This happened, or that, or this!!!

It’s our first date. I dressed up. I even bought you a bunch of lilies, the ones you like. I went an extra mile figuratively to find out your preference from your friend who doesn’t like me, and an extra mile physically because I could not find them anywhere closer. I even put some gel in my hair and carefully hid my receding hairline. I shaved again and got in my recently serviced car. Before knocking on your door, I once again looked at myself in rear view mirror, pressed my hair and checked if something was stuck in my teeth. I took a deep breath and knocked on your door. Every passing second felt like hours. And then you opened the door, clad in yellow, looking all perfect as you ever were. I didn’t think you had to go through all the trouble I had to, for looking this amazing. At the most maybe you just washed your face and got into this off the rack dress which fits you like it was custom tailored. I was so nervous around you. Dinner was usual. Table pre-booked, waiter tipped generously, no eating off other’s plate, hold the fork in left hand and all other etiquette. I parked the car few blocks before your home and walked with you. We didn’t talk. We just kissed good night.

When I was walking back, it struck me, why did I have to impress you? What was special about the night? Every guy does it. Well, maybe not every guy; every guy who has means and has a willing girl to impress. Why did this impress you? Didn’t you know it’s going to be like this? Why did you want this so much? It is not as if you would spend your entire life with a version of me that impresses you. It would mostly be routine, mundane life wherein I will eat out of a bowl most Saturday nights sitting on the couch and watching some stupid TV channel oblivious of your presence. The same presence which makes me forget everything today. The night looks so amazing today, as if there is an added fragrance to the flowers, or maybe added brightness to the moon. You are gone inside, but I kept standing there, hoping that you would come to the window. I felt your hands still holding mine and taste of your lips still lingering on. I could still hear your laughter, or the way you said my name.

What’s the point? Maybe I dressed up a little too gaudy for you. I got lilies when your friend actually said daisies; or she said lilies knowing that you like daisies. After all, she didn’t like me. I drove an extra mile to save some money. What could I have done? The vendor was overcharging me. The gel came down my forehead along with the sweat. I was nervous, I said that already. I cut myself while shaving and forgot to remove part of the tissue that I used to soak the blood. My car smelled like garlic and onions, because that’s what I sell for a living. I could not locate the leaf in my teeth because the rear view mirror was broken. Every passing second felt like hours because I had to pee so badly. There was no reason for pre booking the table at McDonalds; there was no need to tip the waiter because there wasn’t any and there was no need to use the fork either. We ran out of gas so you offered to walk. We couldn’t talk since it was raining. There is an added fragrance to flowers after rain stopped and so is the brightness more since the clouds disappeared. You never came to the window, because there wasn’t any. Your hands were sweaty, I still feel what it was like to hold them. I can still feel the taste of your lips because they tasted like the fish burger you had. Your laughter gives me nightmares and so does your inability to pronounce my name properly given that you lisp.

Why did you marry me?

You saw me standing on your door and waiting impatiently for you to open the door. You liked lilies after all. I could only get these lilies next town and you knew that I drove extra to get these for you. I was wiping my forehead and you knew I was nervous around you. Tissue on my face and leaf in my teeth, you thought it was cute that I was clumsy. You love garlic and onion smell, who could have thought? Your parent never took you to McDonalds, fearing you would never fit in that dress. You thought that I didn’t care whether you will get fat. I wanted to walk with you in the rain so I pretended that we ran out of gas. Really? Oh my girl, you are so sweet and innocent. You saw me standing there in front of your door hoping that there was a window you would see me from. You saw me looking at my hands feeling your touch. You saw me lick my lips and thought I liked taste of yours.

God is so kind. 

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..."

Remember????

He

 

“Remember?” A simple question; asked simply and answered in a “yes”, “no” or a safe “maybe”. “Remember? We went to that place when we were in college and we had such an awesome burger; Remember? You stole your Dad’s car and we drove all night and ended up hitting a tree; Remember? We got so drunk and got married last night.” How hard can it be to answer this question? A “yes” or a “No” or a “Maybe”.

Well, in my case this question ends up being answered in an unbelieving and un-comfortingly long stare meaning “Have you gone crazy? When did this happen?” or “I don’t remember it like that?” It did not start like this. You and I talked for hours about things we did years back. All those crazy things that we did, things about which you tell me now that we did them back then, things about which I do not believe that I did them with you. Believe me, I want to remember. I see your disheartened face, which you try to hide behind all that excitement of showing me a souvenir, trying to make me remember the story behind it.  Like that blue mini surfboard on my desk; you tell me that we bought it as a memoir, when we went to Miami and I wanted to settle there, teaching sea surfing to the tourists but could not learn it myself. Like that fountain pen in the frame on the wall, you tell me that I literally stole it from Mike Tyson after he gave me an autograph.

Then all those memories started fading. There was nothing to talk about anymore. I looked at things and wondered when and where did I get them from. You thought I was kidding with you. I thought you bought those expensive and thus were trying to convince me that I got them and not you.

I have not forgotten everything. I remember seeing you first day in college. I did not like you much and you tell me that the feeling was mutual. I remember the day I asked you out and you came even when you were not sure. It was an awesome night. We went out and sat on the shore; all night long, listening to songs. That is perhaps the most treasured memory I have with you. But your face; was it really you? What a curse it is, to know that it was you but not remember you as you are. And yet, you keep playing those songs again and again so that I do not forget this single memory I have. Do I have the courage to tell you that I do not think it was you that night who danced with me in the moon light, that I do not think it was your lips that I kissed and it was not your eyes I kept looking into?

Sometimes I try to convince myself that I am suffering from amnesia, which the doctors have neither confirmed nor denied, but then am forced to think otherwise when you start acting weird as I ask you about my family and friends. You remember everything like it happened yesterday and you have all this stories to prove what you said; but then why do you prove everything when I do not doubt you.  I have no doubt that you love me and that I once loved you, but then why my handwriting is different in all those love letters you keep showing me?

What is written in that notepad that you keep erasing every night? I hope they are not my memories. But if you could erase, could you not write new memories for me?

I can ask you these questions. But then, I may have possibly asked you these questions in past and you may have answered knowing well that I will not remember what you said.

I have all these questions and I have all these doubts. I have one sweet memory with a face which is not yours. But above all, I have you.

She

Remember? This is the question I ask you hundred times in a day, knowing well that in answer you will just keep staring at me in disbelief. So many stories and I must have told them to you endless times, somewhere knowing deep inside that you will never believe them. I have become comfortable with this feeling now. I keep talking for hours to you and you keep sitting staring at me, as if you don’t know me. I know that you don’t remember me, and why should you. I know that you remember someone else in your dreams, and I do not blame you.

I do not wish to miss out a single detail while narrating a story, an incident, a memory as I can recall it. So I keep writing, erasing and re-writing it, while you are asleep. Sometimes I think that I make my narration so real that it starts sounding unreal to you. If in my story, it was raining when you first kissed me, then you should hear the sound of rain drops trickling down my hair. If in my story, we sat on a shore and hear songs all night long, then you should remember those songs by heart.

You have so many questions, which I have no answers to. But how can you blame me for that. I barely knew you when we met. You barely knew yourself when we met. And yet you saved me. I could not bear loneliness any more. I would have jumped if I did not see you there, lost; without a clue of who you are and where you live. I brought you home. I failed in searching for your family. I told you this and you cried all night and yet when you got up in the morning, you had forgotten all about them.

So what if all the stories I tell you, I have lived them with someone else? So what if I wish to remember your face in all my memories? I am recreating my life, why cannot you?

I have so many stories to write, so many memoirs to plant, so many imaginations to prove. I have so many of your doubts to fight with, many questions to answer. But above all, I have you.

The writer they deserve

Sometimes I do not wish to write. It is a fear of falling short of expectations. Maybe this story is not as good as the last one, maybe it will not seem real enough; one of the characters might talk too much or come across as fake; and then there is always a temptation of twisting the end. But writing is much like life, no matter how much we liked it today, there will always be a tomorrow, there will always be good and bad times.

I was happy when I did not consider myself a writer, for I could write whatever came to my mind, in most uninhibited and candid manner. But then they said that you are a good writer and ever since I have to live up to that so called definition of ‘good’. Unlike me, he enjoyed being a writer. I hated that about him. I asked him once “Why do you not delve deep into human emotions, write about human misery, anger and happiness?” He smiled and just answered “I don’t deal in chemical reactions.” His characters were flowery, pointless, superfluous and pompous. I told him that I had read books in which animals talk, far better than his work. He simply agreed with me and said “My friend, it is only natural. Animals make much wiser talk.” It became my obsession to criticise both his work and his indifference towards its futility.

I remember that morning more clearly than I remember what I ate for lunch today. I was standing near the lake. Rays of sun were reflecting so much that I had to turn around as I waited with a troubled head. Police kept trying but could not locate his body. We would have never known about it, if it was not for a kid who had seen him earlier that morning. The kid said that he walked calmly into the lake and kept walking till he disappeared. Later that evening I kept sitting beside the lake, imagining him with his smile; a smile with which he disarmed the world and mocked it with each word he wrote. What troubled me most is that how can a person who was so nonchalant about his approach towards world, could take such a grave decision. I had trouble imagining what kind of agony he must have been going through, which he used to hide behind his deceptive smile.

The news of his suicide went viral. People, who had never heard of him, were talking about him in their business meetings; publishers who did not touch his work were now digging his grave (not literally) to find an unpublished novel, a half story written by him. Characters of his story were famous now. They were talk of the town. People wore costumes described by him to book reading forums and in local festivals. There was talk about making a movie, on misadventures of a stupid cop, based on one of his novels.

I kept staring at a blank sheet of paper and could write nothing, for no matter what I thought of writing, I felt guilt. Thought of writing something meaningful brought me a pain, a feeling that I was somehow deceiving him; that he was standing somewhere near and was mocking me. He had never criticised my work, but now it felt that he had being doing it all along. He had proved that after all everything is futile, like pretentious and hollow characters of all his stories. I hated them and I hated him, for taking away everything I had; my sense of purpose, the characters which I was proud of and a society which revalidated my beliefs.

I received a package today. It was from him. I kept staring in disbelief. My hands trembled when I opened it. There was a letter. It said –

“My friend, you were right all along. However you would have understood by now, this society only deserves the garbage I write.

PS: Please find my new book under my new name and in this one, animals talk. Hope you will enjoy it.”