the Martian road. He pulled out his cell phone as he adjusted the spectacles on his nose- no new messages. He slid the useless device back into his pocket. The guy was on the ‘home’ run.

His familiarity to the concepts of courtship was no more than a Kardashian’s understanding of Relativity. He just wished he had ‘perspectacles’, glasses which could have helped him see her perspective of things, especially him, for there was no reference frame for him to judge how well the events of the day had transpired. He had never met someone he thought was unworthy enough to be his girl.

But he no longer cared.

He knew he felt more content than anyone with a pulse and for him it was enough. It wasn’t the happiness he felt when he aced a pre-final once upon eternity or the relief he experienced while reading the SMS- “Your account has been credited with INR 3000…”- at the end of every month. It was different, more permanent and ethereal, whatever that means.

In hindsight, all the hiatus about the girl felt like an extrapolation of emotions. Reveling in the thrill of an infatuation is fine, craving for it as a momentary distraction- also acceptable. But emotion is a dangerous investment and an impediment to effective thought, with an incredibly simple but very destructive chemistry. Nature just has a peculiar way of denying what you want the most until you no longer crave for it anymore.

Or is it?

Only time will tell.

The Girl - VII

The Girl - VI

Reflections

“You what!” the fever pitched exclamation from across caused all nearest neighbors to skip a morsel at the dinner table, even as he watched the puddle of paneer-soaked rice drip off the guy’s spoon.

“It was an application for Prof Shastri…”, he replied humbly, several scales down on volume and tempo, amidst growing reassurances that only his best friend was privy to the little secret.

“You of all people running errands for some girl on a Sunday afternoon! Who would have thought Mr. Rainman would ever become the Mailman?” unacknowledged sarcasm drenched his voice.

“It was a one-time thing and you don’t know the first word about her”, he exclaimed pushing his unfinished plate away. Lately he thought neither did he but he needed a strong sentiment to leave a rare consumable meal at the hostel mess. Quickly devouring the paneers he had saved for last, the concerned friend followed.

“Oh really, like the one-time you compromised your no-lending-policy for novels for her. Or like the one-time you missed the Sachin 100 when you were busy finding your way to the college canteen just to fetch her misplaced umbrella! This new brand of your love-infested-insanity is sickening you, and to what use, you can’t even talk to her on the phone!” he said before slurping up water and gurgling out the last bits of rice into the sink. “Disgrace to brotherhood”, he grimaced wiping his lips, not allowing his friend and room-mate to get away as often.

“It’s better than how you make it sound in ways I can’t explain. Besides what’s wrong in helping a friend. I would have done no less for you” he tried to defend, as they reached the common room where the latest Bollywood chartbuster playing in the old TV set had gripped the short-lived attention span of the gaping engineers cum budding movie buffs.

“Nothing, but I would never sweet-talk you into spoiling a Sunday just so I can have the easy way” he reasoned. “Listen- Friendzone is the shittiest place a girl can put a guy in. It’s on the You-are-so-special Avenue right by the Feels-like-love lane but you’ll never see the No-Entry crossing, and beyond that is absolute curfew. So you admire her curves on the first introduction but wait till later meetings show up new angles.” This time the thought guided word-play was spot on. “See, I got to rush for this class now”, he said mounting a hand on his shoulder, “but remember- living with a broken heart isn’t dramatic. It makes you look like a douche, a big sick douche”. 

He spoke with an unwavering tenacity he thought his friend could never possess. For a moment he felt like Siddharth under the Bodhi tree, gaping at the old TV set, looking at the trepidation of the singing hero who was playing a rockstar caught between fame, alcohol and his girl in the latest blockbuster that had redefined love for the entire country- suicide. For a moment he felt like him- minus the fame- before an inspired sense of revulsion carried him out of the place- What a douche. Singing in the rain isn’t romantic. It makes you look like a douche, a wet cold douche.

It wasn’t often, lately, that he had experienced a heightened sense of well-being despite the girl or her soul sucking-nerve wrecking apathy to the numerous custom-made text messages he had so out-believed himself to send her or the heart stopping-mind numbing indifference she showed at times when he went out of his way just to catch a glimpse. But she was a woman, she had the right to change her mind, any-freakin-time.

He unlocked his room and lied down on his bed, staring above at the old ceiling fan doing useless rounds, as if relentlessly chasing the air that never so much as cared. ‘How am I any different?’. Her face, her smile and her words emanated from an empty corner of his brain and ricocheted off of his mind. Meditation is hokum. The thoughtlessness that followed was bliss. 

No one grows up with a right to be loved. It's a privilege you earn for yourself. It doesn't come naturally. You earn it. And very often, love comes. And love goes. And love comes back. And goes again. And so on.

For just this while, he could ease her out of his conscious and truly let go. For just this while, it was enlightenment in progress.

The Girl - VII

His Last Bow

It was late February 2010, and for a conventional intermediate and engineering aspirant who has spent the entire year waiting for the seventh-chime-on-a-blue-moon-on-the-day-after-tomorrow to start studying, it is a prolonged period of intellectual penance. A time when, as a five-point-someone has rightly stated, you are supposed to ‘lock yourself in a room full of books and throw away the keys’.

But when the only un-animated superhero of your childhood is beating the living daylights out of the Proteas- just a few cover drives shy of a score experts had believed to be in the realms of sports fiction- you will hold your pee to watch Him get there. Jersey No. 10 had walked into a little known stadium in Gwalior on a Wednesday and 3 hours later the entire nation was in obeisance of ‘He who had come when God wanted to play cricket’. Sachin Tendulkar had smashed a double hundred in a one day international and somewhere at an obscure village of an unheard place in a trivial town, a ‘disobedient reckless’ son had picked up a fight with his parents.

It hasn’t sunk in yet- the news that there will be cricket without Sachin. The very little thoughts of it that came from some deep crevice of a dark corner of an empty recess of your mind, when you saw the Masters of the Game like Lara, Ponting and Dravid hang up their boots, were vehemently quelled at that very instant. You could not help but see it coming when the authoritative pulls were gradually replaced by the less reflexive upper cuts, when lately the nuke-resistant forward defense was compromised by a seaming in-swinger and whenever He was dismissed Leg Before Wicket attempting to play that vintage flick of the pads through mid-wicket, we all believed He could play even with a walking stick. Yet, the thought of having someone else at No.4 was utterly preposterous.

I should not try to commit the blasphemy of trying to encapsulate the Master’s Odyssey in a few lame words. But now that an age has come to an end, you cannot help but cherish all the little moments of an illustrious saga, one that will never be chanted again. For this is the story of the bashful kid who had smashed 664 runs with Kambli at an age when we watched Pokemon, the iron willed youngster who chose to bat with a bleeding nose against the most grueling bowling attack ever assembled, at an age when we struggle with differential calculus and the unflinching cricketer who single handedly denied victory to a formidable English side as He batted His way to His first international century in England, at an age when Facebook and WhatsApp are all we care for. We have all spent 18-22 years trying to figure out what we really want to do in life. This man has spent more time giving most of us an answer for the same!

He remains the only link to our childhood, when we would rush to our homes at 2:30 right after school so we could not miss the sight of Sachin taking guard for India in a day-night game. Those were times when a Tendulkar poster was a priceless asset and an MRF bat, the perfect birthday gift. Hours were spent mimicking His stance before the mirror and many a meal and little ceremonies fast-forwarded. Each of His run was our accomplishment, His dismissal an agony. Each of His hundred was a national achievement and every half century, 50 short of perfection. Countless 6s have made us leap out of our chairs and hearts have sunk like rocks when they were caught in the deep. We’ve reveled in the immaculate straight drive, marveled at the dexterous cover drive and been awed by the leg glance. His treacherous Googlies fooling stalwarts have given us highs and the ‘nervous 90s’ made us feel like pulling our hair out. The unparalleled euphoria on His arrival and the mind-numbing silence of His dismissal are emotions that made Cricket more than just a sport and Sachin more than just a legend.

Sportsmen have played ball games, amassed huge fortunes, made big names, and set amazing feats but no one’s quite managed to capture the imagination of an entire nation or inspire a whole generation like the master blaster. Football players abuse and squabble over fouls. They have crossed lines, even head-butted on high spirits and been subjects of controversy off the field. Athletes have cheated their fans bringing disgrace to their sports. Tennis stars have vented off their anger on the court. Golfers have been accused of infidelity and cyclists been part of scandalous revelations years after they were crowned legends. But it is the sheer poise and composure on the field and humility and respect for the sport outside the 22 yards, which this man has shown, that makes Him a true champion.

We are privileged to have been born at a time when we could watch Him while we grew up. If we could imbibe even a fraction of the unwavering tenacity and absolute passion that He has exhibited for the past 24 years, we can accomplish much more than we ever thought we could. We have had champions, we have had legends, but we have never had another Sachin Tendulkar and we never will. To paraphrase what wiser men have said before-

We thank you from the bottom of our hearts for allowing us to breathe the same air as you do. You were a great habit.

The Girl - V

"Let’s move downstairs", she commanded emphatically, reaching him at the table. The library had a reading room engineered below ground level, almost like an enlarged basement. It was second on his list of favourite hanging out spots in the campus. Her smile increased her beauty exponentially. He obeyed. The specky guy and wretched girl seated on either side looked on as if they'd been robbed.

He was the kind who didn’t spend a day of life without a plan but yet the choice of seating was absolutely arbitrary. It was that usual aura about her and more, something that consumed him like a spell. It wasn’t just an intoxicating scent she was wearing, a hallucinogen of sorts. He made a mental note to fetch himself one of those.

"How could someone get a freaking 20 in this!” she demanded sitting next to him, visibly awed. Then, it dawned upon him. With the pre finals round the corner, being one of only 3 guys in a batch of 78 to manage a perfect figure in one of the most obnoxious tests, sure has its perks.

"I like the subject", he said, opening the copy she'd brought along, ensuring he did not sound condescending.

"I hope 1 and 2 won't be a problem?” he asked, scanning the questions he'd revised again last night, waiting for her to confirm. Apart from the clerk at the far end of the hall and a few students on the 1st floor, there was no one in sight.

She'd clipped her long, smooth hair behind, carefully leaving a few free on the front. It was a subtle change of grooming from the last time. Sooner or later some wisps of those would slide across her face and before her eyes as if they had a life of their own. She would tuck them behind her ears in one fluid twitch of the fingers, alternating between right and left hand. How she could manage to do that over and over again and still look lovely was utterly beyond him. His own hair never obeyed him half an hour after a bath.

"Fine..." she replied.

He went on to scribble the remaining 4 questions, talking more to the copy than her, inquiring in between questions if she'd followed. She looked utterly flawless, even at the least distance of distinct vision- gentle eyes, tender hands and a compelling voice. At times, she lunged forward to whisper something and it was an effort for him to keep his pulse under control. Talking to her looking into her eyes was still an exercise he had to learn to master.

By 12, it was over.

They climbed upstairs, walked past the silent lobby and out into the world. With books back into her bag, she transformed into a radically different creature- herself.

"Thanks for that! Will treat you to an ice-cream if I score more than Aditi."

That's the girl who sits right under the Professor’s nose each lecture, who looks strange without books and with a smile- a 'notes bank' for the entire class during exams.

"Tough deal that", he struggled to make conversation, as often.

It felt miserably peculiar trying to walk way slower than he was used to, to match her pace. He glanced at her feet which seemed as if they'd never touched ground. He felt guilty for not having bathed for the past 72 hours. It seemed in no time that they reached the cycle stands outside the college building. A lecture for a minute and it seems like an hour, an hour with a pretty girl and it seems like minute- relativity’s a bitch!

"Cya tomorrow then", she said pulling out her ride and hopping on.

"Tell Aditi to skip the exam", he teased as she cycled away.

"Yeah, and go for her 'make up'!", she yelled, laughing aloud as the 2 wheels gained momentum.

He watched her ride away and turned. It was hot and the temperamental wind swiped off withered leaves off the empty road before him as the calming comfort of solitude was back. Perhaps he was straying into uncharted territories. It was the age old battle between heart and the mind which seldom wanted the same thing and allowing the former to override the latter was not in his scheme of things.

'Falling in love is like sleeping in a lecture', he recalled, 'you were not supposed to, but you did...'

The Girl - VI

Facism

I speak of the snakes which world abound,

And hollow carcasses that roam around.

Of spineless imposters, the world anoints,

The worthless pretenders and deception points.

You thought I was quiet and I'd never see,

That you think you're someone you can never be.

In my mortgaged silence you found your way,

I knew was quiet, there was a lot to say.

For you I was meek, o yes your grace!

But I'd given you a mask to reveal your face.

I thought I could spare you to check your stance,

But it ain't no morality, giving you a chance.

  

Never trust things that you think are weak,

They can wake-up to life when they bleed for a week.

The time they wait only spares you longer,

What hadn't killed then, had made them stronger.

It was by design- the safe and the keys,

Like the nickel in your hand and the brace on your knees.

I've caught you today, all scared and black,

Why run away now all scarred on your back?

Now stop blessing me, hiding knives or dagger,

Or patronising me with (un)saintly swagger.

For I’ll snatch that blade and rip you apart,

Not knowing the mercy you've seen so far,

Then the truth unleashed from your empty womb,

Shall be set free soon when it seals your tomb.

All will be revealed in this wilderness,

The darkness within the dark emptiness.

  

So as silence kills the yarns of your yells,

On your final descent into the chasms of hell,

And as your heart is squeezed as though its lime,

So you can watch it stop in the nick of time,

That'll be the history and the end of your race,

And the start of my search for the next Two-Face!

The Girl - IV

The spectacled guy seated 3 arms distance to his left, made notes voraciously. The morbid girl, who sat at the same distance to his right, now seemed immersed in the day's newspaper since time immemorial, a time-independent sullen expression smeared on her face. The middle aged clerks sat at their respective places behind the counter, minding their own business, least bothered about anything beyond the perimeter of their chairs.

The sound of the old ceiling fans, the occasional flipping of pages and footsteps of trespassers, periodically broke the eerie silence that descended on the main lobby. He glanced again at the clock that hung atop the entrance. He fancied he saw it smile at him- 11:10 AM. Why not? He was supposed to meet her in the most deserted place in the university- the library.

"I'd need help with the 4th assignment sheet..."

"Let me see..."

"I haven't really started. I guess we could solve it together sometime... Library... Tomorrow? 11?"

He only heard the word 'together'.

"Eh... Sure. Free after 11."

"11 it is", she said hopping on to her cycle.

That was 19 hours ago. Since then, he'd spent an enormous amount of time wondering at her intention behind this seemingly suggestive rendezvous. Sentiments and primitive biological urges had prevented him from arriving at any conclusions. He was too puzzled to draw any. Only a human mind could invent something as insipid as love.

Although the exploits of the Sunday gone by, should have been evidence against the case of ‘The Woman in Black’, ‘Shakespeare in Love’ persistently chose to ignore the signs. But denial, Psychology suggests it is some sort of a weird mental condition- reluctance to reconcile with reality. It is also the most predictable of all human responses.

Meanwhile, 10 minutes had started seeming like eternity. He hated to wait, particularly in anxiety, which was one reason why he preferred crashing into an exam hall as late as safely possible. 'The Girl' was making him anxious like never before, even more than he'd felt in his 2nd attempt at JEE.

The next time he glanced up, she was there- finally. Few more minutes and he'd almost have started hyperventilating. A small side bag, whose strap ran from her right shoulder to down left, followed her on her back, adding vastly to her casual attire. Her strides were fluid but measured- every part of her lissom form moving in such perfect harmony and clockwork precision- enough to teleport you to an alternate reality with scintillating winds and a background score of violins and saxophones.

The crimson top over fitting jeans gave her the geometry of women sculptors chisel into statues and artists brush onto portraits. She was beautiful and 15 minutes late. He wanted to complain. But all that anxiety had somehow instantly dissolved in her cherubic form. She raised her tender hands waving ‘Hi’ with such supreme grace and feminine austerity, even the yester-year’s Dreamgirl would’ve been jealous.

He could’ve bet several eye-brows must have been raised as the exotic specimen of physical perfection made way across the empty lobby to the boy, no-one by now knew existed in that space-time...

(to be contd...)

The Girl - V

Vagabonds of Punterland - I

Initiation

Standing in the testosterone charged 10×10 cubicle now seemed like an arduous exercise.  His slender neck, making an obtuse angle with his aching back, gave excruciating pain as it was becoming exceedingly impossible to keep eyes glued to his 3rd shirt button- head bowed before them in a gesture of eternal submission and perpetual servitude.

People and noises enveloped him and he’d always had this condition- claustrophobia- a mutation gone haywire perhaps. Reserved as a duck as he was, talking or walking a way out of people and situations gone bad was a trait he’d always desired more than an Adamantium transplant.

43 hours ago, this walking paraphernalia of social awkwardness had arrived at this place, knowing he would make a great engineer. He had no idea his first lesson after school would be the toughest among all to follow.

The pile of consumed smoke buds in one corner of the room made him feel he was amidst the Costellos and Al Capones of India. The walls- as much as he could observe- had been turned into a canvas for what seemed like dark arts, wherever they weren’t marred with stuff that you’d normally come across in public toilets.

As a clueless newbie stranded in this savagely customized place with 16 eyeballs glued to his startled form, ready to mutilate him at the fall of a hat, he would never feel more sorry for having fallen on the earth one-freaking-year after some random citizens.

He had learnt why electrons passing through 2 closely placed slits behaved both as particles and waves or what the odds of 2 people in a room of 100 having the same D.O.B were. But for the still unrefined renditions of Chaos Theory dealing with dynamical systems depending on initial conditions, a lot more complex than multivariable differential calculus and probability theory was the unfathomably labyrinthine subject, way beyond the reaches of functions and equations and far more complicated than anything under the sun- basic human nature.

He could not comprehend their vocabulary, periodically marred by swear words he’d never heard before. What he did know however, was that for some reason, they despised him. His bizarre introduction, a horrible attempt at singing and a pathetic stint at dance had fetched him neither sympathy nor relief.

The decibel level in the room had now soared to intimidating proportions. The dense translucent cloud of Goldflake fumes clogging the ill-ventilated space had started challenging his pulmonary capabilities.

His favourite Puma belt hung on his sunken neck and he’d lost his Denim jacket to the clumsy brat on extreme left. One more ‘silly mistake’ and his Levis jeans would be the property of the Hulkian guy at the centre- the alpha male.

Poor short term memory made worse by the horror, served him ill and he had failed to recite their names in the correct order, yet again.  Nor had he been able to memorize even one of the 6 ‘formats’ he was being taught by them, ones which every freshman was supposed to learn in such interactive sessions as a part of the place’s misplaced notions of culture and legacy.

Impromptu oral oriented mental abuse is a lot like prison- the first few minutes are the hardest and it’s tough to reconcile with reality because faces bite you. Then there comes the pain and it’s not physical (well, not entirely) but worse, that of the spirit- the very substance that you’re made up of. In the hitherto continuum of life, then comes a point of discontinuity where you got to make a choice as to what kind of an individual you want to be. And it totally depends on what you are willing to compromise to not lose what you stand for.

This moment will agitate the deepest recesses of your soul; those you never knew existed. Irrespective of the choice, very soon there will be a point where you’ve had enough and nothing makes a difference anymore, for you are a different man now. Faces intimidate you no longer because you’ve seen yourself, your Tyler Durden, in one of them and you’ll never forget it. 

You don’t care about the end for it’s merely an aberration. You’ve learnt the greatest lesson of your life- it is only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything. Now, you look like you wanted to look, you talk like you wanted to talk and most importantly, you're free in all the ways you were not. Then, and only then, redemption is bliss.

25 minutes later, his shirt lay close-by, soiled. The Levis was bundled in one small heap at his feet. His Ray ban specs adorned the broken dustbin. And after seeing what it had gone through, he was sure he would not put on the Puma again for quite some time.

They had reduced him to the bare minimum, breaking first his body and subsequently, his spirit. The new mouse was still far from learning the old clicks that you require to save your grace at this place.

He would’ve run the best 100 m of his life as he sped out of their deathly hallows into the open. When his lungs finally met respite and the perspiration on his body felt cool, he was back to where he belonged, exhausted and abused.

Back to his senses, he could only recall the one wrong turn and the words with which all of this had started- “Oye! First Year…”

Vagabonds of Punterland - II

Aakhir Queue?

On a fine afternoon at home one day, I was at the public square anticipating my chance behind the Gas supply vehicle. 30 odd people across all age groups had put their daily chores on stand-by and assembled behind the much awaited lorry. The count was well beyond 50 the last time this vehicle had invaded the geography, almost making the vendor and his 3 ‘vassals’ instant kings without kingdom. They came from everywhere with empty cylinders loaded on their shoulders, scooters, bikes- unfailingly, first and foremost trying their luck at the fore end of the some sort of a staggered queue that had formed at that place, only to be informed by the vendor and rebuked by the people- “Kahan? Line lagao bhaiyya”. They’d then sniff for a chance all along the ‘line’, searching for a Pappu (read ‘acquaintance’) who’d adjust him with himself, before finally ‘sedimenting’ to their place at the bottom. This went on like a ritual.

At that juncture, I could not help recall the numerous escapades at my hostel mess queue in our first year. Dozens of starved denizens clamoring for space, close packed before the counter that held the day’s nutrients- fitting, fighting, struggling, grabbing, dodging and finally evading. Those who managed to get their plates, (without spilling its contents in an inmate’s pocket) took a seat to savor the day’s entertainment- watching others repeat the feat.  “This should be declared a sport”, would remark my friend, gesturing to the mob that would ravage the plate that would get replenished and robbed of rotis in precise spans of 300 and 3 seconds respectively. And if ‘special appetizers’ were on the menu, the pandemonium would drift to the other side of the counter as well, making the poor man who sat there and made accounts every day wielding pen and papers, seem helpless, lost and pitiable.

The scene barely got better in second year. Perhaps a misplaced sense of seniority imbued in people some sense of lining up. But there did exist a class of people, with their body mass exceeding their IQ, who consistently tend to warp, curve and disturb the local gravitational field, making others waste up to 40 minutes in the mess merely for the routine task of stuffing their stomachs.

India is a jam packed, resource starved nation of the busy and reckless middle class. So this seems the order of the day at banks, post offices, hospitals and other places where you got to wait for your turn and people seem to be taking Amitabh’s on-screen words- “Hum jahan khade ho jate hain, line wahin se shuru hoti hai…”, a little too seriously. Anxiety and restlessness often get the better of us and no one wants to be ‘a decent man in an indecent time’. Or it’s just the hurry to finish off and get our ass out of the mess. And just when we feel we’ve done good enough, in comes a distraction, marching straight to the counter, with some sifarish- inspiring disdain.

“Introduce a little anarchy, upset the established order and everything becomes CHAOS”

We’ve come across such Jugaad several times and felt cheated.

Sure, we need some ‘free energy’ to create order out of this chaos, and patience and the habit of queuing up do not come to us naturally. But these are traits we can acquire. Instead of behaving like headless chickens, we can show some common sense (which, these days, is not so common) to ensure things proceed amicably. This virtual rush and hurry, then makes us resort to malpractices like bribery, nepotism and lawlessness. How many times have we heard incidents of mob clashes at public places, stampedes near temples, adrenaline charged fans and violent protesters on a rampage and other such avoidable mishaps, causing valuable property to be ‘Destroyed in Seconds’, where a little planning and organization could have saved lives?

It’s a small thing indeed, but promises to make a substantial difference. ‘Everybody seems to have a clear idea of how other people should live their lives, but none about his/her own’. The age of revolutions is far behind us. Today it is only by such petty practices of self-tutoring, self-discipline and self-control that we can hope to wrought desirable changes at our homes, in our society and the nation at large.