Sonnet XVIII: Song of the Foolish

Sundown, midst a montage of anxiety,

Echoes a litany of love, so trite

Brushing, some gray, some black, with propriety;

Solemn in spirit, in letter polite

Hurtling towards you without much ado,

With scraping dolour, and dashing your faith.

So, tears and tales and longings imbue,

Quietly beckoning a sardonic wraith

As it draws closer, it sieves through your mind

Laden with reason, which crumples a heap

Failing to reckon, to sorrow resigned,

Not all things profound are infact so deep.

So keep reading between those lines if you would

And pardon me, methinks I was misunderstood.

Sonnet XVII: Swan Song

There’s still room for me inside that closet

To sequester myself alongside you.

Those grey sills just need a bit of mopping

Then all shall be a vast expanse. White again.

I know I’d come back to an empty place,

For you never liked the cold, or that quiet,

But a fuzzier, effervescent dusk,

With a rainbow of my breath on your neck.

But I came back one last time to find you.

To tell you that though it’s tempting in here,

I, just like you, no more desire this realm.

It’s ironic that you should be waiting.

That you were once real is not lost on me,

But there’s still a real world, living, calling.

Sonnet XVI: Afterlife

I thought I saw my afterlife withdrawn
From orchards fruiting many forlorn faces
And none too far, though, messengers of dawn
Holding firm, some souls with fading traces

I thought I saw my wife bid me goodbyes
And children wailing, calling out my name
But I had motionless, impassive eyes,
Which could not but portray a dying flame.

I thought I wanted peace from all that din
And age off, resting in a soundless place 
But never thought that it would be so rife
With affluence of grief, naked, wherein,
For all its bounty, I can't find solace.
It's absent love; to me is afterlife.

100!

For some reasons, 100 has has become synonymous with achievement, or, may be, satisfaction, or celebration, for that matter. 100 marks in the exam, 100 years of living, 100 runs in a cricket match, 100mph cricket ball, 100 team points in a football league, 100 likes may be, for the more socially active people, 100 children (Indian history / mythology is replete with examples), and many more such joyful examples. Marriage was a little tough to slot it, you see, partly because of the joyful bit and the rest because, well, 100 years is simply too much. Anyway, I wanted to experience the feeling as soon as I could. I wanted to add 100 blog posts to my list, as I could never score a perfect 100 in exam or hardly made any cricket runs. This was the easiest. Admitted that 100 blog posts is nowhere comparable to aforementioned feats, 100's of people have written posts far exceeding 100 in number, but it is no mean feat either. Not for me, or for those 100's of writers who start a blog and then, renege on their promise.

I must admit that blogging, or writing, in general, was never quite in my scheme of things. I started writing only to contest that my cousin is the one bestowed with the best of literary nous-es in our family, and the most gifted. He still is, but one thing where I surpass him is that I am the most prolific. This is satisfying in its own right. You can beat Waugh in the number of runs, but never in class or elegance. To his Mark, I played the Steve. I have been writing since the first year in college, started trashy, still am scratchy, at best, but I persisted. The result is immensely satisfying 100 posts. I only noticed this a couple of months back when I was at 98. The 99th took a long time, partly because of the tough task I was up to (writing a series) and partly because of the nervous 90's. Having scored most of my posts through gentle daps to the slip cordon or through misfields or aerial shots landing in no man's land, I thought if that is the way it has to be, then so be it. What you don't want at 99 is to get out. So, I flashed, and flashed hard, and it went like a tracer bullet. This was just what the doctor ordered. And here I am, arms raised in acknowledgement, soaking in the "electric atmosphere".

I think many times during these 6 years, I thought enough was enough, and I should call it quits. To be honest, I never had enough readers on my blog. Some said it was too boring, some said it was too pretentious, and some did not understand. But I knew that I had to work hard on my blogging, and I did. I kept making comebacks, with the occasional post garnering enough attention and guaranteeing me enough pride to keep writing the next 10. I started with few essays and then "started dealing in sonnets". After a while, all three kinds of posts were possible. Blogger was being taken to the cleaners, and before anyone could realize, I was already into my 90's. It was the toughest part of my blogging life. It took me "64" days to move from 98 to 99. But I am a cool customer, with loads of experience. I sensed at 99 that the atmosphere was electric and the appreciation I got for my post was deafening. So I just cleared my head, settled down, and tried to concentrate on the next post. And here I am, regarded by some as the best exponent of dogged writing, having made Blogger my bunny, with my 100th post.

Come what may, there have been reasons enough for me to write. I think every blog post has been an advertisement for writing. With the advent of Twitter, some thought, blogging would become endangered. I can, after 100 posts, proudly say that writing long posts, or blogging, if you will, is still regarded as an art and the purest form of testing the technical soundness of any writer. But there is always room for all forms of writing, it is only the small matter of striking the right balance. In the end, I think, writing, or more precisely, blogging is the winner.

Homecoming (VII)

It was a peaceful night for the family.

The children had already slept, and the wife was, though content with how the day ended eventually, a little too tired to try and keep up a conversation with a little too forthcoming husband. She tried to sing her husband to sleep, and when convinced of her success, paused for a bit and went out to get herself some water. She was not thirsty. She just did not want to sleep at that very moment. A glass of cold water, she thought, would keep her alive for a few minutes. While there was no particular reason for her not to have slept – she had a taxing day at office – she tried hard to find one to stay awake and let the night sink in. It was one of those feelings when one tries hard to think, but the questions do not arouse enough curiosity or simply keep evading; like a playwright who just bought a fiddle and cannot put it away, because he has an insatiable desire to play it, but does not know a thing about it.

She seated herself on a stool in her kitchen, a luxury not infrequent for her, but rather tasteless. Having gulped half the glass, she put it in the wash basin, and looked with contentment, how clean the place looked. There was not much in that kitchen and she preferred everything orderly, which is every woman’s wont, I would think. And she was just another woman, just not besotted with excesses. She had a small frame, not frail but bulky enough to suggest that she was already a mother of two, and a kind face, within which dwelt a spirit so at tranquil with self that it was hard to imagine, from her ever placid demeanor, that anything could ever disquiet her. While women of her ilk are oft found complaining about so many things, which, in the writer’s opinion, renders the whole exercise futile, she had lived her part as a graceful housewife with as much poise.

Much of her wanted to know about her husband, but the rest quelled that inquisitiveness with a strong protest – that was not her business, so long as he came back every day, satisfied. She could not worship him, and neither did she admire him a lot. It took a long time for her accept a marriage to someone she did not know, but that was something she had to make do with. Raised in modest household with precious little choices in life, and so deeply entrenched in societal values, marriage was one choice she could not have made. So it was another one of those accidents in her life, and naturally, she took her time to realize that. After six years, all she, or they, could manage to come up with was respect for each other, or concern, at best. All she knew about him was through his stories, which she never disputed or questioned because, perhaps, she thought, it might rankle him. That she could not have been married to him on his past laurels had, by now, become more or less apparent to her. What she did not want, though, was it to underline their future. We don’t love people for what they aren’t, or what we want them to become, but instead who they are. She knew that she was married to a peon, who was now a sweeper, and she had to be at peace with it.

She walked into their room. He was still sleeping. After a brief moment of indecision, she decided not snoop around his belongings – he would not have anything of interest. Instead, she went up to their bed, stroked his forehead gently, and lied down, with myriad thoughts struggling for space within her. She could not think of another transient phase in their lives where they would have to scrape for livelihood, and yet, did not want him to abandon his never-quite-settled-down quintessential self. She did not want the children to make a hero out of their father based only on his stories, and yet, could possibly not think of an alternative. Perhaps what he said today might, but she could not have been sure.

I must admit, as would she, that nothing changed with the hours of the clock, of what they had made of their marriage – it still made as little a sense to her as his fables. She had never quite made much out of a relationship – brought up in an environment where discipline superseded love (emotion) – and here, there was little effort on his part to have been able to change that. On their part, they did all they thought they knew about making something work – respecting, maintaining restraint, raising kids. Her children were her life, though, just as she was an indivisible part of their everyday. From waking them up in the morning to dropping them to school and then getting them back home, she was the only family they had seen most of their lives. What more could they have done, wondered she, as the night wore on.

The fleeting excitement, by then had already crumpled, strangulated by thoughts of a deeper dwelling. Satisfaction started giving way to uneasiness. Were they always what they were today, so oblivious to the little joys of life that just another story from the raconteur would cause a flutter in in her heart, seem a matter of immense, or provide a sense of fulfillment that was missing hitherto? She had to find that out for herself.

Six years after marriage, after all, is not the best time try and put some sense into a relationship, which thus far, had been much abused in the garb of normalcy. 

Sonnet XV - Clandestine, Love

No, I don't love you anymore, my love,

'Coz I'm already burnt, and lost for words

In this world, so undone by falsity

And emotional travesty, that borders absurd.

Should you, too, give in to the ways of this world,

And hearken to the treacherous travail

That love is becoming, you too would lose

What's always been yours, my love to avail.

So, unless you think that I never loved you,

Think of this rhyme as a clandestine will,

Of yearning, of passion, that saunters along

Beguiling apathy, and lacking in thrill

Our parting – it’d be just like droplets from sea

They never complain, they know what would be

"Free" Verse

I am just a body that wanders,

Listlessly with the throng

That eats away, with every passing moment,

A piece of me, but I hold on

To a larger belief

That someday, perhaps before I crumble

A drip of joy would thread my eyelashes

When finally they realize it

That they can’t feed themselves on me

And I am already water.

But cruel as a savage hound

They rob me off my tether

For good or for bad, they say

I know not

But what I knew was, is no more

For I am not just shape and form

But flesh and blood, of HIS own kind

That hurts when hurt and bleeds when cut.

A drip of pain does thread my eyelashes.

Does it hurt, the expression of hurt?

I pick myself up from the floor

The pieces that are left of me, carefully

Time and again, till I lose count

Of the number of times I am broken

Or the number of pieces I am supposed to pick

To reconstruct myself

It is difficult conjuring a vase

From the shards that ravage the roses

Neither it be shapely, nor warm.

All it does is bury the buds

So what is it that matters more?

The loss of blood or loss of form

And ‘midst all this I cannot help

But think of what my loss brings them.

If flesh is why I have to plead

And flesh is what they seem to heed

Then let them take me

For flesh is no elusive thing

And flesh is not esoteric

And before long, would end their quest

How wrong I was, I realized

When I felt hungry.

For hunger is insatiable with one meal

When you live to live a lifetime

So when they’re done with bits off me

They conveniently chose to forget

That they just had their fill,

An pick some other “me”

Should this be endless?

How many “me’s” would satiate?

So rise, I beseech myself, and shout out

I am here amongst them to live

And I will not go without a life;

That I will be steadfast each time they shove me

And promptly get up each time I fall

For they can only make me trip

But cannot stop me from walking.

For I am time

That that takes all in its stride

The fall, the pain, the watch and the protest

For pain reduces only with protest

And not with surrender to its infliction.

The longer I keep myself bound in its chains

The longer I’ll lose tiny bits of my life

So I let go of it

The fear of being violated or being shunned after it

Which feeds into their hideous machinations

And stare back at it, and them,

For I am water no more

But a tornado.

So let them take me this one time

And try to take my flesh and blood

For they can only do as much.

My form does make me who I am.

I was a just a body that used to wander

Listlessly with the throng

No longer now.

For I am now a star

That, though, burns alone in that dark

Signals hope to many a benighted existence.

Does it stop shining, the sun, when it sets

Or does it not rise again, every day, tirelessly?

So shall I rise to quell this murk

That mothers / fathers the plague of this grotesque device

And when I set, I shall set ablaze

The moon, the night and hope that was dying.

Forever.

For I am azure,

The endless expanse that shelters this world

And burns in itself, the fire of life.

Homecoming (VI)

That evening, the children were more excited than they ever were.

"Why did you not miss other dinners, we would have had lots of good news then, you would already have been the next Amitabh, Daddy", exclaimed the younger daughter. The family just smiled at her. He wore a bemused look. A minute ago, there was that secret pact of not buying into their father's excuses, and a minute later, they wished their father never made it on Saturdays. As they dug into their rice heaps and gulped the tomato soup, they kept on asking questions about the theater, its grandiose, the actors, Shah Rukh, camera and lots of other things, which even he had never seen. He went on painting pictures like only he could. The theater would be modified, embellished with grand chandeliers brought from Jaipur, there would be lots of bandwallhs welcoming the guests, there would be velvet seats, lots of paani-puri and chaat stalls, and that his family would be sitting at the front to see him perform. As for Shah Rukh, we will let him go find his Kkkiran first, he said. The children gleamed in pride, feeling vindicated.

That dinner, he thought, was more precious to him. While there was a lot of chatter on how the father would prepare for his act, and how the children would prepare for theirs, the background, as it always does, kept thickening with emotions. While he was talking, he could not help but imagine a lot of things. The children kept making stories on their father’s stage debut, real, for once, and he kept correcting them, helping them on their visualizations and dialogues. In hindsight, he remembered what happiness meant to him, he remembered what success meant to him, he remembered what responsibility meant to him, he imagined was success would mean for him and he imagined what happiness would mean to him. Responsibility, he never cared much about. What would it mean, he thought, doing what he always wanted to do? He was confused in his thoughts. He wanted to step out for a while, out of the flow that his life had been, and look back, so that he could be the outsider, and retrospect on the volume of events that slipped by. He had always been content on doing what he did. Would he feel a sense of underachievement or would he try and justify that time spent in the emotional wilderness? Would he try and correct what he, as an outsider, would think needed correction? Was this as big as his children thought? How would the contours of the call shape out? He was as eager to know as his children were.  

The children insisted on stories, as the mother mopped the place. This was not a story, they said. This was what was waiting to happen all the while. A story happens when there is something untrue. While this was said in all earnestness by the children, fresh from their dose of excitement, he felt a pang. Had his life been untrue or did he try too hard to be a hero he never could be, until today? His wife was looking at him, trying to advocate the children's childlike intentions. He was not flustered, and nodded at her in acknowledgement, while the children fiddled with the doll's hair. What if it actually turns out to be a story? He recollected the events of the day, which were themselves no less than dramatic, peppering the occasional bit with his flavors. By the time he finished, the children were drowsy. She put them to sleep while he kept looking at her, in anticipation. Today, he felt like talking to someone so that he could rid himself of the mountain of expectations and rationalize, even to himself, what he should expect from his life.

They sat together, after a long time, the husband and the wife.

“I am not sure if I am going to get this one”, he said. She was still thinking about the story he had for her, perhaps. He repeated, and she quietly nodded.

“Why do you tell such stories to our children? You realize that they don’t take them seriously, don’t you. Yeah, some of them are fascinating, but someday they will grow up to realize that stories are meant to be fascinating. We don’t have the luxury of living fairy tale lives, when we struggle to meet our finances. You know that once they grow up, they will ask you questions. Would you have those same stories then?”

“You think they took this one far too seriously?”

“Perhaps. I think they forgot about the fact that you do this every time. I think they thought this was real, the way they became excited…”

“Don’t you think it is for real?”, he asked, cutting her short, with a little skepticism. She always gave the impression that she was indifferent to his stories. Today, it seemed, she was not.

“You always have stories. I don’t mind you stories or what you tell them, but what’s the one you had for me?”, she said, casually dusting the bed, with an eagerness in her smile. Although she wanted to, she could not look into his eyes with this question of hers.

“This, my dear, is for real. I am late because I was expecting a call. You don’t know what happened today, you would not believe. I am late because I did not want to miss that one opportunity of making it big in my life. You know what I have been doing these six years, right? Of course there is some element of truth in my stories, but that is as much as it is. I don’t want our children to…”

“What? You mean you don’t want our children to think that you have struggled most of your life? Don’t you think they have started realizing that their father is not a hero; that their father does not want to spend too much time with the family? Of course, I don’t blame you for whatever it is, but they are children. Did you not see how disappointed they were, until you began that story of yours?” she muttered impatiently. By the time she was finished speaking, the air was already reeking of uneasiness.

“Why are you being so caustic today? You never had issues with my stories. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I have been going through. ” he scowled.

There was a moment of quietude. He was a patient man, she was a patient woman. Neither wanted the small matter of his stories to blow up. They lied down, avoiding each other’s gaze. She never spoke to him on what he wanted from his life, what he thought of their family, precisely because she had too many questions. She had led his life with him. She knew that he was a man who took immense pride in his past. Discomfort was never what she wanted in the few moments they spent as a family. He never spoke of what transpired outside of his family because he was never quite the family man. One might be forgiven on thinking that he did not want his family to accept that he was just another someone, who had to slug it out.

“Do you not think it would be better for us if you settled down? You know there are much better avenues for you, and still, you want to do it your way. Times have changed. You have a family now,” she mumbled, and turned towards him. He was still gazing into the emptiness, eyes wide shut.

“I know,” he said, half mocking at himself. “I never could do it.” He turned towards her, his face pasted with serenity. “I think, after these six years, this is one story I always wanted you to know.”

The sounds of the night had become too loud. It was not windy, as if everything had paused, wanting to hear what story he had for her.

“I think it has been a long day. You seem very tired. Why don’t we do this – let us go out the next Saturday, and you can tell us your story. Don’t be late then.” She chided him gently, and brushed his forehead.

The moon retreated, and the leaves rustled in agreement.

Sonnet XIV

"What bothers you my love, distraught, you speak

No song this day, but dreary tales and more,

Of winters, gloomy, heart so drowning deep,

But groping, seeking, tumbling to the shore.

So tell me, shall I bring for you the moon,
Or pluck'em, shooting stars, or fetch you light
Of fireflies dazzling, clouding them, or strewn
With scent of love, the gale that raids this night."

"I feel no warmth, nor love does flow through rhymes

You speak, of promise, hope and dreams surreal,

When truth is all I ask of you, sometimes,

And not those starry nights, but that what's real.

A reassuring smile, a gentle kiss,
Sometimes is all I yearn, sometimes is bliss."

Homecoming (V)

He was already late, and he realized the gravity of this only when he got home. His wife had an expression that reeked of condolence. She was not used to seeking explanations, perhaps because he did not provide reasons for the same, and even today, she did not ask questions. It was the children who were disconsolate. They were not angry but disconsolate, because this used to be the occasion for them to get to know about their father. Otherwise, there used to be little between them. By the time he reached home, they were already in their night clothes, and in their beds, trying to pretend as if nothing was wrong in the moment. The mother already knew this, and that explained the condoling look. She was caught between trying to sympathize with the children, trying to pretend as if nothing was paranormal in their behavior and in the moment, and at the same time, trying to take their father to task, hesitating and faltering in the process, and eventually ending up justifying his ‘mistake’. The father had little to speak. We already know that he did not particularly enjoy being a family man – it was more of a natural order of things for him. And even today, he was more concerned about getting across his part of the story, than listening and being receptive to the other side. He was listening to all this, waiting for the commotion to end, so that he could have everyone’s attention.

He began by calling their names, with an unusual impatience in his tone. The children ignored this first quietly. He mentioned about the doll from the market place, and they tried to get under their blankets to resist going to him. He mentioned Saturday and a new story. This almost killed their urge to stay back, but they persisted. The mother, all the time, was being her busy home-maker self, juggling between those four emotions, and many more. While the potatoes boiled, she spared a thought for the children, and with every whistle of the pressure cooker, the emotion changed. Then something happened, which almost took her attention away from the drama that was slowly unfolding, to what their relationship meant to her.

He called out her name. “Today, this one story I have, is for you too”, he quietly whispered in her ear. Everything flashed right in front of her – all the mornings, Saturday evenings, his stories and their marriage – everything. By the time she regained composure, and hurriedly turned towards him, perhaps to affirm, he had already started walking towards the table.

She was not someone who had fairly-tale expectations from her marriage, and likewise, he never did anything that could have translated into an expectation. Everything was so everyday in their marriage. It was like two individuals, not knowing why they were together, and not complaining about this, going about their lives, without a fuss. They celebrated every day of togetherness, precisely because they never celebrated any. Six years into their marriage, and not one story did he have for her. She had always known him as his struggling self, refusing to come to terms with what life had in store for him. She was as unconvinced in his stories as their children were, but liked the eagerness which he told them, and which the children listened to. That he never had the same eagerness when he talked to her, never occurred to her. Today, with that careless whisper, somewhere that realization germinated.

One thought after the other gushed out her mind. What could that story be? Of course, he changed professions, from being an errand boy in one of the publishing houses, to a salesman, and to some extent, passionate about the six-string, to being a sweeper in a theater, but that was the end of his storied life. He seemed satisfied with whatever he did, but always had a complaint or two about whoever employed him, and not about the way he was treated. The complaints were about how those imbeciles missed out on the diamond that he was, and a polished one at that. Was it another complain? Could not have been. He definitely quit his job.

She called out the children’s name. Dinner was ready, and they were hungry. Trying to pretend as if they had just woken up, they came out of their room, rubbing their eyes. The little one jumped at seeing the doll, and the elder one issued a stern warning, reminding her of the secret pact they had – it was about not buying any excuse their father gave. A smile broke out on his face. The food was different from what they always had, perhaps to re-create and celebrate the evening. He cleared his throat, just like he used to. The children faked a yawn. The wife slowly smiled, softly rebuked the husband for missing out on their story – this bit was simply to induce a sense of pride in the children – and started serving the food.

“Who wants to come to the theater?” That worked like a magical spell. It was a loud, unanimous agreement from the four of them.

Homecoming (IV)

So after a long pause, and a deep breath, a smile broke out on his face.

He had long talked about his achievements to his daughters. They had never known if what he talked was true. They were not old enough, but five years is a long time. Never once in those five years did they see him live any part of his achievements. He used to talk about the fluidity with which his fingers caressed the guitar, and there was not even a broken, hollow or solid wooden structure in their house to suggest that. He used to talk about the reams of papers he had bought and type-written his stories and novels on, but not one among those countless papers was to be found in their house, let alone the typewriter. He had spoken so much about people envying those lip-smacking roles he played onstage, sometimes a swashbuckling villain and at others, a dashing romantic, and his family was yet to see him romance that heroine or crack a joke, onstage.

His daughters were always spell bound with his stories, but something in their questions, and they had many, always suggested that, somewhere, they thought all this was too good to be true. They had seen their father lead his life the way he did, and all this seemed too rosy for someone who went to work with the same blue jumpsuit and did not have one clean, white shirt to wear. But nonetheless, with their mouths agape, they wondered at looked at their mother for a confirmation of sorts. The mother was a quiet lady; she was very young, but her maturity belied her age. At most of his stories, she just smiled in affirmation, not because she thought they were all true – they had been married only 6 years, while the stories dated back to when he was in his early twenties – but just because “those” stories were told on Saturdays.

After that call, he looked at his watch again. It was earlier than expected, two hours earlier. Would this bring good news for him? “I do not care, I had stopped long before”, he thought. But only few in this world can claim to be bereft of hope. He was not one. Never mind how bad you fare, there is always that sense of something miraculous happening that would turn things on their heads. He thought the same. Otherwise, he would not have picked up that stone, nervously. He took it out of his pocket, again, smiled and let it roll on the street, and watched as it rolled, with an expression of relief. Something in him proclaimed a sense of victory, while a certain part of his thought it was long due. Perhaps, all this was set in motion as the day unfolded. Everyone at the theater was talking of it as it was the best that could have happened to him for a very long time. Everyone was asking how he would be preparing about that moment of his. And with every question, he grew more and more anxious.

Often, it is the people and the chattering around you that lets the moment grow big on you. You never think you are good at that certain thing until someone reminds you of the same. Gently, that one turns into two and then many, until you start thinking the same about yourself. Never mind that those praises reduce to a scant, stop altogether from quarters that matter, it grows so big on you that you finally refuse to accept that if it was that same growing recognition that grew big on you, the scant spell should lead you to believe the opposite, and push you into introspection. “Once a star, always a star” had been the story of his life.  

He thought about the moment, when he was too occupied with the ants on the floor while the director and the writer were talking, and when he came out smiling, thinking it was his homecoming. He could not shrug off that moment, and how big has that grown on him. He went back to the day when everyone in his hometown thought he was destined to be a music maestro, basis his ability to produce different sounds from his mouth or by tapping on wood. He arrived in this city, and fifteen years on, he had still to do anything with his music. While struggling with his ambitions, he had similar experience, only this time it was about his creativity and storytelling. Fast forward to that evening. He was still a sweeper and had still to make it big.

Now, he was not thinking about the day being a Saturday or that his family would be waiting; not about his daughters and this, new story; instead he was thinking if could actually live this story. By the time he reached home, it was already late. He was not greeted by his boisterous daughters, never mind the fact that it was a Saturday. He tried to cheer them up. Today, he had that doll from the marketplace; today, they did not want that doll. It was like he had broken his promise. First time since his elder daughter could remember, they had not gone out on a Saturday.

He had that anxious smile on his face. Today, he had a story which his daughters could see him live.

Homecoming (III)

He was expecting a call; one that, some thought, would change his life for the better, but his usual self trudged along with his everyday life, without asking questions, without seeking answers. What began as a quiet morning had already progressed onto an eventful afternoon. The logical end awaited him even as the daylight, an unabashed voyeur, struggled to stay alive to witness “the” defining moment of his life, battling with a growing number of stars and that marauding darkness. He was singing, he was ebullient, he was nervous. Some bite nails and some scratch heads. He chose to throw a stone into emptiness. Of course that window prevented him. He greeted the neighbor with an awkward smile, and moved on. In his hindsight, finally, a thought came up, something that he had battled through for a better part of his life. He thought he could wish it away, just like he used to wish his childhood demons, only forgetting that they would come back stronger. He did not want to answer whether this was a reflection of the rest of his life, when he tried to express himself and then restrained. He could not, perhaps. It is often an uncomfortable realization, a poignant one, where he knew he hadn't been man enough to chase away those demons, and instead chosen the greener pastures on the other side. From a certain perspective, it was the better choice, but had the grass really been greener, he wouldn't bother. No one would. Not for nothing do they say that the grass is always greener on the other side, notwithstanding which side you are on. Green is not always green, he thought. Today, he was at the cross roads.

He had been summoned to the director’s office later in the day. After that toilet thing, he had been chatting with his fellow sweepers when the writer overheard their conversation. He was blaming the actor for his callous remark on the writer’s effort to put joy to words. He was blaming the culture of breeding anonymity on the one hand and stardom on the other. He was trying to justify his past and juxtapose his present with the rest of his meandering life. He was being his true self. “Seldom would I see such honesty, and celebration of a life riddled with disappointments”, thought the writer. In that moment of spontaneity, and brutal honesty, the writer managed to get hold of something – having already started seeing the sweeper on the stage, the writer witnessed his moment of “unbridled joy”.

“I don’t blame myself for my failures, if you think I have not been successful, in most of my endeavors. To me success does not mean celebrating a moment of mediocrity with a bunch of like minded people. For me, success means being a champion for oneself. For me, success is when you accept that you could not have been successful, and move on. It is not a forgiving place that we live in. So much so that it has become difficult to be honest with oneself. I am happy that I quit music. Not because I did not love music, but because I don’t believe in having my family suffer because of my interest. Come on, let’s be honest. I could have done much better with my music, had I not had a family. But I can’t let them struggle for my whims. I think I am successful because they are happy with their lives.”

This was a sweeper who had not had the best of opportunities and still tried to make the most of whatever life he had. This was a father whose children were not too fond of him, and yet they waited for Saturdays. This was a husband who could not promise a lot to his wife, and yet she smiled every morning when he left. This was man who, perhaps, did not like responsibility, and yet did not want to shrug to off.

He was standing with the writer, in a plush office room, staring at the shining floor (trying to find his reflection); too occupied with himself to pay heed to whatever was transpiring between his companions. Between his reflection and the squeaking chairs where the other two sat, he occasionally heard them talking about the subject of their play. For long had the theater been a home to extra-ordinary stories – stories of miracles, stories of heart-break, stories of celebration, and sporadically, stories on history. It was time they brought to stage, and life, everyday stories – where there were no miracles, no happy endings, but an acceptance of what life brought forth. He got the sense of something big about to be in his life.

After a while, they came out, smiling. Towards something more consequential, thought his kin. To him, it was something long due - his homecoming. 

Homecoming (II)

Follows from http://esotericpromethean.blogspot.in/2013/05/homecoming-i.html

That morning was nothing different. He left for work as usual, dragged himself onto the train, mumbling his prayers. Now this, I think, is interesting. He was not a theist, in fact he detested such questions which measured is faith in God or religion. But, inadvertently, whenever he was not busy talking to someone, he was busy with his prayers. Of course not the ones where he sought something from the Almighty - he was too poor to think that prayers could turn wishes into reality - but simply uttering names of all deities he knew of. Sometimes, humming and at other times, brazenly, trying to take as many names as possible, and as fast. Stations were milestones for this exercise. Crowds rushing in at the 100^th, continuing till the air got stinky at 615^th. He got down at the 1000^th name. Clockwork precision.

Now a sweeper’s job is not really exciting, and he knew it. Few sights in this world can be more appalling than an abused toilet, and that was his bread and butter. But unlike his other, more venerated, colleagues (read, the dramatis personae) from work, he did not complain, not about his job, at least. The theater was one of the most popular ones in the city. Somehow, he thought, the patrons were not. He used to stand at the door that led to the staging area, sneaking a peek into all performances. A few months into this job and he was already a popular figure among his “peers”. This began with his complaints about those “petty” actors, who were almost always “over the top” with their acting, and on to the writers, “consistently under-performing  doing injustice to that stage”. Thanks to his toilet job, and his complaints, we know what was going to change his life.

As he stepped into the theater, he overheard them talking. Greeted them with a smirk and the rest was business as usual. It was the first screening of that popular play in his city. While the troupe was amateur, it somehow managed to get in a big name as the lead actor. He caught a glimpse of the company rehearsing on the stage, paused for moment, rejected the idea and moved on. If there is no woman in there, that is no play to me, no artistry to me, he thought. Later in the day, he was cleaning the toilet floor, when the writer and the actor barged in, the actor whistling and the writer explaining to him some scene, something about the idea of happiness.

“You know, when I see those kids waving at the planes in the sky, what strikes me most is that despite knowing that they are probably never going to take that ride, and that no one on that plane would even be noticing them, forget about waving back, they can’t hold back their excitement. This to me is unbridled joy. In fact, I have been fortunate enough to have taken a flight, many of them, and still, when I hear the rumbling of an airplane, I look up to find where that thing is. I still rejoice when I see a smoke trail in the sky, knowing that something just cut the sky into two for me.”

The actor continued whistling, and callously cut the writer short.

“Give me something meaningful…these words of yours don’t carry enough weight for an actor like me.”

Why is it that fuckwits still get the most of this world, he thought to himself. That phrase sounded beautiful to him, the way that writer expressed something so ordinary into something that was so “philosophical”. From trying to find his reflection on the floor, and miserably failing, he entered a different territory, finding things which were much more valuable to him than his outline on the broken tiles of that toilet. He started seeing a smiling wife when he leaves for work, the lit-up face of his daughters greeting him when he comes back and the eagerness with which they wait for Saturday evenings. He saw a plate of delectable sweets, a relaxed Sunday morning, the thousand bucks he received every month and his “glorious” past. Amidst all this, the small matter of a broken outline on the floor signaled the end of his chore. He could not help himself from smiling, and trying to find that smile in his reflection.

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Half past seven. At least two hours before he could find peace.

Homecoming (I)

 “Time is little more than just that cruel passerby, unfolding as it passes, perhaps a grand canvas, littered with vignettes, colors, emotions, grey and memories, among a thousand other things. In its eternal, dispassionate search for a destination, they say, it barely pauses for a breath – a moment of compassion, a minute of anxiety, seemingly endless passages of desperation and fleeting joy – nothing ever seems to bother. It is in this canvas that life sketches some of its most every day-looking stories, in juxtaposition with some remarkably strange ones.”

“I wish we could step out of that canvas and paint a world of our own…”

This was “the” thing, he thought. Against a mildly chilly October evening, sipping his tea, he sat on the sidewalks of the “busy” street, smiling, sometimes mumbling. “Busy”, to him was not bustling with people, but rather bustling with theatricality. Colors, silence, props, and a busy backdrop. It was one of those days when he thought he would be the next big thing in the local theater scene. Struggling to contain his excitement, and the tea from spilling out of the mug, he would break into a spontaneous celebration, and sometimes, majestically, at least he thought, would let his hands waltz, as if his stage persona had seamlessly mingled with this world.

It had been growing darker, and the quickly fading dusk was given some space by those street lights dotting the horizon. That scant neighborhood somehow seemed to be the perfect canvas – lamp posts jutting into a not so grey sky sprayed all over with dull stars, and an artiste, in a somewhat restrained expression of his art, struggling to disturb the order of things, poking as if to produce ripples in that reflection. Swaying gently, even as darkness encroached over the trees, he picked up a stone and was about to throw it in the vast emptiness, when, a window over the sidewalk opened. Instantly, he slipped the stone in his pocket, wore an awkward smile, greeted the neighbor and walked on, measuring the success of his latest “theatricality”.

He was someone who could be labeled a trier. Yes, he was not a maverick, not someone who could lead a revolution, not someone who could / would / chose to do things differently. Call it the lack of choice, or its abundance, whatever he had chosen for himself since the last spring, was theater, in any capacity. Not that he had an innate talent, not that he was (not) good at any other “profession”. He was the kind that had no choice but to try a hand at everything he could. More than half of his life was spent trying to convince himself that he was a gifted athlete, a talented musician, a bright scholar and a fluid writer. Unbeknownst to the rest of the world, his gifts "developed and reached a prime", till he got bored of whatever he was involved with, and with a “been there, done that” attitude, shrugged off the little recognition he received from humankind.

He was a family man, something which he did not enjoy - may be because of the responsibility that came along with it, or perhaps because he was all too occupied with himself. By his nonchalance, one could have mistaken him of having gotten bored with his family, though was not so. His wife was pregnant with their third child, although his daughters were not particularly fond of him. They were too inquisitive about why he would not get them that candy floss from that shop. Sometimes they insisted on a particular doll in the marketplace. The father tiredly tried to dissuade them, while the mother used to get them substitutes in the form of lozenges. A family dinner every weekend was a given, and was that bit about being a family man that he would not complain. Not because it was some quality time with his family, but because with every outing, he thought he absorbed something of that external world. Of late, he had developed a keen eye for detail. Saturday evenings provided him with ample. Through all his years in toil, all he could manage was to stumble through the labyrinth of his desires, giving up midway in pursuit of something he thought was his higher calling, and yet, he took enormous pride in recounting his days of yore. Saturday evenings were profligacy for him - a new joint every week, and a new story at every joint to keep his daughters interested in Saturdays.

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Until that Saturday, when he would simply disappear.

Everything else can wait.

Except time. Which, I assume, anyway, does not matter.

What matters, though, is a dream waiting to be dreamed. Day in and day out, through the struggles of everyday chores, what gets lost is not time, but the sense of being in that time. Somewhere in this din, the magic of a few quiet moments gets strangled. Railway lines, shiny and spiraling, a bustling crowd, moving in unison and oblivious to the individuals in it, a screeching halt, a mad rush, an android, a moment or two of condescension, submissiveness and complaints, and on, and on. Tireless hours without being true, tiring hours in afterthought. Somewhere, someone is lost. Somewhere the excitement of a dream is lost, the excitement of having dreamed one, and the restlessness after not having remembered one. Everything else can wait but a dream.

What matters though is a life waiting to be lived.

Tumult

So after a brief moment of struggle, can I afford to sit back and ponder over "that animal" getting off my back? I think I can't. There too much left to be desired, after all. Moments ago, a state of limbo and moments after, another. The difference - one "leads" to the other; a series of incidents leading to another, a series of thoughts triggering another and a moment of resignation ushering another. Dominoes. The good thing is that I can afford to do what I was doing all this while, with that extra little peace of mind; the bad thing is that I can't do anything about it, now. So, I sit back, after a long spell of denial, and try to put things into place. A Hampton Maze, a jigsaw puzzle, but without any story to connect, so that every piece would fit into every other suitable one. Does it give me reasons to rejoice, with choices galore, or does it indicate a general loss of objective, since one way or the other, the puzzle would fall into place anyway. This is what I am thinking. Drifting.

A quick glance at the clock throws back 0118 hours. I have seen many of those. I laugh back at the clock, "I am not at your mercy." But how wronged I am, because in the end, the clock always has the last laugh. Time beats all. It is the "clock" that "strikes away" every hour. So what is it that leaves me struggling? Too many to be contained here. Time. Perhaps faineance.  I am not a man of too many words, but I am not a recluse either. I may not be the first mover, but I am not a martyr either. I fancy my chances. Everyone does. So, what am I left with? Let us try and explore.

There are sprouts of opportunities, bouts of indecision, followed by moments of madness, ending in spells of desperation. What good is the anvil without a hammer? The iron would still remain unshapely, laying waste to the effort gone behind arriving at that preparation. January Night, Premchand, teaches a lesson or two. Reality, after all, is your consciousness, shaped by the desires you harbor and molded in the fashion you want things to be. Laying waste to all that you have strived for, all the while crying foul over some flawed structure of construed pragmatism, or seeing an alternate universe, where all that is real are your desires, and accordingly carving your consciousness, are just mechanisms to define what you are going to be. Desperate or content, you define your zone.

Tumult. This is something undeniable, after having decided to write as much. There are too many things going around in my head. If I can afford to digress, “Paranoid” would be an ideal statement, sans the opening clause. I wonder whether it comes naturally to me, the tumult, or whether it is a product of so many assumptions; whether this is a result of a diverging, almost escaping, reality or a converging, almost overwhelming, hallucination. So many times have I thought about so many things, so many predicaments, and an equal number of times have I experienced strong explanatory undercurrents, only to have let them drift in time with the flow, punctuated by scattered, insignificant efforts for roadblocks. At times I have been plain reluctant of taking charge, and at other times confined myself to complaining, limiting my will to react.

React. Yes, reactionary is what I have largely been. But does that solve one bit of the puzzle, the assumptions bit? By laying a claim to being reactionary, can I say this tumult is not at least the result of too many assumptions? No, because regardless of the assumptions, I keep deferring action. This only builds a massive block which some or the other point in time has to be dismantled to be able to see any further. And within that unorganized megalith, breed many tumultuous thoughts, nibbling away at every bit of organization within you. Like the domino effect, these megaliths keep regenerating all around you, colonizing within themselves, a largely productive brain, rendered rather ineffective, consumed, all the while, in battle against an imposing, but invisible, foe. The key is how soon you condition yourself to circumvent this entrapment, and get back to being what you were. Still better, don’t wait for the garbage to pile up.

Pre-empt. Act.

There is so much to see beyond every wall, so much to read between every line. The question is, am I up to it?