The Raconteur [noun: a person skilled in narrating stories and anecdotes]

“Stories, Jai, will always float around”, he said, draining down a bite of his cheese sandwich with a sip of coffee. “But, really, what do you think would set yours apart?”

Jai lifted his mug of beer and paused midway-to-mouth, obviously grappling with the question hurled at him. This wasn’t a direction he had invested much thought in. That having been said, it wasn’t as if he was oblivious to the answer; just that, probably, he had never tried to articulate what his greatest asset as a writer was. Like most in his trade he preferred the more mystical, if slightly intangible expression- ‘signature’.

Unfortunately, uncomfortable as it was, it was evident that Prakash’s question wasn’t rhetorical. His restless and expectant tapping of his coffee mug with the spoon made that implicitly clear. With a slight shake of the head, he took a rather large draught of beer.

“Would you laugh terribly if I said - well – my sincerity?” he answered a touch sheepishly.

Prakash didn’t laugh; he proceeded to stir his coffee with a thoughtful gaze directed at Jai which made him feel awkward enough to gulp down another mouthful of beer just to buy himself a few seconds of shelter from the attention his answer was bound to stoke. When he rested the mug, there was still a suspicious silence at the table.

And then, inevitably, Sunny chipped in with his unique brand of laughter. It had been an oddly somber and impassioned conversation at the bar table tonight and one that had had him both bewildered and bored at once. Cigarette after cigarette had been stubbed out and, yet, this subject of discussion, frustratingly unintelligible and drab to him, had stubbornly persisted.

Jai rolled his eyes in annoyance; he had expected as much from Sunny. Sunny, he believed, had the singular gift of trivializing worthwhile conversations with his curiously affected and above-the-fray laughter.

“See, Prakash, that’s when it becomes difficult for me,” he continued, trying to ignore Sunny. “If sincerity isn’t enough then, as a writer, what else do I have to offer?”

“Struggling writer,” Sunny corrected with a smirk as he lit another cigarette.

Prakash lifted a crumb sticking to his chin with his forefinger and swiped it off with a swift lick.

“Look,” he said, gesturing sandwich-in-hand, “I’m not a writer. But I do read a good deal. And I can tell you, as someone who might someday soon pay good money to buy something you’ve written, that sincerity counts for nothing.Zilch.Nada. I’d rather the author was charming and insincere than sincere and tedious. Hang on- isn’t there a bit of Wilde in there somewhere?”

“Quite possibly,” Jai replied flatly.

“Wilde, indeed,” Prakash chuckled and tucked into another sizeable chunk of sandwich. “But really, Jai,” he continued, “do it your own way if it works for you.” Jai exhaled in perturbation. He shuffled his feet beneath the table and tugged at his hair.

“But it’s not working for me, you see!” he said, with a tinge of desperation in his voice.

“What makes you think it’s not?” said Prakash.

“Oh come on, Prakash bhai!” Sunny exclaimed, throwing his hands up in disbelief that Prakash should fuel this morose discussion further. Usually when Jai sunk into one of these moods after a couple of drinks, Prakash would play the jovial elder brother and laugh off his whining.

“If I can’t interest my wife of 7 months in my stories about relationships what chance do I have out there?” he said.

“Good point,” Sunny quipped. He sniggered and started fiddling around with his cell phone.

“Come on now, you don’t really mean that. What makes you think that Ruchi isn’t interested in your stories?” said Prakash, leaning back into his chair with his hand gently stroking his bulging belly.

Sunny sat up straight and quickly exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“See, this is more like it,” Sunny said, flinging his cell phone on the table in a spurt of new-found enthusiasm. “This, finally, is a conversation worthy of a bar table. Gentlemen, I propose to you- why can’t Jai’s wife stand his stories?”

Jai shot him a cold glance. There was another uncomfortably pregnant silence at the table. And since Prakash had started tapping his coffee mug with his spoon, Jai had no alternative but to raise his beer mug once again for a prolonged draught.

“Well, it’s nothing she has told me to be honest,” Jai resumed, “but there’s a distinct - how do I put it – distance, aloofness maybe, that I sense in her mannerisms during my narrations. For instance, texting on her mobile, while I read out a particularly intimate bit about the bloke gently lifting a strand of velvety hair sprawled across the girl’s face so as to unveil her sublime features and plant a kiss on the moist lips of said girl, is hardly an appropriate response I should think.”

Prakash let out a mild, empathetic chuckle which triggered tremors in his fleshy, round face. “But, perhaps, you are overreacting,” he said. “It is unfair for art to unconditionally demand an audience, you know.”

“Well maybe not quite so unfair if the audience in question happens to be the art’s inspiration in the first place,” he laughed mirthlessly.

“All I’m saying, Jai, is that we all lived cluttered lives these days don’t we? Maybe, we have to make allowances for the fact that at any given point in time, people have a lot going through their minds. And maybe, just maybe, the artist must be ready to combat other distractions for a share of human attention instead of -well, you know- is that a Heineken you have there? I think I’ll indulge today.”

Smiling smugly, he called out to Pooja, the waitress, and added, “So, oddly enough, you will still have to fight for her attention-even after marriage, that is.”

“Pooja, I’ll have a pint of the Heineken, please. No wait, make that two- I think Sunny could do with a drink too. Right,Sunny?” He stopped shuffling the mobile phone around in his hand and looked up briefly at Prakash.

“Why not, I suppose,” he said and proceeded to take a deep drag from his cigarette.

Pooja smiled and tucked a hanging strand of her dark hair behind her ears.

“Really, Prakash? You’re drinking tonight, is it? Planning to get drunk, are we?”

“Well, what if I am, young lady? You still don’t get to take me back to your place tonight, I’m afraid. The honorable drinker leaves with who he came with.”

“In that case, I must say I’m devastated,” she said, putting on a playfully wistful expression.

“Oh and one more thing- a refill for Jai here would be fabulous.”

“Wow! A fourth? ”

Prakash leaned forward suddenly, planted his hefty elbows on the table and smiled suggestively at his friends.

“I have a feeling we’re about to swim in unforeseen directions tonight. Wouldn’t want the river to run dry now, would we?” he said, deliberately adding a smattering of mischief to his voice.

Pooja was visibly hooked. With an excited gleam her eyes and a lop sided grin she said, “ I’m going to go now to get the drinks but, Prakash, I need you to give me the low down on whatever it is that’s going on with you guys. You will, wont you? God, I have a boring life.”

With a zen-like all-knowing smile firmly in place, he said, “Let the river take its course, pretty one. I shall see you on the other side.”

“It’s a date then. You keep that tummy in, Prakash,” she said.

“For you, honey, always,” came the reply.

She ran her fingers through her dark hair and gracefully spun around, all in one elegant move, and then glided across the bar to fetch the drinks.

Jai watched on in disbelief and admiration as Pooja left. He couldn’t fathom how Prakash, with his 100 kg frame, pot belly, and thick, rotund face could manage to weave a web of intrigue around a pretty girl with the mere suggestion of a story that he obviously didn’t have, while he struggled to narrate his genuine and heartfelt stories to his own wife, the love of his life, without eliciting a few stifled yawns.

Perhaps, Oscar Wilde knew what he was talking about after all, he thought as he dropped his head and stared at his reflection on the glass table.

“I may have a theory,” Jai said, suddenly looking up.

Slapping his left palm on his forehead, Sunny let out an impatient sigh and made a considerable show of glancing at his watch for the time.

“Stay put, Sunny,” said Prakash with surprising sternness, “you’re not going anywhere till you finish your drink.”

“All right, Prakash bhai, I’m right here. Relax.” said a slightly taken aback Sunny. There was a brief pause while Pooja returned with the drinks. She beamed radiantly at Prakash as she turned to leave.

“It’s my face, isn’t it?” Jai almost spat out.

“What?” cried Prakash, more than a trifle bemused.

“It might well be,” Sunny muttered, latching onto the opportunity that had presented itself.

“Look maybe the problem is not so much my stories but the fact that it is me who is narrating them,” he continued. “Ruchi looks at me and she sees a bespectacled young man, rather lean, with a boyish face, no hint of a beard, average height and a feeble, thin voice. Of course, she doesn’t expect anything mature or passionate to ever come out of me; of course, my stories hold no credence to her. Isn’t it? Surely, if she were to read my work without knowing that it was my creation, she would appreciate it? Yes, I’m certain that’s it. The words I write belong to me but they deserve to be voiced and heralded by another. Prakash, I believe that my words might just be too beautiful for me. Am I right?”.

Jai thumped the beer mug down onto the table with the triumph of one who had finally diagnosed his malaise.

“Am I right?” he repeated.

“I don’t know but you’re definitely drunk,” said Sunny, calmly lighting another cigarette.

In a sudden bout of irritation, Jai stomped his feet on the ground which such ferocity that it attracted the attention of a couple of the surrounding tables. Luckily, the bar was starting to empty out by now and not much of a scene was created.

With his eyes seething with anger, he said, “Sunny, I’m not playing anymore. I’m really, really not. Please leave if you feel like.”

“You’re drunk,” Sunny repeated, without looking at him.

“Go to hell,” hissed Jai.

Prakash leaned forward and lodged a bulky arm around Sunny’s shoulders to preempt, with assertiveness, any move on his part to leave.

“On the contrary, Sunny, do stick around a little while longer. I’ll give you a ride home. In fact, your presence will prove to be instrumental to proceedings.”

Sunny shrugged nonchalantly. “Prakash bhai, whatever it is that you’re driving at, I’ll be grateful if you could make it quick and painless so that we can all call it a day,” he said, in a voice which attempted to convey tiredness and indifference at once.

“That,” said Prakash, “depends entirely on you.”

Sunny laughed in derision. “It couldn’t possibly! Nothing which concerns the literary habits of Jai could possibly depend on me; nothing this evening has depended on me and I’m certain none of your so called proceedings will.”

Prakash patted him on the back with a series of fearful thumps, leaned back into his chair, crossed his legs and then rubbed his palms with palpable excitement. He paused for a few moments to let things simmer down a bit. Sunny tapped out some ash from his cigarette, all the while staring into empty space. Thick swirls of smoke hung heavy over the table. The bar was nearly empty now.

“Sunny, you were right though,” Prakash resumed.

“About what?” said Sunny

“Yeah, what could he possibly be right about, Prakash,” said Jai, putting on the most convincing sarcastic tone he could muster after having downed almost four pints of the Heineken.

Prakash smiled, almost paternally, at his two warring friends. “You were right when you said that we needed to discuss why Jai’s wife can’t -seemingly- stand his stories.”

Jai closed his eyes momentarily and shook his head in obvious exasperation. “Here we go again!” he blurted out in despair. Although he wouldn’t admit it, he began to realize that he was a touch drunk. Bleary-eyed, he started to massage the side of his head with his fingertips.

“Jai, I need you to listen to me closely,” Prakash said in a forceful voice which instantly commanded attention, “unless you want to go back to the drudgery that is your desk job.”

Jai emptied his mug with one final swig, inhaled sharply and adjusted his spectacles by pushing them firmly up his nose.

“All right, let me hear it,” he said.

“Your passion though well-meaning is, ultimately, irrelevant to most. Worse, it may even be plain boring. You write of love and relationships and yet, ironically, you write in a way which to me seems generally selfish. There’s so much of ‘you’ in your story that it leaves absolutely no room for anybody else. It’s suffocating really; almost as if you’re thrusting your sensibilities down your reader’s throat.”

“Well, of course, there’s a lot of me in my stories. That’s why they’re ‘my’ stories, aren’t they? It’s my bloody perspective of things!” he replied, clearly annoyed and baffled in equal measure by Prakash’s line of thought. It was as if his very identity as a writer was being questioned and he felt a surge of aggression swell up within him. Or, perhaps, it was the liquor.

“Ah, perspective!” said Prakash, triumphantly slapping his thigh with his right hand. “Now, we’re getting somewhere. Every damn story doing the rounds is the perspective of some author or the other. What sets you apart? I’m sorry if I’m demolishing your world-view here but, give or take, love is the same for everybody. Yes, it’s true. Consider this- the velvety dark hair sprawled across the sublime features conveys eroticism in every perspective; the kissing of the moist lips conveys passion in every perspective; unrequited love conveys heartache. Does that seem familiar? Like one of your stories isn’t it?”

“That’s called romanticism, Prakash!”

“Just because it’s a love story doesn’t mean it has to be romantic,” was the retort.

“What is that even supposed to mean?” said Jai, feeling the throbbing in his temple with a fist.

“Tell me, Jai,” he said, purposefully drawing his chair closer to the edge of the table with a soft grunt, “do your stories ever consider that maybe the bedroom window was left open?”

Prakash paused for an answer and began to roll up the right sleeve of his shirt. Seeing a perplexed Jai, with his lips slightly apart as if he had meant to say something but had later decided to await further clarity, he smiled almost contentedly and began to undo his left sleeve button.

“What if – and ponder over this contingency – the recklessly aroused lovers, in their eagerness to gratify each other physically, inadvertently left the bedroom window open?” he said, eventually.

“What if they did? So?”

“So,” said Prakash, injecting a carefully calculated pause, “Rahul has a field day, doesn’t he?”

“Who the devil is Rahul?” Jai cried out, the influence of beer strong enough to turn puzzlement into mild annoyance.

“Rahul,” he replied, “is the adolescent boy-servant serving the Kapoors who live in an apartment on the 8th floor of the adjacent building. And while he stands watching at the window with one hand inside his pants and a dusting rag in the other, little does he realize that he is doing much more than giving into the carnal machinations of puberty – he is irrevocably changing the lives of the Kapoors.”

“And how is that?” asked Sunny, reluctantly giving into a sudden wave of curiosity.

“You see, Nikita Kapoor, the lady of the house and Rahul’s employer is a devoted and doting wife to her husband, Rajiv, who, incidentally is fond of food in general and, has a particular liking for carrots.”

“Carrots?” Sunny repeated, stubbing off his cigarette. He reached out for the cigarette box and fished out the final stick.

“Yes, carrots. So Rajiv insisted on having carrots included in some manner or the other in each day’s culinary preparations and…..”

“And Nikita obliged,” completed Sunny.

“That is correct. As I said, she was devoted. And doting. And rather pretty, actually.

In her defence, however, she didn’t know what the Ancient Greeks knew.”

He waited for the obvious question. Since it didn’t come immediately, he proceeded to calmly roll up his left sleeve this time.

Jai sighed. “And what, pray, did the Ancient Greeks know, Prakash?” he asked finally.

“They knew that the carrot is, if consumed regularly, a potent aphrodisiac. And so it transpired, that over a prolonged period of time, the entire family, boy-servant included, was fed on a healthy diet of carrots. As you would expect, this heightened the pressures of puberty in the young lad, eventually pushing him over the brink into a swirl of helpless voyeurism.”

“This is the most absurdly moronic concoction I’ve ever heard,” declared Jai, curling his lips in disgust that the pristine little bubble of love created by him was being desecrated with such gay abandon.

“Never mind him, Prakash bhai, do carry on,” said Sunny, who was quite taken by Prakash’s rendition of Jai’s story. Also, it had the added advantage of being able to irk Jai.

“Carry on all you want, but this just vindicates my position,” said Jai. “Not only is insincere story-telling morally questionable, it also makes a writer vulnerable to gaping technical holes. I mean, it is plainly obvious that your version is intended for the sole purpose of titillation – what relevance, for instance, does Nikita’s being pretty have to the goings-on? You just threw it in there for the dogs to salivate, didn’t you?” He shot across an accusing glance at Sunny.

“Well consider me titillated; more anyways than by the mush about velvety hair and moist lips. Call me depraved, but I can relate to this,” Sunny said with a smirk.

He was beginning to quite enjoy this.

“Well, Jai, consummation for one might be titillation for another- that is the crux of what plagues your work, but more on that later. Yes,Nikita was pretty. And that’s important because her teenage daughter, Sonia, inherited her appealing features and blossomed into a rather voluptuous young girl.”

“Ooh, describe her, describe her!” said Sunny. He took a sip of his beer and wiped the trickle from the corner of mouth with the back of his hand.

“Relax, Sunny, she has a boyfriend. She’s very much committed.”

“I couldn’t care less,” he replied. “Get on with the description!”

Prakash smiled. “I know you couldn’t care less, Sunny. I know.”

He scanned the bar quickly. It was virtually empty now.Pooja was pacing about cleaning the counter and preparing to wrap up for the day, her hair bouncing rhythmically about her waist as she moved. She caught Prakash observing her and waved out to him.Prakash smiled back. Then turning back to his friends he said,

“Well, you could say that she, too, had that dark, velvety hair.” He burst out into a volley of laughter, accompanied by Sunny. Jai found himself not appreciating the joke as much. His mug of beer had run dry so he removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes with his palms till the laughter had subsided.

“As for the rest of her,” Prakash continued, “consider Pooja to be a fair approximation.”

“Works for me,” said Sunny, eyeing her tie her hair into a bun.

“Well, unfortunately – and I want you to listen up here, Jai, because this, conceivably, is how your love story ends – driven by increasing dosages of gentle lifting of velvety hair and kissing of moist lips administered from across the bedroom window in the adjacent building, the boy’s voyeuristic excesses devolve gradually into a full blown, violent mania. So one day, he enters Sonia’s bedroom to dust the furniture, finds her sleeping with ‘ her hair sprawled across her sublime features’, tries to gently brush aside her hair from her face, meets with a frightened resistance from the girl and – well , to skip the gory details – brutally terminates her .”

Prakash held his pose after having delivered what he felt was the knock-out punch and awaited some sort of a reaction. After a protracted silence, during which both Jai and Sunny glanced at Pooja, imagined the worst, cringed involuntarily and then looked away, Jai spoke.

“That’s just distasteful. And frivolous,” he said, curtly.

“I agree. And it’s also not romantic, is it?” said Prakash.

“No, not particularly,” said Sunny.

“What I’m trying to get at, Jai, is that there are frames of references other than your own that you need to look into. Your stories of relationships are glorified clichés. I know this might hurt but try and take this in the right spirit. Oh wait, you already did. It’s called Heineken,” he said, and erupted into hearty laughter.

“That actually makes good sense. Well, I felt entertained, at any rate,” said Sunny. Realizing that he had forgotten to light his cigarette all this while, he reached out for the match box on the table.

“Oh, shut up, will you? What do you know?” remarked Jai with scorn. To be talked down to, in matters of intellect, by Sunny was something he would not abide.

“All right, all right,” said Prakash, raising a hand to diffuse another imminent flare up between the two. “Indulge me a little longer and I’ll provide you two with another example.”

“I think you’ve made your point, Prakash,” said Jai. He had had enough by now. Prakash smiled back at him. “No I’m afraid I haven’t. I really, really haven’t.”

“Listen now to the tale of Jai Mehta, writer, concerned about wife, Ruchi’s, dearth of enthusiasm for stories lovingly crafted by him; decides to pop over to the local bar and meet up with his two friends, presents them with his predicament; by and large they commiserate with him and bear him out patiently- of course, they throw in the odd inappropriate joke; he feeds on their patience and empathy and embarks on a vicious cycle of whining, drinking, self deprecating and self-deluding. If, however, by some quirk of fate he were to disappear from the bar table and yet listen in to his two friends, an entirely new ‘perspective’ might reveal itself to him. And this, Sunny, is where you come in. Now, we will ignore Jai’s presence completely for the remainder of this dialogue.Alright?”

Prakash turned to face Sunny.

“You know, Sunny, I think I might have a fair idea why Ruchi doesn’t think much of Jai’s stories,” he said, with a slight wink encouraging Sunny to play along.

“So do I. I just don’t think he’s good enough,” said Sunny, trying his hardest to keep a straight face.

“No, I don’t think that’s quite it. By his own admission, he considers his physical appearance a hindrance to his literary prospects, right? And also, by his own admission, his narrations don’t arouse much interest in her – to the extent that she can be found texting on her mobile simultaneously. Now if you were an attractive and smart woman like Ruchi,why would you stick around with a husband you didn’t find physically or intellectually appealing. Tell me, Sunny!”

A cold silence clattered at the table. Sunny instinctively shot a gingerly glance across at Jai, who had by then clenched the edge of the table with both his hands.

“Listen guys…,” Jai began, deciding that things had gone too far and ugly.

But his voice of protest was strangled dismissively by Prakash.

“Come on now, we’re just having a bit of fun. Nothing wrong in a bit of fun, is there Sunny?” he said with a loaded smile.

Sunny reached out for his cigarette box which he knew was empty. His fingers conducted the obligatory search inside the box, but in inevitable vain.

“No there isn’t,” he replied slowly as though he was reciting the letters in an optical test. “But I think it’s time we made a move. It’s too darn late for all this.”

“And the text messaging, Sunny? Doesn’t that strike you as a bit fishy? Who do you think she might be messaging?” said Prakash, completely disregarding Sunny’s reservations.

Jai could feel his grip of the edge of the table tighten. His smooth, clean shaven jaw line was now distorted by convulsions of anger.

“Tell me, Sunny, who could she be messaging?” he said, exhorting him to participate further.

Prakash looked straight into Sunny’s eyes with his lips set tightly together.

“Well if you’re not going to indulge me, I’m afraid I’m going to have to do all the theorizing myself,” he continued.

From the corner of his eyes, Sunny could see that Jai was just about ready to explode.Prakash began tapping his coffee mug with his spoon, slowly at first and then rapidly escalating into a crescendo. He looked beseechingly at Prakash but he just smiled back coolly. His feet felt stiff but he managed to shuffle them with some effort.

“I think she has a lover outside marriage”, said Sunny quickly, like he was ripping off a bandage.

Jai rose violently from his chair causing it to teeter on its legs for few brief moments before, finally, toppling over with a thud. The empty bottles and mugs on the table shook.

There was a long pause.

“I need to take a leak,” said Jai, as soon as he could say anything, and staggered off in the general direction of the wash room.

“You knew all along didn’t you,” said Sunny quietly without looking at Prakash, as soon as Jai was out of earshot. “It was just the onetime Prakash bhai,I swear. You can’t tell him. You just can’t. But why do all this Prakash bhai ? Was this the point of this entire evening? You led us here on purpose, didn’t you? All those stories? Just so that you could enjoy this moment?”

Prakash rose and brushed of morsels of his sandwich from his shirt. He smiled victoriously down at Sunny.

“Relax, Sunny. None of this is my business. And there was no point to any of the stories-mine or Jai’s. The joy of a story lies in its telling, doesn’t it? Remember to tip Pooja generously for an extremely enjoyable evening,” Prakash said, and shuffled out of the bar and into the streets.

The Dreamers...

Lying on the cot, Azad continued to stare at the ceiling, transfixed perhaps by the hypnotic rotation of the heavy, metallic black blades of the fan. It was an old fan, this; hanging precariously to the beam by means of a rusty hook which did not inspire much confidence. The alternating creaks and thuds of the fan drowned the feeble ticking of the little, circular clock, perched on top of the cupboard parked in a corner of the room.

The Clock...

Azad almost smiled as recollections of the day- seven years ago- when he paid Rs 1000 for this white clock priced at Rs 999, and smartly walked away with it without waiting for the change, filtered in. He had had his heart set on the clock for quite some time now- nine months to be precise. For, exactly nine months earlier, there was a glimmer in Rekha’s eyes when she had first seen it in a dingy departmental store tucked away in the congested underbelly of their South Kolkata neighbourhood.

“That will complete our home, Azad!” she had said. And Azad had listened.

His eyes opened as he became aware of the scraping sound of his wife’s cracked heels rubbing against the cold, grey stone floor.

Rekha...

In the reflection on the floor he could see her nightgown swishing about her ankles. There was a time when Azad entertained himself by mentally predicting her nightly routine with surprising accuracy-her neatly folding his clothes, which were flung on the chair; disposing of the vegetable peelings from the day’s cooking; standing in the middle of the room, one hand behind hip, critiquing the dilapidated, crusty wall and commenting on the need to get a paint job done; collecting her hair hanging loosely at her waist, and tying it into an untidy bun with strands sticking out. But, now, he had moved on.

The little, white clock told him that in exactly forty seconds he would feel her right arm, damp with little globules of sweat, on his bare chest, and the warmth of her breath on his cheeks.Tonight,he could smell the garlic-heavy curry in her breath.Azad tried to inch away, but she snuggled closer. It was a small bed and he knew that he and no option. Azad had to endure.

It was a particularly muggy Kolkata night; so much so that when streams of tears began to manoeuvre their way through his stubble, they mingled with constant trickle of sweat sliding down his forehead. Azad wiped his face with his left palm and then wiped his left palm on the white bed sheet, adding another stain to its existing litter of stains. He scanned the room with moist eyes. In the way of ventilation, the room had only a little blue window with rusty bars which, in any case, was not wind-facing. And the feeble whiffs of breeze that did come, only managed to dislodge tiny chunks of rust hanging to the periphery of the bars and deposit them on the floor; on the white bed sheet; on the white wall clock; in the long, dark locks of his wife. The powdery rust, together with the rotting vegetable peelings and the sweaty bodies of its occupants lent a distinct odour to the room. No wonder Azad felt suffocated; no wonder Azad felt trapped.

He turned to look at Rekha. Strangely, he did not feel guilt at having let her down. To be honest, her complaints didn’t bother him as much as a selfish sense of regret for what his life could have been. He closed his eyes once again, and hoped for some sleep to massage the throbbing pain that he felt in his temple. Yes, he would end it all tomorrow. Finally. Slowly, he began to slide away.

And then he saw it.

It was beautiful.

The tips of her nails, varnished in a showy shade of crimson, rested on the clear crystal wine glass. With an inviting smile she raised the glass and moved closer to him with small steps, carefully calibrated to attract every fibre of his masculine attention. He reached out for the slender bottle of the fine Burgundy which stood in dignified elegance amidst the heap of stale vegetable peelings. Beyond the quivering meniscus of the translucent wine he could see her face awash in the rhythmic motion of red waves which seemed to sprawl across her features, latching onto every contour in helpless devotion. She moved even closer. Azad sensed pleasure-raw, primeval and carnal- bottled up in the minuscule space between them. His mind raced wildly and his pulse tried hard to catch up. The turgidity of the moment was seductive; so seductive that for a few seconds he resisted being seduced, if only to savour the moment in entirety. Finally, he decided that the iron of his resolve had rusted enough.

With a carefully concealed grunt which accompanied the effort, and a resoundingly sharp pop, he pulled out the soft, brown cork which sealed the orifice. He admired the fleeting hue of startled surprise which passed over her eyes as he opened the bottle; he wondered at how effortlessly her features transitioned to convey a playful, flirtatious mischief. Slowly, he poured the wine down the sides of her glass. The soft gurgle of the wine flowing ignited an acute thirst within him-a thirst he hadn’t felt in years.

She smiled briefly as she watched the red spirit fill her glass. Then, she directed a loaded glance into his eyes- a glance as oblique in direction as in connotation. With that smile still in place, she gently placed the glass between her lips and savoured, if a touch exaggeratedly, the taste of the Burgundy soaking her palate. Without waiting for him to fill his glass, she turned her back on him in one graceful twist of her slender torso and started walking away with a gait that seemed to mock him. He watched, empty glass in hand, as she walked away; he watched her raven hair oscillate at her waist; he watched as her nightgown swished about her ankles.

Rekha...

She walked as far as the confines of the room permitted her to. And when she could walk away from him no further, she stood there sporadically looking over her shoulder, hurling enticing glances and sipping away with poise.

Azad was conscious of a pang of desperation; the desire to consummate the agonizing incompleteness of the moment tormented him. But he had decided to play it cool; he had decided to revel in the enigma, be stimulated by the mystery. For once, he wanted to be challenged. She was an angel his libido had conjured up; and Azad knew all too well that angels didn’t come easy.

So he leant against the wall, took a deep breath and poured himself a drink.

On a sunny afternoon, seven years ago, Rekha had hurried into their home clutching in one hand a brown paper bag and squeezing, with the other, Azad’s right forefinger. Palpably excited, she shut the door behind them and proceeded towards the small dining table.

“Hold on to this, will you?” she said, thrusting the paper package towards Azad.

With a swipe of the hand she cleared the litter of peelings on the table and tossed the soiled clothes onto the chair.Then, collecting the package from Azad, she gently placed it on the table. Azad noticed the gleam of anticipation in Rekha’s eyes as she carefully tore off the paper-like a mother awaiting a newborn. She bent over slightly to take another closer look at the clock.

He stood and watched in curious fascination with his hands folded.

“The only thing that will change about it the hundredth time you gape at it is the time it shows”, he quipped.

She just looked at him and smiled back. Normally, she would counter his snide remark with a carefully chosen volley of irrelevant arguments to elicit just the right amount of annoyance in him; enough to crease his forehead and cause the tip of his brows to raise themselves ever so slightly, but avoiding the scowl which caused his nostrils to quiver and lips to rearrange themselves in an unpleasant formation she couldn’t quite describe. They had been married nine years now.

Rekha raised the gleaming white clock and pressed it softly against her ears. With her eyes closed, she listened to the ticking of the clock.Yes, it was alive. It was the closest they had come to creating life, she thought.

Azad couldn’t help let out a soft chuckle. On some days and in some moments, he was fond of her. Affectionately, if a touch mechanically, he ran his fingers through her hair. The smoothness of her tresses was rudely terminated by what his fingers recognized as tiny fragments of gravel- the rust perhaps, which these days seemed to pervade everything in his domestic life. The chuckle dissolved; his forehead creased; the tips of his brows rose slightly; and then Azad scowled.

He disentangled his fingers from her locks, reached into his pocket for a cigarette, walked towards the door and stepped out. As he lit his cigarette he could hear Rekha vigorously pacing inside mumbling something about finding a suitable place to plant the clock. Azad wondered why he couldn’t share her excitement. For nine months, all he had wanted to do was to be able to afford it; to be able to see this very gleam of excitement in her eyes and joy of possession in her stride as she clasped it in her hands- a joy which had eluded her in childbirth time and time again. He could understand, at some level, why it was more than just a clock for Rekha.Perhaps, for her, it meant that not all happiness was out of reach.

But it was, after all, only a clock, he rationalized.

“Azad!” she cried out from within.

He took one last, deep drag and stubbed out his cigarette. He exhaled the smoke with a tired sigh and went in.

The clock had been accommodated on top of the cupboard, where it seemed to beam down victoriously at Azad. Rekha was at the table, scribbling away furiously on a piece of ruled paper. She always wrote on ruled paper as she found it difficult writing straight on blank where there were no lines to neatly fit her words in between.

“Seven years.” she said, without looking up.

Azad didn’t reply. He waited for her to explain; she enjoyed it.

“Seven years is the time it’ll take us to make our home...complete.” She continued writing, her features drenched in the satiety and involvement of a child building a castle of sand. “Done!” she squealed in delight and tucked a hanging strand of hair behind her ears. “If we accomplish this in the next seven years .....” she started. Giggling like an enthused schoolgirl, she handed him the piece of paper.

As Azad browsed through her list, he was aware of a surge of restlessness within. The realization that he had now turned thirty reared its ugly head and punched him in the gut. A colour television; a music system; a scooter and a new paint job for the house – this, if Rekha were to have it her way, would be the culmination of the best years of his life. Azad was suddenly clouded by an emotion he could only place as sadness- an overbearing, crippling feeling of depression.

He had read about exotic cuisines which he had dreamt of titillating his taste buds with; he had heard of white sand beaches in Greece and imagined sunbathing in them; he had fantasized about hiking in the snow laden Alpines and making love to exquisite Spanish women with the perfect tan. And above all he had hoped he would one day sample the finest red wines from the choicest French vineyards. His marriage to Rekha was suddenly suffocating; the piece of paper he now held in his hands was, most certainly, a sentence of life imprisonment. Azad now felt weak.

She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“Thank you, Azad!”

Azad stared back at her blankly. She tried to kiss him again. This time he resisted. “I’m tired, Rekha.” he said and retired to the cot. He knew he had hurt Rekha deeply. But he didn’t care. Strangely, all he could think about then was the red Burgundy wine from the vineyards of Eastern France.

The fine red wine.....

Leaning against the wall, he dislodged some flakes hanging from the now crusty and worn out coat of paint. He sipped the wine and instinctively closed his eyes, letting the taste permeate his senses. She stood there, leaning against the cupboard with her legs crossed in front of her, her nightgown fluttering in the gentle night breeze and strands of her hair scattered across her face. Taking another sip, he now walked up to her. Using his forefinger, he tried to brush aside the hair veiling her sublime features. She wriggled playfully at the touch of his fingertips and he spilt some of his wine on her long, shapely arms. As streams of red trickled down her arms, he admired the contrast her perfect bronze skin offered. He placed his arms on the curves of her waist and leaned forward to kiss her. Her eyelids drooped in submission. He could now feel the softness of her breasts caressing his chest. He kissed her gently at first-and then, forcing her against cupboard, more passionately. Clasping the side of her head with one hand, he started unbuttoning her gown with the other. As he slid his arms down her gown to stroke her feminity, her torso reciprocated with vigour and the cupboard vibrated in sync with the ebb and flow of their passion.

The clock on top of the cupboard teetered for a while and when, Azad’s dream could no longer contain the overpowering current of his desires, it tumbled from the top with a jarring shatter.

Azad awoke with his chest pounding and saliva trickling down the corner of his mouth. He stared motionless at the ceiling for a few moments and then almost involuntarily he smiled. He wasn’t sure but he felt something akin to liberation. He swept his eyes across the room-the filthy pile on the table, rusty bars of the window, the dilapidated walls and the cupboard with the clock perched on top. And inexplicably, this morose setting now aroused him both physically and mentally.

No, he would not end it all today. His life wasn’t throttled by his marriage, he decided. The romance had to be found in his mind; in his life; in Rekha -not in the beaches of Greece or the vineyards of France.

He was overcome by the desire to make love to Rekha.Now. It had been seven long years for Rekha too, he thought- seven years of chasing her dreams. She had counted on him to help her chase them but he hadn’t obliged.

He turned around to plant a kiss on her lips. But she wasn’t there. All that remained was a note written on a piece of blank paper.

“You are free. Find happiness. So will I.

He was Azad.Free.

To Dream.

Alone...

He continued to stare at the ceiling, transfixed perhaps by the hypnotic rotation of the heavy, metallic black blades of the fan.

And then he smiled.

An Exercise in Passion

Attraction

And as we walked barefoot along the stretch of dew-laden greens it became increasingly clear to me that it was meant to be. Not because she could finish my sentences; not because I, for once, didn’t feel rushed—but because the tip of her nose jiggled from the tiny reverberations that emanated from her precious mouth when she laughed.

Yes, she was beautiful.

So when the dew, buffeted upwards in a fine sprinkle as she dragged her tiny feet through the soaking grass, started landing on my ankles, there was only one thing which had to be said.

“Let’s sit”, I suggested.

As the two of us planted ourselves upon a conveniently dry mound, I was aware that conversation, too, was about to run dry. The wet muddiness trickling down between the toes began to solidify into an immobile crust.

Not a word did she say.

While she stared emptily into the vast, still starry emptiness above us and I became conscious of an intrusion into our envelope of serenity – a rather large black ant struggling to overcome the formidable difficulties presented by the mud-stained smoothness of her legs - my mind flirted temporarily with the idea of making small talk. But there was a wonder in her eyes just then – a wonder which I decided not to dilute with banalities.

The world around us had dissolved in a darkness redeemed only by the pale efforts of the night sky and our conversation had, for hours, tossed and turned with glee in the delights of open-endedness. Nothing was to be judged as the world was blanketed by the night; nothing was to be evaluated by entrenched moral standards. We skirmished with morality; teetered on the brink of irreverence. The night was replete with thrilling possibilities and unforeseen directions.

Down with irrational reverence, I had suddenly decided during our walk as I dropped the bulky text book I was lugging around down to the grass and, symbolically, stepped on it with gay abandon in a moment of pulsating liberation. She watched in disapproval and disbelief as the blades of mud-coated moist grass sticking to my feet were dislodged by the pristine whiteness of the book’s cover and adorned, if unwillingly, the resounding imprint I had left behind. Then, as if suddenly succumbing to the theme of undaunted excess which underscored the night, she submitted to a volley of soft laughter.
And the tip of her nose jiggled.

If only the Sun kept away.

She emerged once more from the reverie she was immersed in and looked straight at me. Her eyes were a shade of brown resembling the crust which was now ensconced in the recesses between her toes- the residue left behind by a torrent of uninhibited conversation. Unable to meet my gaze, her eyelids drooped concealing the caramel brown within. The struggling ant now drew her attention.

I watched as her face condensed into a beatific smile.

I watched as she gently allowed the tiny creature into the cusp of her right palm and placed it back on the ground, as if in acknowledgement of its travails.

I watched as she simultaneously pushed back a strand of her dark, wavy hair behind her ears.

I watched….

Yes, she was beautiful.




Expression

And then it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, all the charm emanated from the rusty round table and the rickety plastic chairs.

Her legs betrayed a restlessness as they rose and fell rhythmically; the tip of her fingers gently making indentations in the melted mass of sinful chocolate lying seductively at the centre of the crimson table. Slowly, she pushed the disfigured mound of brown sweetness towards me inviting me to succumb to its addictive pleasures. I knew then that the time had come. All hesitation evanesced in that one loaded gesture.

But she just couldn’t look me in the eye that night.

The nerve-endings in her neck pounded delicately in anticipation. The paper cup carrying her ice-tea quivered as the rusty round table rocked up and down from the frantic motion of her legs, sending ripples across the reflection of the moon which floated on the surface. The moon was a perfect crescent, waiting to be consummated into rotundity.

Any moment now.

When my hand inched forward to meet her fingertips, I could feel her pulse, muffled by the syrupy, brown coating of chocolate. Whether it was a hint of sparkle in her eyes that I noticed just then or the light from the night sky bouncing off the silver foil of wrapper – I cannot for certain say.

And then in happened.

Involuntarily, feelings transfigured into words and words, in search of direction, coalesced into a sentence. And drenched in the charm of the humid summer air, it rushed to the dry haven of her ears, watched over by her long, untamed, dark locks.

“So I guess then it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if we were to….”

The rhythmic motion of her legs dissipated into a placid calm. I waited for a response which I knew was not forthcoming- at least not right away.

Because she just couldn’t look me in the eye that night.



Consummation

And I wondered how the light from the street lamp, tempered into a soft glow by the thick dirty-green canopy in its way, failed to wake her up.

The smooth roundness of her head rested gently on the concrete pavement. Strands of her hair rebelled from the bun they were tied to and hung loosely from the edge of the pavement, their tips gently kissing the film of dust on the road below.

There was a certain serenity about her features - an air of submission in the faint tremor in her lower jaw, which only I knew was a smile. As I knelt closer to run my fingers through her hair, I inhaled the bittersweet smell of vodka still lingering in her breath.

We could still hear the stifled sound of music coming from within.

Placing my hand on her lower back, I lifted her torso. I pressed the bottle of mango nectar against her lips in an effort to revive her. Spurned by her lips, streams of the syrup began trickling down her neckline leaving stains of pale yellow in their trail. A drop remained, hanging menacingly from her lower lip, and I smothered it with my index finger.

Eyes still closed, she put her arm around my neck and rested her head on my chest. Then, lifting one leg, she planted it on my thighs. Soon she was in my arms – all of her.

I gazed down at the little bundle of beauty that I now held and wondered if I ever wanted her intoxication to subside. With her limp fingers she feebly tugged at the ends of my sleeve. Raising a hand slowly, she gingerly probed the thin wall of emptiness between us till the tip of her fingers found my forehead. After fiddling momentarily with a blade of my hair soaked in sweat, she began to slide her fingers down my face. I closed my eyes as Softness itself caressed my eyes; the tip of my nose; the dryness of my lips; the unshaven roughness of my chin.

Laboriously, her eyelids started picking themselves up as if to confirm the map that her fingertips had traced out. Semi-open brown eyes stared at me with the combination of curiosity, amazement and vulnerability of a baby, fresh from the womb.

As I leaned over to explore the depths of her beauty, her lips parted and eyelids closed again; decisively, this time.

Her breathing grew heavier; faster; noisier.

Until, we could no longer hear the stifled sound of music from within.






Hurt

And I trudged along, alone, in the biting cold.

I bent down to disentangle the formidable knot in the laces of my shoes with my numb fingers and failed miserably. Like coarse ropes of jute, they grazed my fingers, leaving jagged strands of fibre sticking out from my nails. Placing the pointed tip of one shoe on the heal of the other, I proceeded to unceremoniously strip my feet. After violently rolling over a few times, they finally settled in a clumsy heap next to the barbed wire entrance to the fields.

My first steps on the frosty greens were the most difficult. Seasons had passed me by; seasons had passed us by. The moist muddiness of summer had abandoned us, replaced by a frigid, dry hostility. As I stepped on the mound where we had had our first rendezvous, the warmth of memories was brutally disrupted by the wave of cold that assaulted my bare feet. The mound stood before me today a hardened cube of ice.

In a foolhardy display, a black ant came in my way, perhaps expecting graciousness again. Inadvertently, I stepped on it. I wanted to look back and see if it had survived; I wanted to allow it gently into the cusps of my palm and deliver it to warmth and safety. But there was no warmth to be found; no graciousness to scatter to the poor creature.

So, I trudged along, alone, in the biting cold.

The rusty round table and the rickety plastic chair were barely discernible, being consumed ruthlessly by the dense cover of fog. I paused to light my first cigarette in ten years. The smoke billowing from the burning tobacco mingled with the fog and eventually became one with it, leaving no trace behind – apart from the stench of tobacco.

The table had been withered into submission by the elements. Its hot crimson red colour had paled, eaten into, for years, by the marauding army of rust. Instinctively, my index finger reached out to touch the crusty surface of the table which left behind a stain of powdery brown on my skin; an all too familiar shade of brown, only bereft of the inviting smell of dark chocolate.

In the distance, stood a lonely street lamp – the street lamp. Cold from desuetude, it peered over the yellow, flaccid leaves and the barren stretch of concrete pavement below. As I walked the pavement once more, the heels of my feet crushed the soft chunks of gravel which lay littered into a fine powder. Trickling over the edge of the pavement, it joined the film of dust on the road, burying beneath it an orphaned strand of dark hair brought in, perhaps, by the stinging breeze. It struggled for a while to extricate itself from the pile, twisting and turning wildly in the wind. And then, emphatically, it managed to break free.
Away it flew to the south, and I could only watch.

I was aware of a sharp pain – a little drop of blood in the recesses of my toes, from a tiny splinter I had probably picked up along the way. It was cold. Far away, I could see the outline of the clumsy heap of my shoes I had left behind.

I lit my second cigarette in ten years.

And I trudged along, alone, in the biting cold.






Permanence

And I saw her again.
Amidst the deafening explosions of hand grenades, the clatter of empty cartridges on the glittering white marble tiling, the panic ridden din of the helpless Saturday night shoppers and the pungent odour from the rising fumes of smoke, I caught a glimpse of the woman I loved.

There she was: brown eyes; dark wavy hair; precious little mouth – all of her. Despite the thick veil of haze, I could see that she was still as beautiful as the girl I once held in my arms during a vodka-heavy night, ten years ago. She was on her knees. Her toes supported her tiny feet on the pristine white floor, stained in shades of hot crimson red; her shoes, dislodged from her feet, lay sprawled in a clumsy heap.
I stepped closer.

The air was heavy with the stench of gunpowder and it made her cough violently. The tears rolling down her face from her reddened eyes rushed to her parted lips. Spurned by her lips, they trickled down her tender neckline leaving behind a moist trail.

With her bloody hands she tried to stop the flow of blood oozing out from the wounds of the man lying at her feet- his chest perforated by three, maybe four, rounds of fire. A strand of her long, dark hair hung loosely down her shoulders and made a gentle indentation on a puddle of blood on the floor. She was sobbing uncontrollably, begging for help.
And the tip of her nose jiggled.

Somewhere, from within one of the stores played a Beethoven Symphony. The music tried to lend some serenity but was overpowered by the discordant notes of cartridges showering down on the marble floor.

And then she saw me.

Just then, I could see in those caramel brown eyes, a grotesque communion of fear, shock, disbelief and what I hoped was a smattering of guilt.
She looked alternately at me and the rifle that I was pointing at her.

There was the faint tremor in her lower jaw which only I knew to be a smile. I moved closer. The icy barrel of my rifle now pressed against her collar bone. A wave of cold ran through her body and her slender torso convulsed involuntarily. She looked up at me. I tried to keep my gaze fixed on her eyes for the answers to all my questions. But a violent gust from an explosion nearby scattered her hair over her face, concealing the caramel brown within.

We were instructed to kill all in sight. I didn’t have much time- neither did the wounded man whose blood smeared hand she still held. There was plenty I had to say to her but only one thing I could say right then; the only thing which mattered.

‘Do you love me?’ I hissed slowly, making certain that each word impaled her being.

She looked alternately at me and the rifle that I was pointing at her.
Finally, she looked straight at me and blinked suggestively. I lowered my rifle bent down, grabbed her by the hair and kissed her mouth; my first kiss in ten years. A teardrop hung menacingly from her lower lip. As I reached out to smother it, it fell onto a ring she now wore – her wedding ring. We had kissed while her husband lay dying.

‘Down with irrational reverence’, I said.
She let out a feeble, mirthless chuckle.

As I proceeded to kiss her again, her hair scattered over her face again, by what I thought was …. It didn’t matter anymore. She was shot in the head.

She stared dreamily into the distance as I held her in my arms once more. The Symphony still meandered about, trying to pacify. Somehow, she managed to give me a parting gift. Her final words to me.

“Help him”.

She was still holding his hands. For a few seconds, she continued staring into emptiness.

Until, she could no longer hear the sound of music from within.

The 8:15

There is a rather prominent school of thought which advocates the notion that all human beings choose the path of least resistance. Of course, there are always people who hate schools of any manner. These are people who would go to considerable lengths to disprove established theories about the human psyche. Perhaps they take umbrage to the idea of them being figured out. There is, however, another branch of this clan which seems to have found an easier way around this predicament. Their modus operandi is to gradually distance themselves from the very crowd which is under the constant scanner of psycho analysis. This is akin to a self inflicted mutation, though in a very non intrusive way. Yet, another prominent clan which, by the looks of it, is multiplying like rabbits is the one which neither understands nor could care less about the aforementioned drivel. And then there was Luke.

See, the thing was that Luke was never particularly fond of his bus journeys to his place of employment. Some people revel in the romanticism involved in the imagery of them starting, cappuccino in hand, a fresh working day. And it would not be too much of a stretch to imagine a little sparkling blue bus as the backdrop for this lush visual. This tale, however, is about Luke. These romantic bus commuters may have figured in the story had Luke boarded the 8:15 that morning. Which brings me back to the fact that Luke was never particularly fond of his bus journeys to his place of employment. Certain though I am that you would like to know a bit more about the nature of his employment and draw inferences about him ,this is precisely what I will not have you do. Neither would Luke, for that matter. I would like to take a moment to clarify my position in the scheme of things. My role in this little tale is that of a dispassionate chronicler of events. The only thing that I knew for certain about Luke was that he harboured a distaste for his ride to work. So how did I figure that out?

What often bothers me about smart theories is that they tend to be conspicuous by their absence when they are needed the most. It is only after the solution has reared its elusive head that they furtively crawl out of their holes. Put more simply, the mind has a propensity of approaching problems more efficiently when they cease to be problems. Or maybe its just my mind. But that is hardly my point. What I mean to say is there was nothing about Luke that would make me doubt his intentions to board the 8:15 as he stood next to me at the bus junction that morning. If I was privy to his reluctance, I would have undoubtedly searched him for the usual indicators like furrowed brows, twitching lips and similar expressions of hesitance. But people don’t notice these things, do they? Holmes did and he was fictional. The truth of the matter was more Watsonesque . Which, by the way, is a more witty way of saying that the truth of the matter was more mundane. In plain words, I knew because he told me so. With furrowed brows and with a twitch of the lips he said, “I am not particularly fond of my bus journeys to my place of employment”.

The more perceptive of you may wonder how this dispassionate chronicler came to know the name of this shabbily sketched character that he encountered at the bus junction. Ah, but therein lies the rub. It is rather difficult to know how to narrate an incident when you are not quite sure about how it panned out in the first place. Although I am positive that he was christened Luke within days of him being born, for most part of the incident he was just another face in the crowd for me. Therefore, revealing how I came to know his name would involve me revealing far more than I intend to at this stage. I don’t, however, wish to create an impression that the incident to which I allude was a long drawn out one or even, for that matter, one of life altering ramifications. Indeed, as I may have occasioned to mention before, the truth of the matter is rather Watsonesque.

The time is ripe for an analysis of the control that a seemingly innocuous cigarette exerts on the life of a man. I like smoking. Make no mistake about it. I like the smell of cigarettes. I like the smell of people who smoke cigarettes. I certainly yield to nobody in the knowledge and trivia associated with tobacco wrapped in paper. And yet, it causes me no slight perturbation. I am sure I speak for a lot of smokers when I say that stubbing out a cigarette before it burns out brings forth sentiments not dissimilar to unrequited love. Obviously, the cigarette being the spurned party bears the brunt of this sentiment. I don’t wish to imply it is actually the flame of passionate love that you extinguish when you rub your rugged shoe across its smooth, slender and smouldering body. No, that would be rather daft. Anyways, my point is, for a fleeting moment before you actually decide to stub out the thing it exerts an invisible force on your being. It is a force which I like to refer to as control. Control has an illustrious list of victims and achievements and it was, for it, the work of a moment to ensure that Luke missed the 8:15.Luke puffed away as the little sparkling blue bus spewed out some smoke of its own.

As you may have already figured out, I wasn’t exactly waiting at the bus junction to board the 8:15.Or the 8:25, for that matter. Indeed, I must confess to having no intention of commuting anywhere. Suddenly, I can feel the gaze of your attention diverted from Luke to me. Who is this dispassionate chronicler anyways? What is his story? Admittedly, I have taken the liberty of concealing myself behind the protagonist. It is not something I am ashamed of. It is a literary tool employed with a great deal of success in the past, most notably by one Dr. John.H.Watson. Nevertheless, I find it extremely difficult to move on without taking you into some sort of confidence. Watson did not and he was fictional.

Do not dismiss this tale as a culmination of an hour idled away at a local bus junction. Quite to the contrary, my life seemed to have gone into auto pilot mode. You know how they say “Stop the world and I’ll get off.”? Well, they deserve a thump on the back and a pat on the head for having succinctly described my sentiments that morning. The 8:15 had been an inseparable part of my existence for years now. The arrival of the little sparkling blue bus seemed to signify, each morning, the last independent choice that I had each day. The moment I boarded the bus, I was in the tenacious claws of control. Don’t get me wrong- I did not detest my means of livelihood. In fact, it would not be overstating it to say that I fairly enjoyed it. Nevertheless, like the cigarette that I hated stubbing out, it exerted a control on my actions. It arrested free will. And I could not live like that. At least, not that morning.

Solitude has a distinct way of going about its business. The business being, quite obviously, to eliminate the lack of itself. At times it slowly pushes you into a corner with a workman like diligence. On other occasions, its actions are precipitated by the assistance of little blue sparkling buses which seem to suck all that can move into them. The 8:15 had come and gone and when the smoke from its exhaust had cleared, Luke and I were all that remained. I don’t know if you have ever been confronted with a situation when a bloke suddenly ceases to be just another face in the crowd and you feel compelled to walk up to him and make small talk. If you had inquired of me that morning as to why I had walked up to Luke and asked him the time, I would have been at loss to answer. The question would have posed a formidable challenge. However, looking back now, I am able to propose a smart theory behind my action. The reason why Luke had ceased to be just another face in the crowd was that the crowd had now disappeared. And since I find the human connection infinitely more interesting than the spotted cat on the opposite pavement or the patterns traced out by the smoke from cigarettes, Luke became the object of my undiluted attention. You may deride my theory as mere elementary and you may be right. My position, nevertheless, on the matter is that the worth of a theory should be estimated decoupled from the time at which it was thought out. What was smart then is but elementary now. Maybe I am just making allowances for the propensity of the human mind to approach problems more efficiently when they cease to be problems. Or maybe it’s just my mind. But that’s hardly my point.

“8: 15” replied Luke curtly, his lips still engaged in passionate lip lock with the filter of the cigarette.

“Next bus isn’t until another 15 odd minutes”

“I know”

Ordinarily, there would have been precious little I could have said at this stage without sounding like a complete pest. Missing the 8:15 should have had a liberating effect on me. My sentiments, on the other hand, could be compared to the schoolboy who after having bunked classes for the first time was in need of a place to lie low. I was anxious, fidgety and in need of a conversation. It disturbed me that after all the lofty thoughts about regaining free will from the clutches of the 8:15, my free will, seemingly, wanted nothing more than the return of normalcy. It was like an expensive purchase of a football club failing to live up to the bloated expectations.

“You know, they should reserve the window seats for smokers.” I said.

Luke turned to look at me, perhaps for the first time. Although he may have caught a glimpse of me earlier, it was probably because I was obstructing the path of light reaching his eyes. He must have suddenly decided that I deserved a second look.

“And that would achieve…?”

“Well, you obviously seemed to have missed your bus.”

“And you yours.”

“You don’t know that. I could easily have been waiting for the 8:35”

“My sentiments exactly”

Ordinarily, there would have been precious little I could have said at this stage without sounding like a complete pest. But I had raised the bar once and now there was no looking back.

“So did you?” I continued shamelessly. I realize that having promised to be the dispassionate chronicler, you probably feel that I should stop judging myself. But I am not judging myself, you see. I was shameless. With a vengeance; intentionally, and with beastliness of forethought. I needed this conversation.

“Did I what?”

“Miss the bus.”

Luke let out a soft chuckle and took a deep drag from the cigarette. As he watched the ash doing an involuntary jig on the grey pavement, the chuckle condensed into an almost beatific smile. He reached into his pocket and offered me a cigarette. I have always believed that there must be an ingredient in cigarettes that stimulates bonding in general and male bonding in particular. Someday it may transpire that this ingredient also contributes to cancer. Very often, life is like that.

“I wouldn’t quite phrase it that way” said Luke.

“Well, how would you phrase it?”

“The bus missed me.”

“That’s not rephrasing. That’s….lying.” I was being argumentative. And I am not judging myself. Again.

Luke let out a second soft chuckle and lit up a second cigarette to go with it. He gently stroked his stubble with his fingernails and pretended to straighten the tie that he had obviously forgotten to wear, having lost it, perhaps, in the recesses of his cupboard together with the shaving cream and razor.

“Its Thursday, you see.” he said

“Quite so.” I replied, nonplussed.

“It’s my mid week break.”

“What sort of an employer gives you a mid week break?”

“The sort that wants to hire me anyways” he retorted.

“So you spend your off day watching people boarding buses to go to work” I suggested with a hint of unconcealed sarcasm.

“And smoking at the same time,” he replied bluntly.

“I stand corrected”

People say that it’s amazing the things one can do when one doesn’t have to look at oneself in the mirror. I guess it follows that you can confide a great deal in people when you are certain to never cross paths with them again. My ignorance about Luke was comparable only to his ignorance about me. And yet Luke, who was, by now, well into his third cigarette, was opening up fast. He was smoking even faster.

“That’s a little sadistic. I take it that you are not particularly fond of your employment?” I continued after pausing to take another drag of nicotine.

With furrowed brows and with a twitch of the lips he said, “I am not particularly fond of my bus journeys to my place of employment”. And he said it with a great deal of poignancy.

All of a sudden, the conversation seemed fraught with opportunities. I had initiated this conversation with the sole intention of steering myself away from the anxiousness that my situation had presented me with. Now, the meandering route adopted by it had, eventually, shoved me headlong into a confrontation with the same anxiety. Of course, I realized that the reasons for his dislike of the bus journey may have been more mundane than mine. However, there was something about the way the cigarette smoke brought out his grey, dreamy eyes that should have told me that he would not attribute his reluctance in boarding the 8:15 to the infernal crowd or the rising prices of gasoline. But as always, I didn’t quite think of it then.

“And it’s not because of the infernal crowd or the rising prices of gasoline,” he continued.

By now, another cluster of people had surfaced to board the 8:25.

“Right now, the only thing these people want is to board that bus and begin their day. I derive a little peace in seeing them get what they want. Is that sadistic? If I stand here long enough and see enough people beginning their day, I feel…… ahead,” said Luke. He was not so much addressing me as mouthing a soliloquy staring into empty space.

“But they have begun their day, haven’t they? You haven’t.”

“Neither have you,” was his riposte.

There was nothing to be said. And as we smokers often do when there is nothing to be said, I took another puff. A pregnant silence ensued at the end of which he suddenly turned and looked straight into my eyes. I tried to avert his penetrating gaze but it was an attempt in futility. Even now, in my most vulnerable moment, I didn’t want to be figured out. Very often, people are like that.

“Tell me something,” said Luke. “You watched the 8:15 come and leave without you. You smoked and engaged in a conversation with an utter stranger. Stretched before you now is a day with endless possibilities and limitless opportunities, without any strings attached. It’s a day when you have to do nothing and yet there is so much you can do. How do you feel?”

There was another one of those pregnant silences which was rudely aborted by a sudden buzz of activity at the junction. The 8:25 came to a screeching halt before us and the customary mad rush followed, accompanied by a generous helping of an awful din. There was only one thing left to be asked.

“What is your name?” I shouted out loud.

“Luke. The 8:25 is here. You can choose to get on it or you can choose to walk away. Either way, go begin your day.”

When the 8:25 had left and the smoke from its exhaust had cleared, I found myself standing alone at the junction. Six half-smoked cigarettes adorned the spot where Luke had been standing. The spotted cat from the opposite pavement occupied his place with the regal air of an heir and purred with lazy content.

Looking back, my mind is now pestered with doubts as to whether his name was actually Luke. Did he just over-pronounce the word look? Maybe I am just making allowances for the propensity of the human mind to approach problems more efficiently when they cease to be problems. Or maybe it’s just my mind. But that is hardly my point.



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On knowledge,instinct and..Nietzsche!

To begin at the very beginning, true to the Socratic Method, perhaps it would be appropriate to revisit and question any assumptions we may have about the nature and inception of knowledge; only then can we really begin to make a foray into Nietzsche’s profound views on the subject. So ,as uncomfortable as it may sound , let us, for the purpose of this exposition completely disregard the view of knowledge as an object and attempt to look upon it as an event; a consequence; or even a byproduct , maybe.

Of what, you ask?

Well, in delving deeper into the matter, I would urge you to adopt a more microscopic view of the concept of knowledge. You need only to make a cursory inspection of our surroundings to appreciate the fact that nature resists complexity- behind every seemingly complex entity in space or time there is always a set of simple ideas, concepts and ingredients which are, well, for all practical purposes, indivisible. The carbohydrates are after all made of simple sugar molecules; proteins, the building block of life, are composed of amino acids; and even energy, according to the Quantum theory, is transmitted in smaller packets.
So it seems rather inevitable that a construct as complex as knowledge should, also, have its foundations in simplicity- something more in the realm of the unconscious. And Nietzsche chose to call it instinct.

Now, in order to share Nietzsche’s view of knowledge we need to introduce into this microscopic view of knowledge, an element of causality or interplay. So, consider, if you will, a rather simplistic description of the formation of a chemical compound- the atoms of individual elements interacting, sharing, exchanging and finally giving rise to a more complex third entity. In fact, if Nietzsche is to be believed, this is similar to how knowledge comes into being- a causal effect of the interplay of instincts.

Let us now attempt to reconcile Nietzsche’s view with Freudian concepts of id and ego and superego. The id component of personality represents all the primeval needs we are constantly barraged by- hunger, thirst, lust, pain etc. Our instincts , untempered by the superego, would always seek to satisfy these needs .At the very beginning , therefore, data is all there is; we are surrounded by sensory stimuli which mean nothing to us but which force us to react anyways-react instinctively, to satisfy the id.

But gradually, according to Nietzsche, the interplay of these instincts will cause the inception of knowledge, the point in time when we are able to assimilate the data into information. From a Freudian perspective, it is conceivable that this is where the superego makes its presence felt and alters decision making in accordance with the individual’s reference points. To illustrate, if a speeding truck were to be headed your way while crossing a road, you would instinctively scamper to get out of the way owing to the fight or flight response. Now if, hypothetically, this had been the first time you were ever crossing a road, the approaching truck would have been for you merely a sensory stimulus, a data you reacted to instinctively. However, says Nietzsche, with the exercise of this instinct, knowledge has been conceived- the knowledge that caution must be exercised while crossing roads.

And there in a nutshell, is my opinion on what I believe was Nietzsche’s view on knowledge and instinct. Perhaps I haven’t been entirely accurate but as Nietzsche, himself, once famously said: There are no facts, only interpretations!

An Exercise in Dark Humour

Insouciant. I don’t know about you, but I have always liked the sound of this particular word. There is certain quality about the word that gives me the distinct impression of it being French. Not that I am familiar with the language. Not a chance. Maybe it’s just the way it makes the lips stretch outwards that appeals to me. Anyways, in my opinion, it is a word which ought to be used more often in everyday conversations. I, for one, loved incorporating it my communications, both written and oral, at the slightest of opportunities. It having transpired, however, that not many are aware of the meanings and connotations of the word, I had to sacrifice my grammatical excesses at the altar of simplicity.

So when the man sprawled out on the floor before me cried out, “Insouciant!”, you can scarcely blame me for being a little surprised. Truth be told, I was a little startled because he hadn’t spoken to me in over fifteen minutes and seeing as I was trapped in a room with him, with no other means to amuse myself, his taciturn manner came across as rather rude. But then one must make allowances for the fact that he was nursing a gun shot wound to the lower abdomen and probably had a precious few minutes to live. Even so, I expected a little more spunk.

See, the thing is that I am not one to start conversations. So while he sulked and brooded over the blood oozing out of his perforated belly, I decided to give him the silent treatment. And I gave it to him in large helpings. Eventually, I knew, that someone had to fold, and being the one who could still stand on his feet, I was fairly sanguine about my prospects in this little duel.

“Insouciant !”,he cried out again with that distant look in his eyes which is so characteristic of people nursing a gun shot wound to the abdomen. I found it poetic that my favourite word, which had fallen into desuetude, was being vouched for with such ferocity by a dying man. Maybe, long before he fell into the sordid ways that eventually led to him being shot in the abdomen, he was like any other kid who had committed word lists to memory to get admitted into colleges. Things probably didn’t work out, and now, as fate would have it, the chemical reactions in the dying brain were causing him to randomly spew out words he had forgotten when it mattered most. Or maybe it was because I was painting, at this instant, in shades of blood red, my interpretation of human bondage using a nearby twig that elegantly doubled as a paint brush. Hard to say, these things.

Ordinarily, I would have considered this to be the blood stained olive branch extended by him for want of a truce. However, the tone that he employed was rich with the insinuation that I was responsible for the position of inconvenience that he found himself in. It wasn’t as if I had drilled those bullets into him and I would definitely not take such slander lying down. Actually, technically, he was lying down. But, I suppose you get my point.

I had turned my back on him and held my plans of socialising with my fellow prisoner in abeyance until he adopted a more agreeable stance. Also, my profession had afforded me a good deal of time to study gun shot victims at close quarters and I could tell that the current subject had ,at best, another ten minutes of association with the earthly. I debated the merits of providing him with a rather bleak character appraisal when he was well into the final ten minutes of his life, most of which he would spend clutching his abdomen and accuse me of being an “insouciant”, insensitive prick. Hardly seemed worth the trouble, actually.

The little room where I was held captive was by now, with no insignificant assistance from my fellow prisoner, filled with the nauseating stench of blood and sweat. The risk of forced confinement was a part of my job description. I had always hoped, though, that those who inflicted it would have the professional courtesy to respect my privacy. Solitary confinement is the way to go, I say. Stuffing me in with another dying thug was a move calculated to remind me of the fate that awaits me. And, in my field of work, one wants as little of that as possible. This man had it coming and so did I.

The silence in the room was punctuated only by the periodic grunts and moans of my wounded adversary. I had sufficient reason to exact revenge from this man and had he not being dying so fast, I am not sure I would not have facilitated the process. Although I could appreciate the pain he was in, for I had been shot at an earlier occasion myself, I saw no reason not to make his exit unceremonious. Kick them when they are down, I say.

The colour had drained from his face and his features were contorted with the white hot pain that he was going through. The tip of his ears convulsed involuntarily.

“Chin up, buddy! What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Even if we assume that it will kill you there is a chance that the benefit will carry forward the next time you are born. Don’t mind me saying, but you were always a bit of a wimp.” I said.

Apparently my facetious jibe did not go down too well with him for he continued to stare expressionlessly into my eyes. He was sweating profusely and the few patches of his shirt that weren’t stained red were damp with sweat.

“Kill me”, he muttered using the remnants of his life force, hoping to end the suffering.

“Too easy. Maybe someday when you are more game for a fight,” I quipped.

Almost instantly he let out a guttural roar of agony and started urinating uncontrollably into his pants.The stench was now unbearable. I picked up an old newspaper from the floor and pressed my nose against it as hard as I could without suffocating myself.

“ Help me ..please”, he shrieked in agony. He was into the final despairing moments.
Funny thing, this humanity is. Even the most immoral of men get morally outraged when denied a piece of it in their moment of desperation.

“I’d love to buddy”, I said, “but I’m in bit of a fix myself. But why don’t you just wait? They say time is a great healer. If it works, you get to live. If you don’t, we learn something new.”

I took out the pen knife that I had been hiding inside my left shoe. My escape plan hinged on its effective usage. A sudden stab to the eye followed by a manoeuvre to rid the guard of his gun ought to do the trick. But for now, I needed some quiet to think my escape through.

“See this? If you promise to stop bothering me, I can lend it to you for a while. Try not to leave too much of a mess. Consider it my good deed for the day.”

I have never prided myself on my bedside manners and it was beyond me to hold his hand while he died. Anyways, I doubt I would have got much of a grip considering how bloody they were. Handing him the pen knife, I turned around to give the man the dignity in death that he denied others in life. The sounds that I heard over the next couple of minutes painted a story of desperate suicide.

When I turned around, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. There was no trace of a gruesome slit in the throat or a gaping cavity in the chest. He hadn’t used the pen knife. He had swallowed it. He was looking straight at me with the serenity of man who was about to rest in peace. And then with a singularly despicable smile he coughed out his final words.

“Insouciant bastard…”

Kick them when they are down, I say.

A Bit of Freire and Oppression

Through his book entitled “Pedagogy of the Oppressed”, Paulo Freire offers us a glimpse into what he thinks it will take to bring about a socio political upheaval characterized by a complete absence of gradients in society. He envisions a world devoid of wilful subjugation of man and posits, through this book, that it is only through complete awareness of our circumstance that we can hope to effect constructive changes.

Throughout this socio-political treatise, Freire tries to reiterate “dehumanization” as both the cause and the effect of the oppression which scars our society. He adopts a micro approach towards the study of society and tries to dissect, using, at times, elementary logic and knowledge of human behaviour, individual reactions to oppression. But what lends novelty to “Pedagogy of the Oppressed” is its determination to explore the perspectives of not just the social underdogs but also of those who unleash this dehumanizing current.Objectively, dispassionately and yet with palpable intensity, Freire sets out to explore what makes the entrenched oppressor-oppressed dynamic so sturdy and resistant to change.

Freire opines that the diffusion of the oppressed into the environment of oppression blinds them to the reality of their circumstance and stifles any meaningful revolution. For us to peel away the coating of inequity and injustice smeared across the existing socio-political order and to emerge as liberated individuals , we must learn to isolate ourselves from the societal casserole which contains us and subject our roles as social actors to objective scrutiny.

Wary of hypocrisy and cowardice masquerading as “verbalism”, Freire endorses words which are a manifestation of the communion of incisive reflection and steadfast intent as an initiator of change. At the same time, he is aware that misdirected and visceral action only serves to exacerbate circumstances and obstruct the path of revolution .History is replete with instances which vindicate Freire’s reservations against what he calls “Activism”-the violent outburst of Indian freedom fighters at Chauri Chaura, to cite one.

The seeds of oppression, says Freire, are sown deep into the very heart of our education system in which there is an inherent disconnect between the teacher and the taught owing to a pedagogy which is built on the presumption of an intellectual gradient. Terming the existing approach as a “banking approach” Freire denounces it in favour of a more participative form of learning which involves a dialogue between teacher and student, shuns the pedantic and embraces the practical and creative. The purpose of education should be to stimulate independent, objective thinking which facilitates a critical and original outlook, so integral to a “radical”.

Freire goes a step further and identifies why the existing setup proves to be difficult to overthrow. The Oppressors who recognize the subjugation, make no real attempt to liberate the Oppressed in order to continue to have the opportunity to intermittently oblige them with displays of “false generosity”.

To truly empower the downtrodden, we must overcome our base urge to feel good by scattering largesse every now and then and, as a consequence, manufacturing an illusion of nobility. Empowerment results not from the odd incremental monetary or knowledge gains thrust into the hands of those who don’t know what do with it in the first place but from socially conscientizing these oppressed classes and allowing them to understand why they need what they need. Setting them on the course of a blind pursuit of one material conquest after another will merely serve to alleviate their lot without humanizing them and would set into motion the vicious cycle of the oppressed turning into the oppressor.

Which, to me, begs the question- “Just how effective is our response to the prevalent oppression?”
Sure, there are literacy programs fuelled by fund raisers in which celebrities get to walk the red carpet and revel in the glamour and glare which comes from being in the public eye. Sure, some of these funds do eventually reach NGO’s who manage to thrust a chalk and slate into the hands of impoverished kids and dilapidated elderly, and teach them to legibly scribble the 26 alphabets or count on their fingers. And then begins the prolonged self-congratulatory phase that we, the oppressors (deliberate or inadvertent), simply cannot resist. We claim to have attempted to “liberate” the under-privileged and “empowered” them. How? By teaching them to spell their names?

This myopic view of what constitutes social progress has proven to be our collective undoing. I, personally, refuse to believe that education- in its fundamental form- is the ability to write on a piece of paper, read out eloquently or the ability to summon impressive sounding managerial jargons. In its broadest definition possible, education must be the ability to assess your own little role in the infinitely large and endlessly complex scheme of things. Without that awareness, any personal goals that we define are parochial in thought and trivial in their overall consequence. Direction must be provided by a combination of social conscientization and self awareness and not by the prices of the latest tech gizmo or the trendiest outfit in the market.

Unless we are unable to, somehow, align our efforts at liberating with a broader vision and inject it with a sense of greater purpose, we will fail at making any significant inroads into the existing oppression-infested socio-political order.

Perhaps this line of thought strays into the territory of idealism. Which is perhaps why we don’t live in an ideal world.