S/HE

The sun was setting. It was a red and orange sky. But soon black would take over and it would be dark. Dark for some hours before the sun returned from its sabbatical. Everyone needs a break. Well almost everyone. But not your heart, not your mind – no, they need to work all the time. Even when we are deep in slumber or dreaming wide eyed. For if they stopped, we would stop. So they work night and day without complaining for they know stopping once means stopping forever. Life would never give them a second chance. We must keep our hearts healthy and our brains sound. This was a good conclusion. But she felt she should hurry now for she was standing on the banks of Yamuna river and foul stench filled her lungs. Staying there for few more moments would anyway mean death irrespective of however hard the heart and the brain tried. Over the years the Yamuna had got reduced to a mere drain of black filth discarded by the city of Delhi. This black glowed in the red of the day’s last light. Very soon black would prevail.

She walked away from the bank. She walked to the road and hired a rickshaw.

“Where to?” – asked the driver.

“Connaught place. How much?” Better to negotiate the fair beforehand, she thought or Delhi rickshaw drivers could loot you.

“Seventy rupees and not a penny less.” 

“But I paid sixty just yesterday.” She had no idea of the fare anyway.

“I don’t deny that. You would have paid it, but it is getting dark. We don’t get customers on the return trip.” People could justify things easily.

Fair enough, she thought.

“OK just make it quick. I am in bit of a hurry.”

Delhi was as busy as always - lights and billboards and people. The air smelt better gradually and soon the stench was gone. Delhi air had definitely become better in recent years. They now used compressed natural gas or CNG as fuel. Every mode of public and private transport was running of CNG. There were more trees too. But today the stench remains in her nostrils. The streets, shops and landmarks zoomed past her as the scene got blurred and mixed. The auto rickshaw driver was playing a hit and groovy Bollywood number. At times the only emotion you feel is numbness and a strong desire to throw up.

Cool fresh air is what doctors always recommend. It does a lot good to you. She felt better when she got out of the rickshaw. Seventy rupees were paid in haste. She definitely looked as if in a great hurry. Showrooms zoomed past one after another. It was this apparel store and that one. Garments were picked up at random and then put down. Thus she walked and kept walking. There was the Mercedes showroom by which she stopped and watched for a minute or two, and then shifted her gaze away. Her cell phone was ringing but she cared the least about it. The message beeps interspersed with phone calls created some kind of stupid music and made fellow pedestrians stare, but oblivious to the accompanying cacophony she walked. The multiplex was showing five movies all at the same time. Movies changed as often as we changed sheets or at times relationships.

With time the streets got less crowded, then lonelier and then deserted. A girl walking alone at night attracts attention and much less of the good kind. And the state in which she was, attention was inevitable. The sound of metal catches her attention. She looks up to see a shutter coming down. She looks around to find fewer humans than were enough to get lost in; fewer shops to walk in and walk out. She could also spot the only rickshaw, enough to carry her away. The cold night air gushed past her. It moistened her eyes and then dried them too. She wasn’t wearing any warm clothes and didn’t even carry her stole, but felt nothing as the shivered. Outside one dark shape merged with another with steaks of light in between. Everything got mixed up. In gushes of cold air she could hardly find enough breath. Outside was like vacuum. Inside too was a vacuum.

The keys lay under the doormat safe as ever. The apartment looked exactly the same as she had left it. A bottle of vodka, uncapped and half empty waited in silence, as the air smelt of it. The cushions lay on the floor and there was a colony of ants all around it. She had spilled coke on them. Rest of the scene looked usual.

One could be happy in love, one could feel nice but they in love were hilarious. She was a happy-go-lucky kind of a girl who found the city apt for her exploits. She had been in to relationships, one too many. None lasted even for a month and she was fed up of jerks, all landing in her way but none suiting her palate. He was usually quiet and unusually talented. They had known each other for as long as they had known Delhi. They had occupied apartments opposite each other. She studied literature while he pursued fine arts. Your subjects always reflect in your persona. She was effervescent, moody and quirky with a clumsy sense of humor, while he was calm, patient and stable. What started as a few occasional good mornings gradually ended up in bewitching mornings after some steamy nights. You place or mine didn’t matter. It was like perfection and they set about improving it. Someone did develop a sense of humor and someone got responsible. He left her notes all over the place with funny clues which invariably revealed her either in charcoal or oil on canvas or water color. It looked as if he would fill the whole apartment with her only. She adored the walls in all her versatile moods. It was poetry sans words.

She discovered she could sleep sound and get up before it was ten. And that all men were not jerks, though vice-versa still remained true. It was all very nice. They went to movies like every couple but they also went to exhibitions and poetry readings. None understood the other’s craft much but none the less appreciated it. She had never felt so secure in anybody’s arms. And for him, she was his world.

It became better still with each passing day. They worried about nothing- not the future, not their families, nothing that could interrupt. It was fun and very enchanting, almost intoxicating. But for her, she seemed to start getting lost. She could not stand this perfection. Somehow it started getting boring for her. How could someone bind flowing water? A lioness in the city remained just that- a lioness, sedated for a while but intrinsically wild. She could feel it all fading away for no reason she could explain, but deep within she knew it would not last. He on the other hand was making the most of everything. Life for him had changed for better in so many ways. A loner had a girlfriend and the image of her beautiful face hardly let his feet fall on the ground. He was very happy oblivious of all that was churning in the mind of his beloved. He thought he could read her eyes, but the eyes that revealed could also conceal.

That was a wonderful evening. Wonderful for it was Friday, and the cushions seemed extra soft. In the dim light of the candles and the mild and sweet smelling flowers, the apartment looked pleasantly different. He looked at her in charcoal, oil on canvas and water color. She smiled at him in color and in the rich black of charcoal. He could feel her around him. In a few moments she would arrive. He waited in silence with her on the walls, in his heart. The dials moved with care and caution for the coming moments required vigil as time could sense what awaited it.

The door opened with the usual little creak. A pair of sandals walked in carrying in them weary legs; weary not of work but of contemplation. The eyes that tried hard to see reason in thought and action looked around at the dimly lit ambience as it met another gaze; a gaze of love and welcome and hands that prepared her drink – vodka with coke. One hand extended the drink while the other took it – one that was warm and the one that was cold. A pair of eyes that were once deep enough for him to sneak a peek in to her heart seemed frozen. He could sense it now. The smiles in charcoal, oil on canvas and watercolor looked different. He could  now feel what the dials knew. He felt betrayed and was mad at them, but realized that they were only adhering to her will. Now only a verbal sentence was awaited. He could feel the noose tightening, his feet struggling, eyes popping out and his tongue wriggling. The smiles in charcoal, oil on canvas and water color now looked evil and deathly. He felt cornered and helpless.

There was no reason, no complaints, nothing. There was no explanation and very few words. He knew it was over. How could someone walk out just like that? She did not love him anymore. He stood there like stone not knowing what to do. Those crowding around them with the vicious smiles offered no help. The black of charcoal as if darkened their souls and the love got colored in a way that it no longer remained love; just colorful moments of the past. Years down the line he would tell about her to his grandchildren - tales of a girl of unsurpassed beauty who stole his heart only to murder it later; false hopes of a life that was never to be. In her eyes he saw nothing; no sign of love that should have lasted years, rather forever. After standing there for what seemed like millennia, he finally left. A lifetime had just been cut short, a story terminated abruptly.

She sat in the dimly lit apartment soaking in someone’s love surrounded by her in charcoal, oil on canvas and water color as if she felt nothing. The glass kept getting filled and refilled till the wee hours of the morning. Then she walked out to merge with the crowd to forget herself, as if long ago she knew someone and now he was gone. 

Pappu passed

India as you know it wasn’t as it is forever. It wasn’t always a land of computer professionals and outsourcing. It was neither so competitive nor so fast. Everything went on at a mundane pace. There was time for that afternoon siesta and enough moments to stand and stare. Mobiles did not exist and telephones were rare. In fact you got a telephone ten years after you booked one. There was only one TV channel and it showed programs in slots like we now have water coming three times a day in cities. We loved our Sunday movies and the prime time serials. We also loved to stop our bicycles at the roadside and chat. We viewed those with automobiles in awe. One with a Bajaj scooter was a man of dignity. Watches were worth their jewels and had to be wound up to show the correct time. A majority of us loved our radios more than our books. We had helped India win few and lose many a cricket match on our radios. I still don’t understand why the newer and sleeker radios were called transistors. But one thing is still common. Even then we were die hard cricket fans. And we never lost hope.

It so happened as it happens with every kid, that after enjoying the blissful and carefree journey of my childhood, I suddenly grew up. Though growing up was not as sudden as its actual realization. I had spent my childhood watching movies of Amitabh Bachchan. His persona of an angry young man had taken over my mind. It was my belief that like my amusingly ever angry idol, I would be able to fight every difficulty with ease. Initially I would do it with some chic dialogues and if it didn’t work then some neat punches and well directed kicks would definitely do. It worked for even the lesser mortals like Jeetendra and Dharmendra. In case you are wondering who these guys are? Well then my dear reader you surely need to update. Jeetendra, Dharmendra, Rishi, Shashi and the man himself- Amitabh Bachchan are the purest and the bravest of men ever known. They have prevented many a crime, saved the honor of many a women, and arrived at crime scenes well before the police time and again. My faith in them strengthened with every movie they acted in. In fact these were the masters who taught me about dignity of labour, self respect, mother’s love, the value of sister’s ‘rakhi’ and so many other lessons. They gave me the firm belief that a hero never fails.

So life would be like a Bollywood movie. But wait. Wasn’t there something that was missing? Something kept this frame from being picture perfect or what we call - ‘perfect shot Bachchan Saab’. Yes I know what I was missing in this frame- ‘the leading lady’. I, being the hero of my film deserved the best lady, because heroes always got the best girls. It was another matter whether they deserved them or not. But the girls seemed to like everything about these ‘heroes’. If he was smart, she loved it. If he was foolish, it was his simplicity. These ladies would throw away their riches and ditch their family to be with the ‘hero’ in his modest hut while he earned only a meager salary. All heroes were ladies’ men to the hilt. Even the crooked girls with the villains were crazy about them. Yes the same girls who bared their legs and danced around poles. The villains thought the girls adored him, while the girls loved nothing but their poles. The affinity still shows in the videos. Anyways the crux of the matter is, I didn’t have my lady love and I still had to find her.

Now finding a girl for yourself and the one that fits your kind of a frame is not an easy task. Very few fitted the bill and hardly anyone in my knowledge was willing. I am admitting this fact now, but in those days the very thoughts of denial and rejection never crossed my mind. For ‘heroes’ got what they wanted and moreover I was a Bachchan fan. It was these very important thoughts that kept my mind occupied in that chilly winter, when one fine day the results of my graduation were declared. No there were no surprises. There were only bomb shells that waited with baited breath to burst on me. You would be thinking that I had failed or something and now life would change. You are partially right. Life did change.

Pappu Prasad, yes that is me, had become the only person from his family ever to obtain a graduation degree. I know you are wondering how this could be my name. I know this name is not hero like but you can only blame my parents for that. They were born in the era of Ashok Kumar and may be talkies were just coming of age in their times. What else could you expect? But we are not discussing my name right now, because I had just landed in the eye of a tornado. This again would surprise you. You would say that to be the first and only graduate from one’s family is an honor or something and that I should be proud of it. Yes I should have been proud, but anyone would have cried had he been in my situation. At least I held back tears.

But like everything else this too would warrant an explanation. You see I was the son of the proprietor of a famous sweetmeat shop. The shop was called ‘Dilkhush sweets’ or sweets that kept your heart happy. I had planned to fail in the exam and then daydream like I always did with nothing to worry about. I helped my father manage the shop cum restaurant, if you could call it one, during my spare hours when I wasn’t building castles in the air. In college there were hardly any classes as half the time one student group or the other called for a strike. The other half was occupied by the teaching staff’s strike for higher wages. Some years we had examinations, some years we didn’t have them. The results took and unusually long time to be declared as compared to today’s times.

Our results had been declared more than a year after the exams. Meanwhile I had even forgotten that a result was awaited. There were reasons for it. By hook and crook I had been able to scale the intermediate exams. During those exams twice I had been seriously warned by the invigilators as they suspected me copying. It was sheer luck that they never got hold of the multiple paper chits that I carried in my socks and under the cuffs of my shirt. But graduation was a different ballgame altogether. It was beyond me, and I had given up. I hardly wrote anything in my answer sheets. I had decided what my course of life was going to be. It would be nothing spectacular. Like all brats of the town my years would be spent in the front rows of the cinema, chatting on the corner of the road and cycling through the lanes of the town. Occasionally a new girl would be spotted and we would follow her and stare at her. No we weren’t bad guys as you might be thinking. The girls never knew we did this. And which guy doesn’t stare at a good looking girl? And of course I would help my father with his business and gradually years later when it was time to take up responsibilities, I would take it up all. I would also be married to a girl of my community and life would continue.  

You would say that I should be happy that I passed. It would open up so many opportunities. My father thought the same. I knew if it was academics I had to pursue, I had already lost it. I was dead sure that the result was a mistake. It was not very common. But it happened. Because of some clerical error, now I was doomed to leave behind my childhood friends, my beloved front rows, the dusty roads of the town and the hopes of finding the love of my life in my neighborhood. My father was confident that I would land up a government job. I could already hear the telephone ringing in his ears and his eyes glowed with a pride only seen in the eyes of Bajaj scooter owners. Yes I was being dispatched to the city.

I tried to reason with my overjoyed, over the moon father. My mother supported me meekly. You know how mothers are. She wanted me to stay. But it was futile. My father would not let go this wonderful opportunity to boast around and the rich dowry that a government job commanded slip away so easily. You would ask me what this hullaballoo about a government job is. So let me tell you that in those times all these multinationals had not yet come knocking at our doors outsourcing jobs because India offered cheap labour and good services. The private sector’s role in the generation of employment was negligible. So the only well paid and respectable jobs were the government jobs. Unlike today, even the word ‘babu’ or a clerk commanded some respect in those days.

The story now had taken a sharp turn. From being smooth the road was now bumpy and uncertain. The last few days in the town were spent cycling in the old lanes and catching up with all mates. I tried to capture the faces of all the beautiful lasses we had stared at since we were kids. By the time I returned they would probably be all married and gone. I watched a couple of movies in the front rows and whistled and hooted with my buddies. They were happy for me and still wondered how I cracked the exam when none of them could. The pass percentages had been one of the lowest this time. I never knew anything myself any better.

And so this was how I was packed off to the city with high hopes of my father. My mother too had high hopes but more than that it were her tears that were evident. And yes she had also sent me with the last home cooked meal that I would have on the train and had prepared for me some sweets that would last me a couple of weeks. As the train left I could feel the corners of my eyes getting wet. Gradually it started picking up speed and my parents and friends moved away from me as though a video cassette player was rewinding while the scene was being played on the TV.