All's well that's in the well...

We had a well in our house, the kind in which you could not see the bottom unless sun is shining right above it. As a kid, it always used to captivate me. It was like a well that they used to show in fairy tales; covered with green climbers and creepers. Ants and bugs of all kinds climbed up and down transporting their food on head like the labor carrying stones for making pyramids; only that there was no one forcing them with a whip in their hands. Whenever some toy or ball or cloth fell in that well, the feelings attached with that object also fell along. I believed that all those feelings are sitting at the bottom waiting for someone to come down and feel them all at once. It was like death of a loved one. How wonderful it would be if you can visit the place where they store all the souls and once again love them, fight with them and hate them? As human beings we are tuned to crave for things and people when they are gone and not when they are with us. So naturally, when something fell in the well, I used to stand for hours figuring out a way to pull it out. I tried to persuade a group of ants to bring it out for me, but of course they had more important occupation like figuring out how to break a large grain and take it home or whatever they called it. The well seemed like a large hole in time which took away my future stream of thoughts and association with an object which I had once planned to keep with myself for my life.

Have you ever felt that all moments in your life lead to a particular aperture in time absorbing what you were and after which life was never the same? No, neither I am talking about change in your thinking after reading a self -help book, nor meeting a spiritual guru who changed the course of your life. I am also not talking about quitting your job and pursuing your life-long dream. I am talking about a literal bend in time. Like all moments in my life have culminated to the single most important which is now. Next six seconds will decide my fate and yet here I am, thinking about the wells and bends in time.

Unlike childhood where everything spellbound me, my later years were spent in a small apartment in city where there was hardly anything which aroused my curiosity let alone fascination or thoughts about the storage for dead souls. I took up a small time job as a clerk. I had an unassuming personality and seemed to be forgotten by friends and family. I ached hard to remember the way I was and the way the world was, but guess my thoughts had left me as well. I preferred to lose myself in long walks to home after work rather than joining company of self- absorbed ones in their mindless leisureliness.

Then it happened one day during one of such long walks. I saw him. It was as if a moment ago he was not there. I thought I have started imagining things; maybe it was dark and I must have missed him earlier. Generally I chose to ignore people as I walked but this one was different; not in any mannerism or personality but something felt different about him. While I was passing him by, he spoke to me. I could not place that voice for my life, and yet it sounded so familiar. I had such a careful look at his face which would have made anyone uncomfortable, but not him. He was as relaxed as a pig in dirt on a summer noon. I chuckled at this analogy in my mind. His nose didn’t resemble with that of pig’s in any manner. It was more of what you would imagine on face of a doctor or a counselor; a nose that you would trust. His forehead had no wrinkles as if he never had a thing to worry about in his life and eyes were like he never lost sleep for even a night.

“What was it that you said?” I asked. “Do you have a smoke on you?” he asked again. He didn’t look like someone who smoked but then neither did I. I offered him one. He took a long pull and started talking to me as if he was an old friend. I had heard that cigarette brings people together but this was different. It felt that this was not the first time he was talking to me. He talked at length about issues of living in a city, politics, weather and asked about my job. I also asked about his job but I don’t think he gave a conclusive reply. Finally he asked for my number and walked on casually as if it was natural for him to be a part of life and then walk on. I don’t remember if he offered his number or if I asked for one.

It rattled my brain to place his voice and his face, but to no avail. Was he one of my long lost friends; maybe a cousin who I met in childhood and never again? Do you know the feeling where you keep something hidden so carefully that you are not able to find when you look for it. Generally it is such an obvious place that you end up missing. Sometimes the thing you hide is so precious that to protect it you would rather keep it at such place where even you cannot reach than to let anyone else touch it. Have you heard stories of people who kill their love only so that no one else can love them? What does a lonely man like me know about love and jealousy? Do I remember throwing something precious in that well? Can I now climb down the well like those ants and play with all the things which fell? If a cat fell in it, would it still be alive? Do cats live for so many years? Maybe if it was a dog, it would have howled and someone would have pulled him out. Can I howl and someone pull me out of this life? Am I also living in some kind of a well? Maybe I fell and there was indeed a world in here like I imagined. I need to stop this train of thought and concentrate on placing who this person was; but then what does it matter. He was gone and I wasn’t expecting him to call me.

He called after lunch and asked if we could meet in evening. It puzzled me to think why it was not weird for him to call me. Why was everything so casual and natural and comforting about him? We met at the same place and walked together. I asked him where he lived to which I did not get a conclusive reply. He was very unlike me. He was passionate about almost everything in life, had an opinion on almost everything and had a story about almost every day of his life. I was mesmerized and listened to him for hours and it suited me because I had nothing to say anyways. While leaving, I asked what his name was. To this day I don’t remember what he said. Meetings became quite regular and he was never at loss of words. After a couple of days, in his casual manner to which I was now accustomed with, he asked whether he can move in my apartment. Normally, it would be a repelling idea especially when I don’t know anything about a person apart from the fact that he was an excellent storyteller. In his case I only nodded in affirmation and next morning he came with one bag. I don’t know how he had been living or where he was living till now, but one bag was far too less for a lifetime of belongings. 

After an hour or so he was done unpacking in his room so we had a hearty breakfast and talked about various things. When I say ‘talked’ I mean that he talked and I listened. He was perfectly ok with me only nodding in yes or no without any significant contribution in terms of opinions or stories of my own. I could never understand neither I put my head to what he does during the day but he was always sitting on the couch, watching television and eager to tell me more stories when I came back home. The apartment was almost always untouched and it seemed that he had just walked in before I did.

With each passing day, something was changing. I could almost swear that his face was different when I met him but as everything else I could not place the change. Can you believe that after all this time till date I don’t know his name? I remember he told me his name, but I cannot remember it. These days, sometimes I had difficulty recalling my name as well or from where I was. I had trouble recalling incidents of my life and had trouble concentrating on my job. Only his stories seemed real and everything else appeared artificial. No, I am not talking metaphorically. I am also not talking about some smitten young girl who cannot see anything beyond her lover.

I am not a fan of traveling much but once I visited an old village in the hills. I don’t remember how I come to know about the place. For all you know, I jumped out of the train without thinking and walked towards the village. I trekked on narrow lanes in midst of clouds to reach this dreamlike place where people were simple and houses were modest. No one was in a hurry to go anywhere. They offered me some tea without me asking for it. They also offered me shelter without mentioning tariff. The mornings started with rays filtering out of clouds and days ended with orange and blue painting on the endless canvass. I lost track of days and dates. Then one day a man who had a beard so white as if he just came out of a snowstorm asked me “where is your home?” Have you ever had a feeling when someone shook you out of a dream?

Today morning when he came out of his room, I could not take my eyes away from his face. No, I am still not smitten. This time I was able to place the change. This is the face I have been looking at for last thirty years of my life. The face has changed a lot over this time but the features have not. This is a face which I know the most. This is my own face. He asked me what was the matter; in my own voice. I could not answer. I just took him by the hand and stood in front of a mirror. For the first time since we met, I saw a wrinkle on his forehead. He did not speak for a long time. It could have been seconds, but seemed like a long time. “It was not supposed to happen so quickly” he said. I was baffled. I shouted on him asking what was not supposed to happen so quickly. “I am surprised you haven’t realized till now. Haven’t you noticed how slowly I am turning into you? Haven’t you noticed that how your own life is slipping out of your hands? You are supposed to be replaced by me” he said casually as if it was a normal thing to happen like a tooth getting replaced by a new one.

“Are you here to kill me?” I asked. “How can I kill you? I am you. There is no you and I anymore. I am all what you thought yourself to be always. I am the one who sat at the bottom of the well and felt all those feelings. I am the one who played with all those toys and talked to the souls. I am the one who looked up when you looked down the well. I am the one the ants carried the food for. Haven’t you felt that ever? But then I am the one who is supposed to feel.” He said. He got up and opened the door to his room. I followed him. All that ever fell in the well was neatly arranged on a desk. No wonder he was carrying only a bag full. On a chair nearby sat an old cat, purring and licking itself and in midst of the room was a well with all the climbers and creepers and ants.

“You know it is not necessary that you have to go. We cannot exist together, but it is your choice. The department of replacing people however has not given us much time to choose. I will walk away from that door exactly at noon and you can keep living your old life. Either ways you would not know the difference.” He said without any attempt to influence my decision. We sat across the table without saying a word. It wasn’t a dream for however I wish it was. I didn’t try to ask him any questions about whether any such department existed or who headed that department and whether we can speak with the head and ask for more time. At exactly 11:59:50 he got up.

I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven..."

Your judgement or mine?

Why do I live how I live? You think there should be a purpose to our lives? Who told you? You read it somewhere or some spiritually enlightened soul whispered it into your ear? I am sure it changed your life and what you do now is for achieving a higher goal in life. You see beyond anger, happiness, love and attachment and are on the path of achieving which not many achieved – Nirvana. Did it ever occur to you that these feelings were given so that we can live them and understand our soul? No? Oh, these are only distractions which were placed in our way to free our souls. Each one to himself. My life’s purpose is to live through each of these feelings over and over again till I understand myself. If that means, sitting in my apartment all day long on my couch watching television, to fully understand the feeling of laziness and emptiness; probably that’s what I was going for.

Why did I need to love over and over again? People are not able to find even one love in their entire lives and here I am, describing the roller coaster I ride each time I love. I am putting myself out there, fully exposed to the pain, expecting vultures to pierce through my flesh bit by bit, till I bleed no more and my bones are pecked and played with by dogs.  That’s what we were born for and that’s how we are supposed to die. It sounded painful to you? That’s why you closed your doors and windows and chose to remain inside with no intention of feeding vultures and dogs? So what is the life that you live now? I remember now, you took another scared soul in and called it love. It isn't love, till you feel it every moment of your life, till you yearn for it as you would for water if you were thirsty for years. Love is not about possessing, it is about seeking. You don’t understand it, do you, but then, not everyone is meant to.  I admire the way you walk with your eyes closed and the way you have found convenient definitions of life, purpose, religion, God and love. I wish I could do the same. Meanwhile, someone has to feed vultures and dogs too.

Why do you lose? You will say “I cannot chose whether I want to succeed or lose. I can just make efforts and hope for the best.” Then I will say “Oh really?” and give the looks that mean that I can see through you and am not buying this bullshit. You, my friend, are hiding behind this comforting wall called failure. You know well that once you cross this wall, there is no more hiding, no one will protect you under the pretext that the meek shall inherit the world. You will join the rank where one has to take responsibility of one’s actions. You find it really cozy where you are, don’t you?

 I have lot of judgment about how you live, don’t I. What can I say? You started it. 

The chair she sleeps in

It was her favourite corner of house; gave her adequate sunlight in winters post noon and satisfying breeze in summers. She used to sleep almost entire day peacefully on her rocking chair. After my in-laws got killed in an accident, she was the only one we had who we could call a family. My husband, my four years old daughter and I took turns to sit with her and tell her what is going on in our respective lives. My daughter loved her the most. She used to keep scribbling and doodling things we have not been able to discern from one another. Then she always used to hand over her art to her beloved grandmother who played along and praised her. My husband, no matter how tired he was, used to sit with her and pressed her legs till she slept.

 

I also did my best to keep her happy; but I was so jealous of her, jealous of the fact that she could afford to sleep all day while I slog in kitchen for a daughter and a husband who paid no attention to me and jealous of the fact that she had the most amazing corner of the house. However if you ask me what was I most jealous of her; it was her rocking chair. Sometimes I used to imagine myself sitting in that chair, admiring myself in mirror on opposite wall and fading into slumber while I oscillate. I was amazed at how I had never seen her leaving that chair, how she manages to do her chores even without asking my help and even without leaving that chair. This is one mystery I could never solve. I had lost all hopes of ever sitting in that chair; but luck was in my favour.

She had slept the entire day without moving from the chair as usual. When my husband was pressing her legs, he felt they were colder than usual. Thinking that she was unwell, he tried to wake her up. She never got up. After she was gone, we felt if we had awakened from a dream. Suddenly we did not know what to do in the spare time which was earlier spent with her. Next few days were very depressing and uncomfortable for both of us. Now we had time for each other but nothing to talk about. One day not long after the grandmother died, I spent one such wordless evening with my husband and then walked out of the room to look after my daughter. She was as usual doodling sitting in that corner near the rocking chair. I realised in last few days, I had forgotten both, my daughter and the chair. I kept looking at her while she scribbled with absolute concentration, but what she did next made me shiver. She offered the notebook in the air, as if her grandmother was still there to praise her. Next few moments she kept chuckling as she used to do when her grandmother told her jokes about what the doodle appeared to her as. I lifted her in my arms while she kept pointing at the chair as if her grandmother was still sitting there.

I had not slept properly since she died. It was a lovely winter afternoon and that corner of house looked particularly tempting with sun coming in through the blinds. I had waited for this moment for a very long time. I slowly settled into that chair. As soon as it started oscillating, I understood why I craved for it so much. It was so soothing and relaxing. I also knew now how she managed to sleep for entire day, since only after two minutes my eyes got heavy. I must have slept for hours when a touch woke me up. My daughter handed over her doodle to me. I looked at it and she chuckled even when I did not say anything. I tried to get up but could not. And then it dawned upon me. I looked at my shrivelled hands. I looked at myself in the mirror only to find reflection of a vacant chair. I wanted to scream but I could not.

And then something happened which made it all clear. I came out of the room and kept looking at my daughter. I seemed frightened watching my daughter chuckling. Is this not the dress I was wearing yesterday? How can I see myself standing across the room? And then I picked up my daughter and went into the room while the real I was still sitting on the chair. Or was she real?

And then she came back, looked into my eyes and said – “You wished for my life, I wished for yours”.

Rants of a Writer...

Here I am, sitting again, staring at a blank sheet of paper. A writer is not scared of dark; he does not wake up with a start after seeing a dark figure, most of the time it is the white colour which is a nightmare for him. You may want to test this by showing a white sheet of paper to a writer and demand a ransom out of him, though I do not advise this for the risk of him having a heart attack.

The question also is whether a writer should write about a memory from my past, a dream for the future or just pull out a feather from his imagination. Sometimes I feel that after writing a paragraph or two, all three of them gets mixed up to an extent that it becomes new reality for me, a new memory and a new dream. I feel if I could play a recap of my life, it would be very different from how I remember it now.

Another challenge is how writers keep coming up with innovative and interesting plots and characters. I have been told that writers keep observing people around them to get inspired for writing new stories. Well, I am not so sure about it. After all who live around pirates, secret service agents, conniving politicians, arm dealers, ghosts, wand wielding kids, dragons, parallel universes, aliens, talking dogs and cats, vampires and other such plots and characters I have never seen in my ordinary life.

You must be thinking that if it is such a scary job then why writers keep coming back and face their worst fears almost every day. Till the time I did not start writing, I could never understand the logic for so many people to vent out their thoughts, imaginations, standpoints on relatively lesser avenues of writing – fiction and non-fiction further categorised into horror, politics, suspense, thriller, love, sex, travel, cookery, religion, philosophy, business, education etc. For determining a definite answer to the question, I advise you to try writing a paragraph on any subject that first comes to your mind. You will have to establish a line of thought, one or more characters, an opening and a closing. After writing a couple of lines, I am sure that you would get your answer.

It is your chance to play God, to create people out of nowhere, to write and control their destiny, and to feel a power beyond your comprehension. It will also bring you closer to understanding the decision God takes while writing stories for your life i.e. if you think there actually is a God who holds strings to our lives. You would understand that sometimes there is no logic; sometimes you twist life of one of your characters just for fun, just because he was not doing anything interesting enough to be kept alive till the end of novel.

Having said that, since God is in this business for a long time, I believe God has figured out of a way of having a logic to almost everything which happens to your life – no loose ends.

A life lived again

“Only some minutes more” he thought.  When he came here first, he observed that people had a strange habit of looking at the sky every now and then. He had spent only ten days when he started to look at the sky. He was one of them now; eyes looking at the scorching sun, a prayer on lips and a growing anger chewing through the senses. But this was not the first time he was angry, over time he had learnt to smile. Exactly like his father who always smiled to hide the pain and the venom building inside him.

He was there, when his father won the title of Rustam-e-hind, the great wrestler of India. The whole village went to railway station and carried his father home. There were continuous celebrations for a week in his honour. He had never seen his father happier. The thing about movies is that they end at the highest point in a person’s life, but real life is much different. One has to live and spend each minute of his life. To live a heroes life, is the most sought after, but he watched his father longing for that attention, that honour every minute of his life. His father used to look at the newspaper clippings for hours. The people, who earlier cajoled his father for hearing his story, now avoided him for they got bored of his self-praise.  He watched his father grew weaker everyday without a reason to live till one day when he found him dead in bed clutching the trophy to his chest.

After his father’s death, he moved to this village, where no ghost of his father’s fame followed him, where he is free to look like an idiot staring at the sky. It had been a month post monsoon and there was no sign of clouds. But the rain God was hard to please, the priests chanted:

“O Indra, Dancer, Much-invoked! as thy great power is unsurpassed,
So be thy bounty to the worshipper unchecked.
Most Mighty, most heroic One, for mighty bounty fill thee full.
Though strong, strengthen thyself to win wealth, Maghavan!
O Thunderer, never have our prayers gone forth to any God but thee:
So help us, Maghavan, with thine assistance now.
For, Dancer, verily I find none else for bounty, saving thee,
For splendid wealth and power, thou Lover of the Song.” ¹

Rain God was not pleased. “He is only pleased with true devotion. These, money minded fraud, priests are not good for swaying the God” they said.

His father often came home drunk. In his half asleep state, he always used to mutter “Don’t live a hero’s life.”

He saw Rain God in his dreams today, or was it his father in a God’s attire. “Help these people” the God said. “But you always told me not to become a hero” he questioned. The God smiled and said “No! I told you not to live a hero’s life.” He was fully awake now. He knew what was to be done. He walked up to the temple and sat in prayer. At first people did not notice, but when he sat unmoved for hours, people started gathering around him. They understood that he was praying for the rain. Finally they had a true devotee. He sat unmoved for days. Men watched him in amazement and women with tears at his devotion. No one was watching the sky any longer.

He had to be a hero, like his father. But unlike his father, he had to die a hero’s death; a death, which will make him immortal for years to come.

Finally the Rain God was pleased. The sky was filled with dark clouds. “Some minutes more” he thought. When first lightning struck, he knew it was time. He was walking towards a light and then absolute dark.

“You did what I could not, my son” his father said with a trophy in his hand.

He opened his eyes. He had passed out. Somebody held his head in arms and helped him drink some water. He realised that he was not dead. People picked him on their shoulders. They danced around him. He was a hero.

“I have failed you father” He said.

¹ Rig Veda, Book 8, Hymn XXIV Indra

What’s with his smile?

I thought about him for an hour before I started writing this down. I wanted to find a word that describes him perfectly. It is then when I realised that perhaps I do not know him too well for describing him in even one sentence let alone a single word. Infact, I think nobody knew him well enough to say something about him conclusively. For the sake of completing my objective and at the same time not being wrong about him, I would say that he was an elusive man. He is like a person who meets you everyday, greets you, asks about your health, gives his best wishes and leaves; without giving you a chance to get interested in his life. Everybody can recall one such person around them, this incident is about mine.

During my various encounters with him, I got curious. What troubled me most was his smile. I had never seen him not smiling. How could a person always be happy? I wanted to find more about him, but was not sure how to catch him. We were not friends, so obviously asking straight questions would have been weird. As the days passed, I became obsessed with finding out what kept him happy. My efforts of following him went in vain. He kept on greeting and meeting people. It seemed that he did not have any friends. Each evening after college, he used to leave straight for home leaving no scope for any social interaction. Just when I was about to give up, one day I saw him sitting alone in cafeteria. I gathered courage and at the risk of being snubbed, I walked upto him and asked if could join him. He nodded. After some niceties, I could not control any longer and asked him about his life. At first he did not open much, but then I told him my obsession and he agreed to tell me about his life if I promised not to tell anyone about it. Obviously I agreed.

He started “I was eight when I lost my father. He is not dead, it’s just that I don’t know where he is. Not only do I not know where he is, also that who is my father. I vaguely remember his face. I don’t remember actually seeing him, so maybe the face I remember is actually my imagination. I would have asked my mom, and believe me I wanted to ask many times. But there is no point asking her. It is not as if she would not tell me, it’s just that she cannot tell me. She has not spoken with me for last fifteen years; not only with me but with anybody. She lost ability to speak, the night my father left. Sometimes I feel she wants to tell something but then she does not. She would have written if she could, but she is paralysed for many years now. I could have asked other family members but I do not know of any. When my father left us, she had moved here to get away from everybody and now here I am, with my mom and nobody else. And that’s why I keep smiling because I know that it possibly cannot get any worse.”

I kept thinking about him and his life. I was troubled with his smile and now I was cursing myself for thinking being jealous of his happiness. I knew what I had to do. I was to become the friend he never had, the brother he never had and the family he never had. But I decided to take it slow so that he does not feel that I am doing this out of sympathy for him. So I greeted him with smile whenever I met him, asked him how he was and wished him well. I kept going to cafeteria several times a day hoping to find him there.

After seven days and forty visits to cafeteria, I finally saw him sitting with somebody else. I sat behind him waiting for the other person to leave so that I can turn and exclaim at what coincidence it was that we were again meeting in cafeteria. Since it was taking time, I decided to eavesdrop the conversation. I could not hear what the other person said, but I cannot forget till day what he answered.

“Ok. I will tell you, but only if you promise you never to tell anyone else. I was born into a middle class family. My father had an insane obsession of buying lottery tickets. My mother used to fight with him a lot on this habit, but only till he got a $1 mn as first prize. He never bought another lottery ticket. He invested in stock markets and quadrupled the sum in one year. He then invested in real estate and commodities and in ten years’ time, he now runs the fifth largest commodity fund in the country. A year back he gave me $0.1mn and told me to start investing in my area of interest. One year will be over next week. The sum is $1mn today. I keep smiling because it cannot get any better”

The father and the Son

Varanasi, the oldest living city on earth, was his home. His mother told him that when he was born, she could hear the bells of aarti ¹   at Kashi Vishwanath Temple ². She never told him who his father was. When he pressed a lot, she told that she will once and only once tell the name and that he should not dispute or question the same. When he agreed, she told him that Kashi Vishwanath himself was his father. For that moment, he neither doubted his father’s identity nor felt his absence. He used to sit on the temple’s staircase everyday for a long time. He felt that the only way to communicate with his father was to immerse himself in the music created by ringing of bells and chanting of mantras. His devotion was more than meditation since he was not worshipping a God, he was just seeking refuge in his father. Years passed. Everybody knew him as son of the God.

Let’s skip to the day when his life was about to be changed. He followed his usual routine, took bath in Holy Ganges and started walking towards the temple. Generally he used to walk with his eyes fixed on the dome of the temple, but today he felt some uneasiness, as if he was being given some indication. He stopped for a moment. Just when he was about to start walking again, his eyes fell on an infant sleeping on a staircase. He looked around to ascertain if the parents are nearby, but could not find anyone. He kept standing beside the kid, not picking him up with the fear of being charged as a kidnapper. He sat near the kid for the whole night but nobody came to claim the kid. In the morning he decided to take the kid home.

It had been twenty five years from that incident now. His life in these twenty five years entirely changed. He had raised the kid as his own. He never married for the fear of division of his love. As it is he had to divide his devotion between his father and his son. He never let his son know that he was son of the God. He lived as a commoner, a daily wager and worked hard to meet their ends. He worked even harder for getting his son an education. The harder he worked, the more his health deteriorated. Not a single day went, when he did not long for meeting or speaking with his father like he used to do earlier. At the same time, not a moment passed which did not revolve around his son.

He was back to the stairs one day - The stairs where he found his son; the stairs from where he could directly look at the temple and speak with his father. He was wrapped in a blanket. He did not move. He could not move. After 2-3 days, people at the temple recognised him. They got very upset at his condition. They were angry at his son for whom he had done so much but was still left for dying on the stairs. Some of them reached his home to meet his son. After continued knocking and getting no response, they had to come back to the temple. While they were discussing the matter, one of them noticed that there was another figure wrapped in a blanket sitting in a dark corner. They went near him and recognised him as the son. They could not understand what was happening and asked the son why he left his father for dying the on stairs and while his father was at it, why was he sitting and watching him.

“He wanted to die in lap of his father, at a place where he himself was born as a father. As a son, I seek to ensure that my father’s death is peaceful. As a father, I seek to free him from the cycle of life and death” He said.

That very moment, a bell rang in the temple. They looked at the temple. It took them a moment to understand what the son had said.

A moment was all what was needed for the father and the son to be together for eternity.

1 Hindu religious ritual of worship

2 Hindu temples dedicated to Lord Shiva and is located in Varanasi