Abhi’s Blog

Chaotic | 25 | Winter Breeze

[bastardwithstories]

When you wake up after a nap but your tired bones still remember their history of mind numbing torture. When you have read the pages but forget the story, and your brain, which you are so proud of you in many ways, is unable of being completely ridiculous, yes completely, and that drives you mad. You have a homemade tea though and it seems to fix the cracks in your body, dripping in all curves, on the walls and the floor and there onwards, upwards to the ceiling- to your brain, through the mesh and mess of it. And then you reply to a recruiter hoping you are doing great- to say I am doing great would be an exaggeration and one must never say so. Before tea, I would have said- Yes, I am doing great.

[bastardwithstories]

only non violent way to make somone silent is to hold their lips in between yours

[bastardwithstories]

Dim was not consistent. That was the only demerit most people would focus on. Certainly that wasn’t the case. Dim was kind of the guy who would not switch on lights in the day. When asked he told, it’s not natural. He always had simple arguments and these were guiding principles for his life. One day when he saw a cyclist coming from wrong side and falling after he collided with a bike, he not only did not move to help him, instead clapped and abused the cyclist. For him, ideals and principles were far more important than emotions. Is that the reason you are still single? I asked him one day while we were working out.

I met Dim in the gym a month ago when he was arguing with the trainer for not being regular. I don’t feel like coming everyday. That was his final and singular argument. When asked what does he do on those days, he winked.

I don’t like someone nabbing me with questions. I also don’t want to talk all the time, he said while doing chest press, and girls want to talk all the time, at least that was the case with those who I met. Can you bring me another 5 kg, he said in grunting voice. I knew he can’t push another 10 but you can’t say no to Dim. I knew exactly what he would say if I point it out: “Isn’t it suppose to be difficult”?

Dim was in his mid-thirties, though I never confirmed it because there was no need for it, but it was certainly a shock for others to see us being friends- 10 year gap is intolerable now a days in friendship, it seemed. Some even thought to the extent that we were a father-son duo. When I heard this first time, I wished my father was so cool too.

Being a child of strict parents means you can't be friends with them. So when I met Dim, I thought I can share those thoughts on which I need some advice from an elder. Though he was single he had his experiences with life and they were more intense than a normal married person could have.

Dim was not chatty. He assumed that most people don't have anything interesting to say. But he didn't feel that with me for some reason. He would carry a book with him always but closes it as soon as he sees me coming.

Why do you read so many books, I asked one day in the downtown Cherry Bar. I worked there as a bar attender so I invited him over on the weekend. Books make me believe that the world is indeed interesting. He gulped the beer glass. While making the hand gestures he continued- There are so many stories and I don't want to die without knowing each one of them. But that isn't possible- I pointed out but I knew I shouldn't have. I have this insatiable urge to know what's going on in others' life. When I look at you, I want to know what's happening in yours. Same as when I look at that girl over there, he pointed to a girl in his left corner drinking alone, I noticed she looked stunning in the violet square neck sleeveless top. When I regained my concentration, Dim was still talking about how everything that happens eventually affects everyone's life. It's just like in a big overcrowded room if you push someone everyone will feel some sort of impulse however brief it be- he said and asked for a refill.

[bastardwithstories]

Watched first episode of the Normal People on bed. Around 5. Still having lunch. Time had bent it good. Warped window wood. I could read couple of chapters of that book or I could write. Write about whom? I am here. But in my mind I am at a good place, place where window opens to the green landscape full of whining horses. It rains and glasses of window finally breathe. Fingers fell. So you’ll come on Saturday? and walks away. I have been wandering. Long. Came across your, oh so delicate. Delicate frame. Brittle boned, you sat crouched. And decayed…

[bastardwithstories]

Sometimes you don’t want much. Just a movie scene, a heartfelt quote, a song, an excerpt from not so known book. That’s enough. Content is what I feel. Less tears I should accumulate. That’s aim, I tell to myself. There was a boy, who got down from a bus, waited for her. He put his hand over her shoulder and through the overpass, there they went to other side. Slow steps. Rushed run. My eyes rolls like a camera. As if I am shooting a movie. No, I am not a hero. I am an ordinary cameraman and I don’t own camera. Yet, I manage to store these clips in my head. And I wish, truly, you could look into my head. See through my eyes. I look at something so long it stays for days. Sometimes months. My favourite hobby now a days is to look at the faces and guess their emotions they are feeling inside. I see fear, loneliness, lost, laugh and much more on daily basis. I see their lips moving and I guess words. As they are characters of my story which I haven’t written yet. I am not the main character. No, I don’t wanna be. Sometimes you don’t want much. Just little is enough. I should sleep. At night I get mad. Sorry!

[bastardwithstories]

So many stories are slowly growing up, don't know when everything becomes entangled into a big novel. We are what if not a part of the novel written by God. He gives a favorite character full stop when he wants to. What freedom do the characters have, they don't even have lines in their hands. Some characters work very hard, but can't impress the storyteller.

The story writer praised some characters a lot but never let them laugh. Keeping them in fear that maybe this time the face shines off as soon as the light went down. One character kept collecting garbage all his life. A glimpse of the storyteller's own pain is seen somewhere in the characters written by him. How much God must suffer. God must have been through so many important tortures. God must have waited for the rain to end so that clothes can dry. How much love God must yearn. It is not easy to be God. Being God is a little storyteller and a little trash. Being a story writer, collecting applause is nowhere. It's a little bit to moan with pain by being embarrassed.

You say this story shouldn't end like this. I would say go and be a rag picker. See the body falling from the sight of the favorite characters of God's story, see the man moving, see the thirst, lust, jealousy. If you get fed up of all these, then check the illusion of those two tight hands. May God have mercy on those lovely hands. God might allow a kiss.

[bastardwithstories]

“Water bottle? Popcorn? “

The voice was coming from behind- the girl aged 10-12 asked again, from passenger to passenger in a private bus to my village. The evening is exceptionaly pleasant. Outside the bus, greengoccers are winding up the business. They have packed the leftover vegies in crats, folded the hoisted tri-color- the correct way to fold isn’t known to them, and leaving for their homes- expecting they have one. It’s been 75 years of independence. Those who don’t have a house yet, where will they hoist the tri-color, perhaps they will sleep on the streets until run over by a drunk son of politician returning from late night party.

The girl came to cabin at last.

“Water Bottle ? Popcorn?” I shook my head in denial. She moved to the guy in front of me. He has a black cap, wearing check shirt and jeans. He has just removed sandals to sit in the easy pose. Not even once has he unplugged the earphones. It’s the last bus. The boy didn’t answer if he wants anything or not. The girl requested again. It’s the last bus. The boy stretched his leg to reach out to the side pocket. The girl assumed he is buying a water bottle and put one on the seat beside him. The boy took out a 10 rupee note and handed it over to the girl, along with bottle. The girl got perplexed. “Don’t want bottle?” “The money?” The boy kept silent. The girl hesitated. I interpreted silence, the silence of bigger heart. “It’s your gift, take it”, I managed to mumble but didn’t look at her face. I couldn’t. The girl may have smiled a little and eventually walked away. It’s 75 years of independence. This boy, this boy with little mustache and black sparse beard has my heart now. I want to be this boy.

[bastardwithstories]

We thought stars are blazing ice cubes in a big refrigerator. And clouds to be transparent glasses crammed with beer. So when we were drunk, sleeping on the floor, we dreamt of touching them. Not that we wanted to be big people but we just wished to have our fair shares of good life kisses. And these people, my God, who became friends in such a short passage of time, holding loosely to their stories, talked of their backgrounds in a strangely funny manner. And when they cried, which they did quietly, without any tear in any eye, smoke battled in the throat, and the girls lingered on lips.

How tightly Delhi held us, hyptonised us, obviously did some spell. When it was time to vacate, it started behaving like home, like the way the arms of darling feels warmest during very last hug. But the course of destiny must lead its way. Adios boys and girls!!

[bastardwithstories]

If I could look at it and feel pity for the women who looked either vagrant or immigrant, counted the coins when his son, probably of age 10-12, demanded or may be expressed desire to have the same glass of sugarcane juice I was having, at the corner of this busiest empty street where almost everyone had slippers except her daughter. She didn't refuse perhaps because she has already purchased essentials grocery which is nothing more than tomatoes and green chillies, and didn't order the way we do, reply to which generally is- "small one or big one sir"? Rather, She just handed over, willingly, whatever she had, probably it was less than 10, requesting him to give whatever he can in this much. Yet, I was more intrigued to know if her son shares this glass full of elixir with her sister or not. I lingered there just to observe on this not very fine evening in which I certainly have a lot piled on, to not finish all of them but many to even begin with. To not present myself standing there with the sole purpose of witnessing them, I took out my phone to act as if I was talking to one of my dearest friends whom I haven't seen in years. So silly of me to expect miracles while the boy gulped the whole glass in one big sip. I can't hold myself from dreaming a different end altogether whenever I recall that profound evening. What if I have offered three glasses to them because I had forty rupees still left in my side pocket. Maybe, I thought, I wasn't rich enough to do so, or I was shy to offer help, or too afraid to look at genuine smiles which my heart, too attuned to fake smiles, could not have borne.

[bastardwithstories]

Hey R,

Got your letter, and you mentioned the word MELANCHOLY.

Listen, the first time I heard this word, I was in awe of it for days. I, desperately, tried using it in my next couple of writings because I felt: that’s it. That’s the word I have been looking for over the last few years. That’s what explains, as closest as it can, of what I feel. I mean R, I am happy until six in the evening and just when sun starts fading away, I get sad. What is this, were you in such dismal ever?

I tried decrypting it while paddling my cycle around the Ahalia campus. Helpless me!!

Anyway, how is life treating you? Did you manage to find a good balance between love and hatred for your father? You know we can love a little bit more! I am trying too, as what good holding it would do to us, right R?

[bastardwithstories]

I feel sad post celebration.

[bastardwithstories]

Over the shoulder, he looked back. He thought it will rain today, the sky looked partially cloudy. He moved fast and fell. Soon, he came to realise it is hard to walk barefoot. Tears fell on his legs as he bent to clean blood out of his toenail. Though, Nobody knew when he was crying. Except himself. If you observe his face, some wrinkles would appear first, starting from the corner of his eyes, his cheeks would come out a bit. And then, then his eyes would shrink into a piece of grape. If you observe that, you could easily predict the next couple of minutes of his life. Somebody once wrote a poem on him- THE CRYING FACE is what they called it. The author published it, people read it. And re-read it. They couldn’t get a hold of the head and tail of the poem in one go. So as it turned out, It became a best seller.

In the middle of the scrape garden, barefoot, he stood still while it rained. Today he wore an oversized shirt that goes until his knees and thigh-length shorts. When he walked with his heavy bag full of scraped food, clothes, cardboard and whatnot which humans throw out of their windows casually in cold afternoons, people with suits and ties passed him with weird looks. He felt like he is on an alien planet with a face worth a poem.

When it finally stopped raining, he emptied his bag, segregated metal on one pile, plastic on another and clothes on a third one. He, then, moved to the centre of the triangle. Looked around. And now if you observe his face, you would see the same expressions. Wrinkles, cheeks popping out of his face, eyes shortening. The only difference this time was, what made him cry. Shortly, I found him there sleeping soundly, and yes snoring. Do children snore, how would I know? I am a crow. Crows don’t even sleep.

My duty was to pick up bread, from balconies of people with enough money to not care about one less bread. They don’t count. I do. I have to. Because I have to pick up 5 bread. Not enough for him but at least it will keep him alive. When he wakes up he will find 5 pieces of bread on one of the piles. I’ll put the bread and have to guard them until he wakes up. He thinks god was providing him with this bread. So naive of him, isn’t it? Who is God, of whom humans speak so greatly? I can never know. I can’t even understand what they speak. Though, I do know what this boy thinks. I can look at his face and distinguish crying tears from happy tears. No human is capable of that I guess. I try to figure out sometimes, what makes most humans so callous. I sit on the branch and try to watch them and read their expressions…

[bastardwithstories]

A city remembers him, another he carries in his heart; One requests him to stay, another whisper- do not stop anywhere too long! Each city he departed, he left some pieces of himself there and the city; City layered him with a new warm violet colour.

With this, he would say babye to Bangalore. When he first arrived here one and a half months ago, he was intimidated - intimidated by the appetites of a big city. But now he has realised it's not tough to live on his own. Bangalore was special for a couple of reasons- it's where he went on his first date, where he met ambitious imperfect humble humans. During these periods someone came along uninvited, stuck their pictures on the walls of yet infant heart and said- “Abhishek! You should write more often, and yes, keep the clean shave!”, and left abruptly as in some rush. Bangalore was fun because it was costly. He would miss his gym trainer, the terrace, and his all alone naked times. He can’t be sure where would his soul might find shelter next. It might be Delhi. It’s also possible that he would return here. He also wishes to stay in Chandigarh for a few months. Maybe until summer approaches, he will move to Himachal or northeast. Who knows? He is unpredictable and gets bored of things easily.

But first of all, he has to go and hug one of his friends whose father passed away recently. Tell him that goodbyes are uncalled for, pat his back, hold his head until he cries his heart out on his shoulder. Today it’s someone we know, tomorrow it will be us. When we are gone, people would cry in vain and demand only the second enough time to say- I love you. It’s tragic, stupid, and funny. Isn’t?

[bastardwithstories]

The old man slept early today. His grandson started playing the piano to comfort him. It’s the only thing I like about the boy. Except for this, he always annoys me. At least what he plays make sense to me. Next to the piano, there is a window, that’s my spot. I gazed out on the street; hawkers and street vendors were returning to their shelters to sleep in the arms of their wives; those who don’t have one will buy a homemade beer from the mid-age lady who hides them in her clothes, like her own babies, and spend the night on the boundaries of public school. And then I realised it was my time to eat something- “umm what to eat, what to eat” ? I mumbled while jumping on his piano. “You tell me what to eat”? I looked at the boy’s face. He couldn’t discern. He just grabbed my neck and put me down on the floor. He is dumb. He thought he could get rid of me that way. Well then, I jumped again to the window and from there back on his piano. I thumped keys with my claws; damn, that sounds good. The boy got envious of my piano skills, I guess. He grasped me from my tail this time. “Idiot! It hurts, it hurts, put me down”. I was so helpless, all I could do was a growl. But that didn’t scare him. I have to learn something better, I told myself. He took me to the abandoned room where the old man was sleeping. He loved me a lot once, then this dumb little boy came and stole all his attention. I heard that his parents got killed in an accident. That reminds me of my mother. She also died in an accident.

I and my mother were about to cross the road through zebra crossing. Why there isn’t a cat crossing then? We live here, not Zebras. How unfair? Also, why don’t humans make their crossing? At least, leave zebra crossing for all of our animals who aren’t as cruel as you are. I was just behind my mother when a car ran over her. The car didn’t even stop to look back as to what happened. We, stray cats, don’t matter much to them. While I bet, the driver has a cat at his house whom he pretends to love. How romantic, huh? Anyway, I got frightened, So I flew back. I climbed over to this window of an old man and watched the street the whole day from there. That day, I understood the concept of those three lights- green, yellow and, red. Though I promised myself, I’ll never cross a road again.

The old man was shivering; he lifted his blanket and allowed me in. I got anxious. He held me in his arms gently. I thought he yearned for me to lick his cheeks. So I did. Usually, he stops me when I do so and in return, I commit more. But today, he didn’t stop. I even scratched his nose with my claw, but he was too calm. I knew something was wrong with the old man. I jumped out of bed, rushed to the little boy. He was gazing out of the window. I looked at him and, he looked back into my eyes. He knelt on the ground, held my head in his hands, and started sobbing.

[bastardwithstories]

“How can a human fucking brain can’t resist the sound of notification ? “ said Typical Sharma. And he further continued and posed a real question- “How much shallow have we become ?”

Trends, reels, status. People craving for attention. Influencers making fast, easy money. Fast? Train approaches faster. Passes by. Fake standards. Private account. Private! Nothing is anymore private. Every step, every thought, every meal. Monitored. They are watching. Crowd, idiots, followers. Blind, dumb, chaos. Peace ? Where is it ? Lost and Found sticker on the platform. An Announcement is just made- “Young people are lost in Virtual World. Ask them to report to themselves”. Brains: short circuited, hearts: layered with dirt, bodies: edited, faces: masked and whitened.

This is how much shallow we have become!!

[bastardwithstories]

Home: June 2005

"Son! Don’t you wonder why oldies want to live even when they no more have excitement of children, a curiosity of teenager, and the smell of a young adult?"

Grandpa said while tapping on a watermelon to see whether it's fully riped or not. It was steep of summer. The scorching parched Sun of June drank all the water of natural resources. The village of old peasants would be heard shouting at its children, "hey! Didn’t I tell you to use only one bucket of water for bathe”. And before fathers could catch kids, they would run in the greenish grain field spreading like a veil of newly wed, covering the shiny sand, and hide into it. If, if fathers were way too determined to beat the kid, you will enjoy them crying in mother's lap. Such kids never see their ma and pa chatting in love as they manifest in Bollywood movies or read in foreign novels. Do they love each other, ma and pa, I asked one night? “People can express love in oddly wide range of ways, cities have explored better ways such as kisses, here it’s still daily cute quarrels”- Grandpa would say snoring lightly.

"To find fully riped watermelons for their grand childrens", I replied.

Grandpa laughed out loud with his last two lonely teeth in mouth. I didn’t know he was dying.

[bastardwithstories]

Charles never disappoints me whether it's this late hour of night or be it a spark of afternoon after a morning contained of lazy contemplation, such a crappy life, he said and laughed in installments, as he was saving the longer one to finish with, yet he smelled of whiskey and smoke, like an enlightened mad young man asking for childhood in return.

Each night when I walk down this little road to my hostel, under this unfinished useless naked iron shade, I stop for some precious moments at the place called, the soul place, listen to old Hindi songs of Kishore Kumar or Talat or Hemanta or Lata or K Krishnamurthy, the outside sky full of dark smoke, smoke of a factory nearby, inside my heart wander around an old age woman in traditional Rajasthani attire, the only woman I loved, though we don't have rituals to express love literally like most of people of my age do. In yellow greenish field of grain, why it never rains here? She hurries up, the dark is around the edge and she have so much left over to cover up, no helping hands to let her breath even for a second.

Each time when father requested to come home I said, I have to stay here to compete with the rest of the world. It's a rat race, I said to myself, such a crappy life it is, isn't it Charles?

And I went to sleep...

The soul place, 2nd November 2019