Sometimes, you peer though your glasses, and when you try too hard, you don’t see art. I mean, you see the strokes and the colors and the lines, but, with your nose so close to the canvas, you miss the frame. For the frame defines where it starts and where it ends. Art, that is. You need the frame.

That day, he was hunched over his laptop, and all day long you could hear the nervous clitter-clatter of the keys. Followed by silence. Followed then by the single, persistent click of the “backspace”. And repeat. He had a way with words, but they seemed to have deserted him for the moment.

Also particularly disturbing were his frequent breaks that he took to look at social networking. Those are particularly misleading with what statisticians should call “happy moments bias”. Everything is nice and magical and happy in there. Precisely forty-five of his one-thousand-one-hundred-and-change friends were on vacation, or had babies, or got married, or got promoted. The One-thousand-and-fifty-odd remaining friends had nothing to report, it seems. But forty five happy people is quite a lot to digest when you feel you are unhappy. And yes, tomorrow there will be another set of 45 getting married and what not. How is one to keep up with so much happiness?

Finally he closed his browser. Tried his luck at another round of typing. Then gave it up. He sighed and got up. He did not have a particularly clean room, but it had clean spots where he could curl up and work on his laptop. He wondered for a second if he was particularly dirty, for every friend he visited had clean houses. Maybe they cleaned when he was coming, he thought. Like he would, too, when he was given advance warning of someone arriving.

He got out of the apartment. He needed to go for a walk. He walked with no destination in mind. Walking was important. He wanted to introspect. So many things had happened. Most of them were bad, although some were good. He needed to face the bad and prepare his defenses. Yet, like few others, he never had coherent thoughts. He could never introspect clearly. He would have to get his mind as blank as possible, and then the thoughts would sort of cloud over that blank canvas, and here and there he would catch something that made sense. They were like dreams. He was a dreamer, then.

Connotations are funny. For when you say, “he was a dreamer, then”, what you create is the picture of a successful man in a corporate suit (or a turtleneck) who probably dropped out of college to sell desktops from his garage. And when, years later, he would speak at a convocation at a college, he would say, “You cannot succeed unless you dream!”. We’ve taken the dreaminess out of the dreamer. There is no room for the absent-minded fellow – he’s under quite a burden if you call him a dreamer these days.

He walked on. It was a clear, cool evening in the early days of fall. The weather was still playing around between hot and cool, but he could feel the inevitability of the cold that would soon take over. He walked on. Looking at cars. Looking at trees. Shrubs. Homes. Houses. Lawns. Sprinklers. Even rabbits. And yet, nothing seemed to start the flow of words. The problem was, there was so much to write. Seven years of explanations. Updates. Successes and Failures. And looking back, he felt this sudden tiredness. He always did feel that when recounting his life. It was as if he was telling his own story to someone as he lived though it, and at the end of a rather long and complicated passage, his audience wanted him to go back and start over. He sighed under the burden of so much information. He despised keeping a journal. In fact, as a child, he had even hated answering his mom’s “What did you do at school today?”, which she asked everyday. And now he was asked to go back and start all the way back to seven years?

And so he walked on. Maybe she did not really want to know about everything in his life. Much like his mother’s perfunctory “What did you do at school?”. She had said – written – typed – “How have you been? Tell me Everything!!!”. Everything. Followed by three exclamation points. Should he start with an apology? After all, seven years back, when he broke all contact with her, he had chosen “career”. But then, maybe it is just an expression. And three exclamation points? That seems fake to me. And in her email to me, she had not described “everything”. In fact, she had described practically nothing.

He walked on. Round and round on the same path. Maybe some of the residents were getting a little suspicious. There were fewer cars now. Homes and Houses were going to sleep. The rabbit was gone. The lawns were wet and the sprinklers were silent. How much should he let on? That he still thought about her sometimes? That he thought about what could have been? That he had a girlfriend and was also married to his job? Or should he match her gaiety and write back in hyperbole (he was learning from his surroundings how everything was “amazing!!!” and every other thing was someone’s “favorite!!!” (but that thing which was the favorite five minutes prior was still the favorite too))? Maybe an apology wasn’t required after all. I mean, what was he apologizing for? And from what he had heard, she had done pretty well for herself. Maybe it was for the best anyway.

It was then that he looked to the sky. He saw the moon. It was not a new moon or a full moon, it was waning, and had this odd shape. But it was so big that night. He had never seen it so big. It was as if Bruce Almighty had pulled it closer for his girlfriend. That big. And it wasn’t pretty at all, and yet, he thought he was looking at a painting. Framed by the darkness all around. And then it came to him. An old fashioned romance, incomplete, needed to be picked back up in an old fashioned way.

He walked to the nearest stationer and picked out an old-style fountain pen and some ink and some thick paper. Unruled. Then he rushed home and sat down to write. The nervous clickety-clack was replaced by the assured scratch of the nib.

Dear G…,

I have no idea how this letter is going to make it to you, for I do not know your postal address. But it will, somehow, I assure you. 

Much is there to write, for you asked for everything. But it ain’t the dots that I connected to get from where we were to where I am that matter. For those are simple. Linear. Logical. Safe. And yet, the result of joining two safe dots hasn’t ever been a safe route. It has twisted and turned and presented more forks and dead-ends. 

You, my dear, were along one of my paths, briefly, yet significantly. At least, I could call you my dear on that little journey of mine. I am not entirely sure if I still can. But please, indulge my pen for a moment, for it doesn’t always listen to me.

And then, soon, I was off on a fork that did not involve you. I say that I have wondered what could have been if I had chosen that other road instead, but really, I have been a little scared to think of what could have been. And not just with you. With all my choices. I now know why, on your query about “everything” in my life, I felt a crushing tiredness. Because, for the first time in seven years, you made me confront all the millions of small forks I have faced since. I don’t think man has developed the computing power to iterate through all the  millions of “what-ifs”, that arise.

So let me spend an extra moment with you, back at that fork. Let me push that decision to a split-second later. Look at you once more, smell your hair, stroke your curls, and listen to your laugh. Internalize all that is yours into mine for another scintilla of time. Be yours and call you mine infinitesimally longer. Let’s grow older together, minutely. Live on the edge for a tiny bit longer.

I see those two kids back there at the coffee shop, books-in-hand. She suggests we go to a movie. I agree, even though I have to study for the bar. I am that kind of a guy, I suppose. We hold hands. We walk with the gang, and ours is a genuine laugh – loud and without a care in the world.

We watch the movie. We go to a bar. We drink and cheer the football team. We go home, we make love. We fall asleep.

It is the next morning and we are back at the coffee shop. I still need to study for the bar. We are back at the fork. It is like groundhog day meets before sunrise. Over and over again, I choose you, just for the day, for I have to study tomorrow, I promised my mom.

And so it continues, my one-extra-day-with-you. But I see it as a movie, really. I have no say in the choice of characters, plots, or outcomes. For I don’t know the boy or the girl in that movie. Because they are beyond that fork, that day; and prior to this one today. The no-man’s land of our destiny. Who is to say what a day in there looks like? Do you break up with me, a minute later? Do we go to a movie, or do we go bowling? Do we like the movie? Do we have sex that night or do we decide to wait? Who knows. Not me, and not you.

One bloody fork. Just one. And yet so tiring, when it comes to that.

Tell you everything? Sure. Just jump on to this little ride of mine. Everything has happened, and yet, there is an eternity to go before everything passes. Which one do you want?

Sometimes it is the frame that limits the art. Constraints it. Who is to say what the spot of chipped paint on the wall won’t add to the painting?

Your-companion-for-a-while,

D.R.

I am writing this on Salil’s suggestion. Right at the start, let me admit that if I used any numbers or stats, I may have turned to his eidetic memory for help.

Among the millions of millions of words written on the subject of Sachin Tendulkar, these following words have no reason to stand out. I am no expert of the game; as such, I have never commented on articles on the Internet. I have, however, lived in an India mesmerized by the man, and our relationship needs closure, too.

I was born in 1984, during an important time for Indian cricket. We had just won the Prudential World Cup in 1983. We were about to win the Champions’ Trophy in 1985. In between, the angry and hurt West Indies team had pulverised the Indians in a 6-match test series (Link). Whether the team had really improved, or was just lucky, I don’t know – but with televisions becoming common, there was definitely an increased interest in following cricket.

The cricket fever, however, hit me pretty late. As late as 1992 during the World Cup. The first match that I remember watching was the India- Australia game at Brisbane. I remember being at my mama’s place – and by the time we reached there India was already batting and had lost a few wickets chasing 236 in 47 overs. The first question someone asked was, “Is Sachin still batting?” The answer was No, and it was instantly concluded that India had no chance of winning. As it turned out, India did have a chance – they lost by 1 run, and only because Srinath thought he hit a boundary off the last ball and did not run. When the ball was cut-off, there wasn’t enough time and Raju was run out. And yet the game was declared lost when Sachin was out.

I don’t remember watching till the end. I don’t think I understood most of the rules to understand how close the game was – but the name “Tendya” stuck with me.

Soon, I was batting and bowling on streets and in parks and grounds – and in the next couple of years I had decided, like so many around me, that I want to become a professional cricketer. By 1995 I was playing in a club, and would even make it to the class team once in a while. As it were, I never set the ground on fire with my performances. I did well in practice but never translated practice to performances in games. Maybe I should have played more on the streets before joining a club – then I could have seen cricket as a game where runs and wickets and catches mattered – and not as a set of rules to be followed. I could play the perfect forward defense, the straight, on and off-drives, the backward defense. I knew them all. You could bowl to me all day in nets and I would not get one wrong. But with one ball to go and two runs to get, none of this matters – what matters is that you can hit the ball into the gap and scamper for two. I never picked that up. The arrival of Rahul Dravid in 1996 further accentuated the role of the “proper batsman”; one who employed the high elbow; whose job was to stay at the crease rather than score; who was not a certainty in the ODI team.

In a way, the apparently carefree and attacking cricket from Sachin was why defense was considered even more important – “It is okay for Sachin. He can do it, he’s a genius. The rest of us have to block the ball once in a while.”, was the sentiment. And I was one of those who probably took that advice seriously. Sachin was also the reason a lot of people gave up playing cricket (or sports in general). This is not a rant or a complaint – this is a tribute to his genius. “Cricket is a risky career. There is no security.” (There was no IPL and no central contracts back then). “Not everyone can be Sachin Tendulkar.” Fair argument, but at that precise moment, 98 cricketers who were not Sachin Tendulkar were still representing their countries in Test matches – well, there was Brian Lara, so let’s say 97. And that there were 297 players who were representing their teams in the Ranji trophy who were not Sachin Tendulkar.

And yet, you heard this over and over. “Not everyone can be Sachin Tendulkar.”

It was the mid-90s and courtesy of Manmohan Singh’s opening of the economy, the world was rushing to the Indian subcontinent to sell their goods. Suddenly, India was the place to be. Prior to 1994, only one Indian had won the Miss World. Between 1994 and 2000, two Indian women were crowned Miss Universe and four were crowned Miss World. Every brand in the world wanted to be here. Investments were pouring in. India was ready to leave behind Doordarshan – who interrupted a game coverage in its last stages at night to show the daily news (this is why I love American Football – they stop the game to show the commercials). Television rights were lucrative. Every brand in the world wanted to advertise. Coca-Cola and Pepsi went at each other all day during games. They sponsored tournaments. Most importantly though, cricket in the Indian subcontinent itself was ready to explode. From 1983 to 1996, 3 of the 4 World Cups were won by India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka respectively. Post-1996, countless bilateral, triangular and quadrangular series were played in and involving these three nations.

It was this era which cemented Indian team’s reputation as the “one man army”. They referred to Sachin, of course. Even with the advent of younger, tougher players like Saurav Ganguly and Rahul Dravid, India was not able to shake off this image.

While this was happening, Sachin was merrily making runs everywhere. He was on his way to becoming the icon. He was becoming the God of cricket. 1998 was magical. The second highest wicket taker in the world had nightmares about Sachin hitting him out of the park. 1999 arrived, so did the world cup in England. Sachin further reinforced his image as the one-man of the army in the one match he was away from the team – to attend his father’s funeral. India lost to Zimbabwe, losing 3 wickets in one over and falling short by 4 runs. Even though he was batting at No. 4 for the rest of the tournament – a number he did not like for the ODIs, and one he wouldn’t give up in the tests. In the mammoth victory against Sri Lanka, India scored 373. Sachin scored 2. Ganguly and Dravid, at nos. 2 and 3, scored 328 between them. And yet, they said it was because he was still to come that gave the first three the confidence.

He carried the team, in spite of injuries and back spasms and personal tragedies – Chennai 1999 was heartbreaking (Link): Sachin had batted for 405 minutes battling back spasms, but the last three could not stand up for the final 18 runs. 6 hours and 35 minutes in the Chennai heat. And it comes to nothing. But there are those of us who remember the journey separate from the destination.

People came to watch Sachin. They turned off their televisions when he got out. And because he was mercurial, a stroke player, you could never bet on him staying on the wicket. The more runs he scored, the more scared you were. A lot of people (me, included) believed that watching him bat made him get out. So I stopped watching when he was batting. I think it helped a little!

I got to see him in person twice. Once was very early in his career. Ajit Wadekar, the former Indian captain and coach, had some connection to someone who lived two houses down from where I lived. That person decided to start a fitness center / gym in their house. Somehow, they got Ajit Wadekar to come – along with Sachin, Vinod Kambli  and Mohammed Azharuddin. Anyway, as usual the whole thing started really late, and a HUGE crowd had built up by then. When they did arrive, Azharuddin and Kambli refused to come out of the car, but Sachin did. I was told later that he was signing autographs behind the stage, but I had been too mesmerized, and a little shy to go. The second time, I was a little more prepared. The Indian team was to come and interact with the fans for a charity event. My uncle had obtained passes, and since he had an extra one, I got to go. We got there and once again, after a long delay the whole (or most of the) team made its way out. All throughout, we were told that the team would mingle, sign autographs and pose for pictures. After the introductory speeches, the organizers announced that the players were going for dinner, and would leave thereafter. No mingling, no pictures. The crowd had paid a lot of money, and they were not going to be cheated. After a riotous situation, the crowd forced its way into the dining area for the players. It got crazy thereafter. Azharuddin stood talking to his new wife Ayesha Begum (Sangeeta Bijlani), signing autographs for a few players but keeping most away. Nayan Mongia stood talking to a bunch of girls about movies. Dravid had a cup of ice cream in one hand and signed autographs with the other. Srinath told the crowd he wouldn’t sign unless they stood in a queue. Everyone was mobbed. Except Sachin. he stood in a corner, in a black polo shirt and jeans, and no one had the nerve to go up to him and ask him to turn. I stood behind him for a long time, trying to muster the courage. But it wasn’t a matter of courage. It just wasn’t right. You don’t do that to Sachin.

With the new millennium, came the match fixing scandal. A lot of big names were named. But India and South Africa bore the brunt, losing their core, including their captains. Sachin, the undisputed senior player now, was the glue which held together the new, frail Indian setup. Soon, they had found a new leader in Saurav Ganguly. He was tough. And he infected the players. He took off his shirt in the Lord’s pavilion to celebrate a famous Indian win (and to reciprocate Flintoff’s action from the previous match). Even spectators don’t take off shirts at the Lord’s. They wear jackets and ties and clap in a gentlemanly fashion. And Ganguly took off his shirt and waved it around. Just last month I was touring the Lord’s stadium and had the privilege to visit the Visitors’ Pavilion – and 11 years to the incident I was happy to know that it is still referred to as “Ganguly’s balcony”!

2003 saw Sachin’s return to the top of the order, and midway through the tournament break his ultra-successful opening pair with Saurav and create another one with Sehwag – which would continue to create mayhem at the top for the next few years. Sachin was in sublime form throughout – he destroyed Pakistan and their superior attack almost single handedly. He scored in practically every game, including the disastrous first game against Australia – but could not in the final.

The final non-performance had bigger repercussions – Sachin was labeled as the guy who could not win India games. As opposed to Brian Lara, for example, or the newly emerging Ricky Ponting. Fans and critics have, over the years, provided every kind of statistic to prove or disprove this hypothesis. And the discussion will probably never end. Over the years, the discussion got more caustic – critics now said he was selfish, that he played for himself, for numbers, for records. They said he was larger than the game and that it would be impossible to drop him. Again, this has been beaten to death.

The early 2000s saw him suffer through the tennis elbow – an injury that threatened to end his career. Years of suffering, rehabilitation, and incessant questions and demands later, he kept coming back to play. After almost 20 years of international cricket the fire kept burning. His farewell note at the Wankhede touched upon his side of it, probably for the first time. Hours of pondering, frustration, sleepless nights – he spoke about his friends who drove around Mumbai at night to talk to him and keep his spirits high.

2007 was probably the nadir, with coach Greg Chappell publicly demanding that Sachin retire and questioning his attitude. That was probably the only time he hit back publicly and got a rap on the knuckles from the BCCI. Anyway, Greg Chappell left and in came Gary Kirsten. Reportedly, Sachin asked Gary to be his friend – something Kirsten agreed to offhandedly, but subsequently realized that Sachin was actually looking for a genuine friend (Link). For the fan in me, the one who could not ask him to turn around for that autograph, these tidbits were precious – Sachin was a human being, after all, it told us. He was tired at times. Needed love, reassuring. And with a little understanding, he was happy to be the giant shoulder for the infinite Indian expectations.

Cricket after 2007 is a blur, really. Everyone plays a lot of limited overs cricket, and then they play the IPL, the BBL, the CPL, the BPL. Then you have the T20 WC every 2 years, and the ODI WC and Champions’ Trophy every 4 years. And so I have chosen to remember the test matches, mostly. Few important things happened during this time, though: Sachin was offered the captaincy after Dravid stepped down, but he suggested the name of MSD. Recent results notwithstanding, he has been amazing for the Indian team. Then, Sachin, continuing on his second wind, got to 99 international centuries. And then stopped dead. The selfish and records comments came thick and fast. The first million is the toughest, the saying goes. But we the people made the last million the toughest for the little guy. On the one hand, we told him records were not important, on the other, we could not stop talking about it. On the one hand, we said that Sachin should not play in the IPL, yet I was there to hear the deafening roar on the day of the first IPL.

And then, he retired at the Wankhede. Which created its own saga in Sachin selfishness circles. Personally, I don’t care. I was waiting for the 15 minute farewell I knew was coming and it was more than satisfying. There are very eloquent articles about it so I won’t write much – but he spoke to me and I was satisfied.

And now he has retired. A new generation of cricketers has embanked on one of the toughest tours of their life and have earned some reputation. They have not rolled over and played dead. They have stood up. The Sachin bashers have retired, too. Except a couple who still maintain that the #4 slot should have been given to Kohli much earlier. But then, Kohli did get his chances at 5 and 6 – and really, the fairy tale of Sachin in tests was created in those positions – 5 and 6. He moved to 4 eventually, but not before earning his place there. And so the comments are trickling down. What remains are memories from cricketers who shared the dressing room with him. Gambhir, for example, stated that the best thing about his mammoth innings in Napier was not that he saved the test, but that Sachin hugged him when he got to this hundred. Or that Dhoni still cannot talk to Sachin outside the ground because he is shy and in awe of the master – and that he would have been happy just to be nominated as a captain by Sachin, even if he hadn’t actually been appointed. Or Ganguly, for example, who, some have suggested, was bitter because of the attention Sachin got. But when it was time for Sachin to leave the stadium one last time, Saurav was running to stop the bus, and give Sachin a big hug.

This has been an impressionistic picture of him from the last 24 years – and it is by no means complete (or even accurate). It does not matter to me. What matters is that I was fortunate to have lived in India the last 24 years and to have seen it first hand. To have loved, to have hoped, to have developed superstitions, to have opinions and debates over the genius of this one man.

Not everyone can be Sachin Tendulkar – and thank God for that.

Busy market
Scorching
Sand of the desert

It was busy in the bazaar. Vendors clamored to show you the best radishes and the freshest cut of mutton. Each shouted over the other’s voice. Each had a small space covered with an improvised awning – cloth stretched over a bamboo frame – this was their “shop”. The awnings were typically too big for the narrow street, to where they would touch each other from the two sides of the street and created a continuous canopy. Buyers had to stoop forwards to walk, but they were not complaining – anything to get away from the desert sun. In the afternoon heat, the buyers dragged their feet and swayed from one vendor to another, bargaining, heckling, comparing, and avoiding meat and vegetables thrust in their faces. Children, with bruises from playing on the rough sand, jumped around and swatted at flies who were trying to sit on their wounds, and begged their parents for sweetmeats. Everyone was behaving just the way they were supposed to. Like an oiled machine. Chaos had found its rhythm.

The narrow street broadened eventually, and ended in a central courtyard, with 4 more streets leading out of it. Once a place for spirituality and intellect, this meeting place was now claimed by beggars. You could take two of the other streets to get to the castle, and most rich people took those, because all of them had lands near the castle. So the beggars divided themselves into two groups and sat near the entrance to the two streets, praising the Gods lyrically (when they got alms) and cursing loudly (when they did not).

I am not rich
Remorseful
I’m not a beggar

I don’t live among the rich people. Then again, I am not a beggar. So I take one of the other two streets to get to my home. As had happened in the last few days, I was remorseful. The heavens had created a small window of opportunity that could have ensured financial security for the next few years at least, and a house only 5000 merlonps from the castle, which, you would readily agree, is close enough. At the last moment, however, I had made a complete mess of it. The remorse was weighing heavily on my mind.

In my disturbed state, I failed to see one beggar sitting along the street. I would not have noticed him at all but for his singing. Just as I was passing by he started to hum. Then, he picked up his ekantri, the one-stringed instrument, and started playing it. He was singing imperfectly, missing notes, fudging his way through the words. It was a very sad tune, composed in the old tongue, which I had no knowledge of (you had to live closer to the castle to be able to learn it).

It was, however, a tune that made me stop and listen. For a moment, the harsh sun of remorse was covered with a cloud. One that had no silver linings. We desert dwellers don’t wait for the sun to peep through the clouds. We just enjoy the shade. I was waiting for the cloud to get darker and darker and for it to rain. But then the beggar saw me listening to him. He stopped humming and instead, started playing a happy tune, promising riches and happiness (and shade) if I parted with a few alms. It was a perfectly happy song. And yet, I could feel the harsh rays of the sun back on me. The gloom of brightness was back.

I stopped him from playing. Please, please, please play the other tune, I said, handing out whatever change I could find. The beggar, utterly startled, and definitely scared, started singing the old tune. It was the same song, but definitely the words were different – maybe it was a different stanza. And suddenly, my brother was talking to me. The last time I saw him alive, we fought over something, I don’t even remember what. Being irritated, I had cursed him and asked him to leave. He’d been killed on the way to his house, falling from his camel and hitting his head on the rock. Everyday, my unfortunate last words to my brother haunted me. I had no chance to make up, never will, I thought. But today he was telling me it was all right, he knew I loved him, knew I never meant any of those words. Uncontrolled tears of gratitude rolled down my eyes as I collapsed on the scorching sand below, clutching my hands in prayer.

Beggar stopped, amused, and stared at the crying man in front of him. As soon as the music stopped, reality came back to me. But the conversation stuck with me. I was happier. I was relieved. My brother had spoken. I stood up, wiped my tears, dusted the sand off my clothes. Then, I locked my fingers in his leprous fingers, and part dragged, part coaxed him to my house. MY wife tells me there was a big din in the house at the sight of me walking home with a beggar-in-hand, but I have no recollection of it. What I remember is the silence – that ensued after I urged Beggar to play again. And I remember the smiles outlined by tears on everyone’s faces. I know not of what grief they remembered then – but I knew it was real pain, agony, worry and guilt being washed away with those tears.

****
Part 2
*****

Business of fun
Difficult
Where is my space?

Mirishka was drunk. He wasn’t the official court jester today. He was himself – well, he wanted to, at least. Just the other day, he had heard the saint tell him about the future where you could be you. What was that like, he imagined and tried doing it. He created, as he sat listening to the other drunks around him shout and sing and cry, two mental places. In one he put everything related to his life as the official jester. In the other, anything that was left over.

He was disappointed with the result. His friends asked him for more jokes. His drinks were bought with official jester money. He had no moves, no spaces, no places, no people, not even funerals, that would define him. That would not expect him to make fun of someone or, better (for the audience), to make a fool of himself. Why, even his friends once told him they would always want to be in his company (lest he bash them behind their back?). But did they get any sense of warmth, any sense of trust from / toward them?

“Given enough time, I can spoil every relationship”, he said out loud.

With enough madira in his system, self-pity was slowly but surely merging with self-deprecation. Why, even “official jester” was an oxymoron, he decided. Oxymoron for the moron, he punned. And then he felt like he was on-the-job all the time. I want a break, I need a break, I really need a break.

Someone put their arm around him. “Don’t be sad”, he said. “Go meet beggar. He’ll make you happy…. No, but wait, you are the jester….”

******
Part 3
******

The magic of magic
spreads
far and wide

In my courtyard is a gathering of people. They sit, talking to each other in hushed tones. The dull, drawn out notes from the ekantri mingled with the sharp and pungent notes from the burning incense stick – creating harmony and / or turmoil in your senses. I sit under the shade, it is slightly cooler. Others sit in the sunlight, and pine for some shade.

But that only a minor distraction, for their ears are trained on the man on the pedestal. It is Beggar, and he speaks in a soft voice, and has none of the powers of effective speech. And yet they listen to him. For few can keep his prowess to themselves, and my wife is nowhere close to getting there. And so Beggar speaks. And they listen.

The boy who’s turn it is approaches the Beggar. And he starts talking. He speaks of that night, he has in his arms his best friend. He understood that she was there because she felt safe, she felt he was different. And he was, but his body, his desires did not know that. And at some point during the night, the acute pain in his body won the contest. The night was over. And life continued. He married her. But her health suffered and suffered and to the point that she was on her deathbed. And as he held her in her arms, she looked at him, life was slowly seeping out of her. In gasps and wheezes, she asked him for the last favour, “Please give me my friend back”.

They were back to that night, and he was holding her again, and there was no fear, and for a brief second he could see the spark back in her eyes, just before she closed them forever.

“I killed her.”, he sobbed. “I was supposed to be her friend”, the one safe haven for the doe in a world of hunters, and I baited her. Beggar, make me her friend again.”

“God writes the names of the unfortunate on a few grains of rice, and a few cuts of meat”

“Oh, I understand”, boy said with tears of happiness in his eyes.

“That will be all for today”, I said, and signaled Beggar to come into the house.

******
Part 4
******
In the courtyard of the magistrate of the land, a man in chains awaited his destiny. The magistrate, the law-enforcers, the soldiers, the witnesses, and most of all the man-in-chains looked exhausted. They had been at it since dawn, and it was getting closer to dusk. Yet, there was no way to judge one way or the other.

For there was something very fishy about all of this. It had started as a simple charge of robbery. A rich man had been robbed. He said, man-in-chains did it. Man-in-chains said that he had not. Rather, rich-man had handed over the wealth to him on his own. “Why would I do that?”, rich-man asked, “For even the grass in my courtyard does not grow without serving some profitable purpose for me!”

“But he wanted me to kill his wife, magistrate!”, man-in-chains implored.

“Well, did you?” the Magistrate growled

“No sir. For she looked like my wife”

“Well, but did you take his money?”

“No sir, he gave it to me.”

“Why did you give him the money?”

“Because he went into my house and came out. Then I went in, and my wife was dead.”

“So what is the problem?”

“But sir, after he took my money he told me he did not kill her! – so he had no claim on that money!”

“But how did she die?”

“Let’s ask Beggar”

*******
Part 5
*******
In my courtyard was a similar scene. You know about it already. I sit in my spot. I see Beggar with his ekantri. I see official jester. I see the magistrate. I see the others. The air is pensive.

Magistrate walks up to Beggar. He sits down at his feet, a little awkwardly. He is not used to being subservient. “Err… Uhmm.. I wanted to know.. How did rich-man’s wife die?”

And just then the official jester walked up and interrupted them. ‘Why, I was here first. I will ask the first question!”
Now the magistrate, a lower official, suddenly remembered how to be subservient in the presence of a court official and moved to the side.

And then, Beggar spoke.

And the magistrate was satisfied. And the others in the crowd were happy. And the jester looked around. And he saw no unhappiness. And in that brief moment, he could be himself. Where no one needed him to laugh.

And precisely one moment after that, he took out his official sword and cut Beggar’s head off. For a while, Beggar’s body stayed erect and his head swayed on the floor.

And henceforth, official jester was official again. There was unhappiness again. And so, there was hope. And there was courage. And there was fight. And there were jesters.

When I first saw Hari, he was sitting in a bar, silently sipping on a drink. It isn’t important where the bar was, or whether he chose to be alone or was forced to be so – what is important is that in a busy bar on a Saturday night, he was alone, sipping on a drink.

He was, in his own way, content with being alone and sipping on his drink. There were women around that he could’ve tried talking to – but he knew by experience that women have to be hunted in packs. In any case, it was too much work, anyway. It is entirely possible to be institutionalized by loneliness, and Hari was very much institutionalized. It is indeed fascinating, for the loner is himself the organization, himself the drug, and very much the drug addict.

Like most young people, Hari did not get enough sleep. If you asked him why, he would probably blame it on his long working hours (he wore a suit, by the way). Why he really did not sleep enough was due to the many, many hours he spent watching TV, mostly surfing channels, hoping to see something that doesn’t really exist.

The music and the alcohol had started to relax him, and his thoughts wandered. Anything was fair game at this point. Things that happened yesterday. Things that happened years ago. Things that never happened. Things Hari wished never happened. Everything. Like a kaleidoscope. Pardon me, like a flawed kaleidoscope, for some of the thoughts were repeated. A bioscope, if you will.

It was at this moment that he was shaken out of his reverie by a hand that was thrust towards his face. “Hi, I am Som”, said the voice that was owned by the owner of the said hand. Hari sighed. “Let me tell you a story, Som” he said.

******************

The bus was never on time. She wanted to get somewhere. And the bus was late. Of course, no one listened to radio these days. Actually,  no one knows what everyone else listens to because of the headphones. On an impulse, she turned on the radio on her music player. “There are storms expected in the area you are going to. Buy an umbrella”, said the radio announcer. So she did. Blue umbrella with a blue handle.

The bus arrived, eventually. And so did the rain. And stayed with them throughout. “I told you about the storm!”, announced the radio, smugly. When she got to where she had to, the bus could not get inside the bus station. So she was deposited outside the station and left to waddle in knee deep waters left behind by the storm. As she continued to waddle, she found the only vehicle running that could get her to where she had to go after she got to where she was. And it was then that she noticed another woman competing for the same vehicle. The two ladies and the vehicle driver converged on the solution, after much bargaining and haggling (and persistent waddling in knee deep waters) to share the automobile. “Hi, I am Sujata” said the other female. “Funny, this weather reminds me of a story.” she said, and continued.

*************

Raj was asked to step into the immigration office. All he had wanted was a tourist visa for a week or so to get in and be a tourist. His papers were in order. Could he please sit here and wait for his turn, he was asked. He would be glad to, he had lied. Thoughts can keep you company, thank you. But the guy on the next chair always has to know what mistake you made and were sent to the immigration office. “You cannot spit here. Or $500 fine.” he continued, giving an excellent reason for not spitting in an immigration office.

“I don’t intend on spitting here, or anywhere, really. And no, there is nothing wrong with my papers. I assume this is just a random check.”, Raj countered. Then, after expectant looks from the stranger, “Why are you here?”

“Me? My papers are in order too. But I came here with a tourist company group. Our guide filed all our papers together. He forgot his papers, so none of us can go in.”, he said, pointing to ten men who had decided to party with a touring party with bunch of other men and who needed a “guide”.

Raj’s cousin was outside waiting for Raj to come out. And this was taking a long time. He had to follow the band of merry men with a soon-to-be-outlawed-leader-who-forgot-his-papers to every counter and explain that he wasn’t one of them. At one of the counters, he was asked who his local contact was. Raj showed them the name and address of his cousin. The official called the cousin. “All is in order, sir. Let me get your passport stamped. Please wait here.”, he said and left. Another, younger, officer, took his place. The phone rang. It was Raj’s cousin, chiding the officer for making me (actually him) wait so much. “I am sorry sir. I wasn’t here, sir. Please tell your cousin (this to Raj)”. Wow, you can actually do that in this country, he thought.

Perfunctory hugs and hellos later, Raj was met with incessant rains. And menacing dark clouds (to mention nothing of the jet lag. And fear of accidental spitting). “Your exam tomorrow will be postponed.” said the cousin.

Next morning, though, there was perfect sunshine. The rain had gone, and most of the water. And of course, the clouds. Raj was on the train. Nervous. Jet lagged. “Can you tell me what time it is?” asked someone next to him. “It is 7 o’clock. And you know what? I’ll tell you something else.”

****************

Surinder was in a long flight. He was crossing a few continents and had lots of layovers on the way. And they did not give him the aisle seat he had asked for. Worse, they gave him one of the two middle seats in the middle row – 4 people crammed together. The lady to his left slept continuously. He liked that. The lady to his right seemed to mind her own business too – until she had a couple of wines too many. Then she started talking (she yanked the earphones out of Surinder’s ears once so she could continue to talk – so much for subtle hints).

She spoke about her daughter and how her husband mistreated her. Made her work crazy hours in the business. Then come home and cook and take care of two children. Surinder made tut-tutting noises to show his empathy. With every glass of wine the stories became more vivid. His temper, her health, the kids, the business. He could write a book on this family.

“Are you married?”, she asked him. Not yet. “Don’t mistreat your wife.”

*********************

The station had arrived. Raj got out. The local person got out. The local person would write a story about the misadventures of a boy on a plane. He would earn a lot of respect. A lot of money. It would eat his soul, though, that it wasn’t his story. “I wanted to find the guy. I tried to. Very hard. You know that, you believe me, right”, he told his wife on his death bed, not very many years after the book. He had been claimed. Raj never read the book. But he would get apprehensive every time it rained a lot.

***********************

When she got up the next morning, the room was bathed in sunshine. Much like Raj, she thought. I wonder if I would be apprehensive of lot of rain, she wondered. She spent the day in a mall, looking at golden paintings. And riding up and down escalators. Or watching people eat. Or come in and out. She spent some time sitting on the steps of a street. Then she proceeded to the station. Where she observed people at work. Or people saying goodbyes. Or crying, or missing. She then took out her gun and shot a few people. All in a day’s work.

*************

There was a pause as Hari took a sip of his drink. He liked the sound the ice cubes made against the glass. “That’s all I got”, he told Som. Som got up and left.

Hari could imagine better now. He was in the field behind that building. He was on a bicycle. The weather was warm. There wasn’t any rain in the air. He loved biking in the field. Not today, though, Seemed like something wasn’t quite right. He kept biking, he kept feeling something wasn’t right. Not until he lost balance and fell onto the dry ground.

Had he really been biking i the field?, he thought. Or was it just another formation in the kaleidoscope of his life? Light on broken colored glass, is that all it is? Then why did it come back to him, so many times? What did he bike in the field, and how did it end? Who knows, he thought. Who needs reason, he also thought. All I need is random images and some irregular music. To complete the bioscope, the broken kaleidoscope, of my life.

Chapter 1: An awkward start

It was almost midnight by the time Deepak unpacked the last box. He was finally, officially, completely moved to his new apartment. He was satisfied with his work and his discipline, even though every muscle in his body complained. He took a few deep breaths, and decided to take a shower.

Coming out of his shower, he peeped into the living room, then walked over to his roommate’s bedroom. There was no sign of him yet. In fact there was very little evidence of anyone else living there. A few empty liquor bottles on a side  table, a few plastic bags filled with take-out food and one bottle of water on the kitchen counter were the only evidence of life. The apartment seemed clean, but there was a mustiness about it. It was clear that the cleanliness was attributed to keeping the apartment boarded up, rather than actual cleaning.

The hot shower had relaxed him and reduced some of his fatigue, and Deepak soon fell asleep. When he woke up it was almost time for him to leave for office, so he went through his morning routine rapidly. When he came out into the living room he almost jumped out of his skin. A guy with a thick beard and shaggy hair was sitting on the couch, smoking. “You bathe loudly. You woke me.” He said, and went back to smoking, looking blankly across the room. He did not seem to even expect a response. “Oh.. I am sorry.. I was in a hurry.. Are you Dheer?” Deepak blurted, looking guilty, although he did not really think he had been all that loud, to add to the fact that his bedroom door had been closed as well. “I have to hurry.. I will see you later. Nice to meet you”, he added, before running out of the main door.

When he came back from work Dheer was not at home. A similar routine continued for a full week. No matter how quietly Deepak moved around in the morning, he always seemed to wake Dheer up. And Dheer would let him know, his crisp voice carrying through the thick smoke encircling him.

Except when Friday dawned. Deepak came out into the living room and sat on the couch wearing his shoes, waiting for Dheer’s single statement for the day. He obliged, but said a little more today. “You sleep well. My violin weeps with me, but you seem not to share our woes.” Deepak was so taken aback he did not say anything at all, just gave a foolish smile (and looked guilty again).

At work Devansh asked him if he had moved to his new place. During the conversation he asked Deepak who his new roommate was. “You live with Dheer Gupta? Man, if this is the same guy, you are living with one of the most talented violinists of this century! Haven’t seen him perform in ages, though!”

Chapter 2: The cabinet

The cabinet in the living room did not look out of place, partly because, in a sense, everything was out of place. There was no defining theme or color scheme. Various tenants had contributed to the current collection by leaving behind things they did not need. A Saharanpur chair rubbed shoulders with a light-blue rexine couch, a wicker chair and a bright red bean-bag. The cabinet would have looked out of place, however, in most places, because it was so majestic. Carved exquisitely, without the over-the-top, gaudy, clustered style of the Saharanpur chair next to it, you could really see the high quality of the wood and the craftsmanship.

Dheer’s grandfather had loved like a madman, his violent love surpassed only by the violence on display when he killed his wife, who he suspected was having an affair with her music teacher. They say he slit her throat when she was in the middle of her song. The place of her interment was where the tree came, which Dheer’s father had cut down in order to make the cabinet. An artist with wood, he asked his son what toy he would like with the leftover wood. Dheer asked for a violin, that being the first thing to have crossed his mind.

Although just a toy, made with no measurements or even the right kind of string, the violin produced the most beautiful sound ever heard on a violin, and Dheer had played it since. He told everyone he could hear his grandmother singing and weeping at the same time whenever he played it, although she’d been long dead before he was born. The cabinet took on a deeper red, when he played the violin, he said.

Chapter 3: We meet..

Deepak celebrated Friday night with a single can of beer, alone. He told himself that success reigns alone, and alone was not bad. He was celebrating good news, indeed, he had been at his best in years. All that training and sacrifice had to weigh in one day, he told himself. There were unnecessary hiccups along the way, but hey, don’t they make you tougher? He continued on, sounding more and more like a self-help book every second. Yes, there had been unnecessary hiccups along the way. Every time he believed he had broken through the cycle of rebuild and accelerate someone (or something) would break his run. He never broke a limb as a child, but broke an arm trying to build a swing for his niece. That cost him the promotion. And then there was the mysterious disease, that no one could diagnose for two months. It cost him the leadership of the project he should have had.

Today, then, he slept a little better, and only partly because of the beer. He woke up when it was almost 11, and he did not know what to expect as regards to his roommate. As he came out into the living room, he saw the familiar sight of the smoking bear on the couch. “Do you smoke?” asked the bear. “No… Used to.. Sometimes when I am drunk”, Deepak gave three different answers. Dheer extended his hand, cigarette and lighter in hand. Deepak thought about saying no, but then accepted the offering and lit it.

“I am sorry I wake you in the mornings.. Does it affect your violin riyaaz?” Deepak broke the ice, after what felt like an hour of silence. Dheer nodded, and continued to stare into space. “I got my promotion letter yesterday”, Deepak said after another few minutes, feeling it was his duty to try to resuscitate the conversation. “It will mean more working hours, but one has to do it for one’s career.”, he continued, looking smug. He waited for the customary question asking for more details, but it never came. Instead, Dheer got up and started pacing the room. After a few laps he suddenly said, “Life’s about how many demotions you can take. Every promotion is a demotion, every demotion is a demotion. I’ve demoted myself where there are no more demotions. I want to waste away to when I don’t have to hear my grandmother weep.”

Chapter 4: The interlude

Don’t forget the interlude. Reduced to chorus, forced to pay heed to man’s limitations, the instruments play along, obediently but unhappily. And then, it is time for the interlude. Like a hound that realizes it is no longer on leash, the instruments let go, revealing their true character, harmonizing yet fighting to get free, to dominate the brief moments before going back to their obedient self.

Don’t forget the interlude. It will always show you the true depth, color and taste of an instrument. It was exactly 23 days to their smoke session that the first interlude sneaked in. Deepak came back from work, mentally drained. This wasn’t how success was supposed to feel! It was supposed to feel good, it was supposed to give him energy. All it had given him so far was lethargy, and to some extent, apathy toward really making a difference. He found himself yearning for his old task, the length of which he had dreamed of being in the job he was currently in. At least that one was easier.

However, when he came in, he was greeted with the most melodious sound of Dheer’s violin. It spoke to him, it beckoned him to sit and listen. Within a few minutes, tears were rolling down his cheeks, as he soaked in every note of the toy violin. It brought out his pains, heartbreaks, broken dreams, small and big, to the fore. And while every tiny cell of his being cried as one, he hoped the music would never end.

Dheer opened his eyes and noticed his audience for the first time. He seemed to have an aura about him as he played, yet it wasn’t God-like. It was a very friendly, easy aura. He stopped playing even as Deepak continued to shiver and sob silently. “This sucks. This is too easy.”, was all he said, and left the apartment.

Chapter 5: The leash

Deepak opened his eyes. The ceiling fan was rotating slowly, and everything around him suggested “morning”. He looked at his watch. 17 minutes to 6. He wondered what was the noise that had woken him up. He went into the living room and, not for the first time, was he taken by surprise. Dheer was dressed in clean, ironed clothes. He had shaved, and had combed his hair. He had his violin case by side and was wearing his sandals. He looked up and saw Deepak’s startled gaze and said, “Yeah.. Hey.. Going to see about a job.. This music director.. Gotta go..” He looked almost apologetic, and rushed out of the apartment without making further conversation or eye contact.

Deepak was alone and a feeling of complete lethargy took over him. He had lost all drive to perform at work. Yet, mechanically, or perhaps for lack of a better, exciting alternative, he made it to work. His boss always tut-tutted when speaking about him these days. Made him manager too soon, he said. What a hard working boy. Much like Dravid – not talented like the rest but what work ethic. Now he’s lost, he said. Much like when Dravid was captain, he told everyone. They had made someone a co-manager now. So there wasn’t much work to be done anyway. He wondered what had happened to his drive, his hunger, his capacity to work and his will to improve against all odds.

Chapter 6: A well-buttered toast

Now that Deepak was used to seeing the more human side of his roommate, he tried his best to get to know him. He would get up early and make breakfast for the two of them. Dheer would eat it quietly and leave for work. Except when Deepak made toast. He liked to butter it well, and it seemed to make Dheer talk. “You were crying that night when I played. It is too easy. She wails every time. My music director tells me I should go back to concerts. It should be my goal, apparently. But that is not my goal at all. My goal is destruction. I want to rid myself of this crying. I have carried the sorrows of my dead grandmother too long. I want to lose control. I want to lose me. Anyone can play at concerts. It is too easy.”

Although Deepak did not understand everything that Dheer just said, he liked the rare moments when his roommate would open up. So he listened. And commented as best as he could. “That is where we diverge, you know. I should be living my dream. And yet, I fall short of that leap. In everything. I was a good badminton player. I was a good bridge player. I was good at studies. I am good at work. What am I great at?”

And they continued to live, to talk, to eat well-buttered toast, to go to work, to get frustrated, to continue in the pursuit of happiness. Two mediocre men in a mediocre world.

Chapter 7: Men who sold the world

Deepak woke up one day, and felt good about the day. I am going to rule the world, he said to himself, a little too cheerful and happy for that early in the day. He went out, ready, smelling of new cologne, and was surprised to find Dheer smoking, his stubble back, his hair shaggy once more. “You woke me up with your noise.”, he said.

Somewhere in the neighborhood a song played and they could hear the lyrics:

I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home
I searched a foreign land, for years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazely stare at all the millions here
We must have died alone, a long long time ago

Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You’re face to face
With the Man who Sold the World

They were the men, the men, who never lost control.

If you walk out of the metro station and turn left for a few hundred feet, you can see the house I am talking about. The yellow one.

She sat on the stairs, an envelope in her hand. The envelope had been ripped open, and the contents probably read, because the letter had not been stuffed back in properly. A few neighbors passed her as she sat on the stairs. One or two of them even waved, or nodded politely. After all, you were allowed to sit on the stairs leading to your house. Most of them never looked to check on their way back, but she was still there. The norm would have been to consider this odd, given that there were TV shows to be stared at inside the house. You could argue that she may not have a TV, but then I would have corrected you that she did. A good one. With satellite cable. Could there have been a power cut? I am not Sherlock, but I still would’ve pointed you to the light on the porch, burning brightly. Elementary, my dear Watson. The fact was, she did not have the keys to the house.

———–xxx————

It was 2002. She was standing near her parents’ car, waiting for her father to come down with the keys. Next to her stood two large suitcases and a few smaller bags. She was going to begin college. Leave the comfort of her home for the first time. Face the real world. Fend for herself. Like most of us on that particular day of our lives, she was partly excited, partly scared. She wasn’t particularly good with goodbyes, and was tired of going through the list of stuff to be packed. She just wanted some quiet time, to let herself get overwhelmed without letting the world know. Which is why she was staring at infinity, standing next to the car. It was not until the taxi rolled in that she snapped out of the zone and suddenly realized that her father was not going to drive the car. Because he was accompanying her to the college, 1000 kilometers away. So was her mother. So the real goodbye was to be in another four days then. She let out a sigh. She’d prepared herself for the goodbyes. She’d gotten into the zone. It is not easy getting into the zone.

The train ride was a blur. The first few moments on campus, and the subsequent few eventful days, they were crystal clear. There was the room in the hostel. There were all these forms to be filled. All these events to report to. A bank account to be created (yey!). A cycle to be purchased. New bedsheets. New pillow covers. New bucket and mug. New clothes. New rules. New people. New surroundings. Everything new.

And so the parents left. Cell phones were relatively new. First years were definitely not supposed to have them. Communication happened via a weekly call made by the parents to the hostel number. Then the wait before they called back. Once in a while, she sent an email to them. The first few days were accounted for by the new classes and the new lingo and the new place, but eventually the home sickness kicked in. Suddenly none of those things seemed new or exciting. The initial thoughts were replaced by scary thoughts of her parents meeting with an accident, or something similar. One day, it was when she was in the lowest of spirits, that she looked around her. And then it hit her.

She noticed the alarm clock on the table, which had been waking her up for more than three years now. She still used her lucky pen that her cousin had brought for her from South Africa. She still wore the same, old, comfortable pajamas to bed every night. She’s used the same brand of toothpaste for as long as she could remember, and that was probably true for more than one thing she owned. Her books were still stacked in the same way she would have if she’d been still at home, although the shelf was different. She realized that she had really not changed her lifestyle at all. After all, that was something that defined her. The assurance of the familiar gave her the strength she was looking for.

The next four years of college were a blur, too. Too many things happened too fast. Kilos and kilos of notebooks were purchased and filled in. Ink was measured in million miles. She found friends, a few enemies. Love. Heartbreak. Sex. Laughter. Sadness. Pressure. Sleeplessness. Coffee. All just a blur. Not much had changed, you’d say. Well, she’d stopped brushing at night (but that happens in a hostel, right). And she’d started drinking (only parties, part of growing up). And she ate more maggi in those four years than all her life before college (who has the time to cook?).

—————-xxxxx———-

She had now been sitting on the stairs for a few hours, deep in concentration. The sun was setting, and the trees and the buildings threw dark shadows across her face. She was deep in thought. With every passing minute she seemed to get more and more tired. But she could not go inside.

—————-xxxx————

She was herded in along with forty others just like her. It was the first day of her new job. Another city. Another apartment. More roads to get lost in. More people to befriend, more enemies to be made. Things like “professionalism” and “excellence” to be embedded. New terms to be learnt – compensation (not salary), People Development (not HR), variable pay, appraisal, promotion, taxes, Provident Fund.. Phew.. Her bedroom at her apartment is almost a replica of her bedroom back home – the same shades, the same alarm clock. Her new lucky pen from college. Her arrangement of the books. Where she places the Gods. The same clothes she’s been wearing for a while.

She looked around the room as the CEO spoke about something. She recognized two boys and a girl from her college. Not her closest friends, but they’ll do. At least they are familiar. “A known devil” as they say. She went over and said hi once the session was over. A few new people came and introduced themselves. She did not remember their names. She already had a group. She did not need new friends. Not so soon, anyway.

Within a month of joining she was already working on her first project. New terms. Terms she had just learnt over the last month during training. She thought back to the topics she learnt in college and realized she’d never use more than 80% of the stuff. The people from her college were in other projects. All of them were together. She’d walk all over to the other end of the campus to have lunch with them. After all, they were her friends.

Three months into the project, she is having lunch with her team. She no longer walks to the other end of the campus for lunch. She meets those folks once in a while. She calls them once in a while. Her lunch discussions still focus on college days, but once in a while everyone feels the need to bitch about the boss.

—————–xxxxx————

“So good to see you, sister!”, Cassim’s wife lied to Ali’s wife, “What brings you here?”. Ali’s wife asked for a weigh-scale. As Cassim’s wife fetched the scales, she thought, ‘Ali is poor. I wonder what kind of grain he wants to measure?’So she put some suet (wax) on the bottom of the scale. The weigh-scale came back, but attached to it was not grain but a gold coin.

Cassim, being now sure that Alibaba was infinitely richer than he was, coaxed the secret out of him. And then he left for the cave that held the treasure. “iftaH ya simsim”, said he, and went inside the cave.

————–xxxxx———-

A year into the job, she was asked to move to another city. It was a lot of hectic activity, with the packing and the planning and the moving and apartment hunting. She moved there with seven people, all part of the original 40 that started with her. She knew them a little. At least I can hang out with them, even if I don’t know them, she thought.

—————xxxxx————-

It was getting dark outside her house now. She was tired after a full day’s work at the office. Her formal clothes felt heavy and uncomfortable. Finally, she picked up her cellphone and dialed. “Hello? Hi.. I’ve lost my house keys. I don’t have the energy to go hunting for a key maker now. Can I crash at your place tonight?….. Thanks.. Bye”

She reflected on the lost keys for a moment. In 30 years of her existence, she had never lost her keys. EVER. And now she had. For the first time. EVER.

————xxxxx—————-

Cassim had never seen anything like what lay before him. Treasure of every kind, everywhere… He let out a whoop of joy and started filling his bags, then his pockets. Next, he took off his shirt and used that to collect some more. Then he decided to go back to his wife. Only, he couldn’t. He could not remember the password…

———–xxxxx——————

Nowadays, she set her alarm on her cellphone. She used a different brand of toothpaste. She did not wear pajamas anymore to bed. She did not have lucky pens. She just had free stationery pens from the office. She hardly wrote these days, anyway. She’d never lost her keys. Now she’s done that, too..

She was in the cave. She had found riches, experiences, friends. And now she wanted to go back to her friends, outside the cave.

She held in her hands a letter from her grandmother, who talked about finding her favorite doll in the attic. She could not remember the doll. She was Cassim.

It was almost impossible to see the figure in dark clothes, walking slowly, in that dark alley. There was a power cut, and there was only a slight moon that night.

The boy in those dark clothes actually preferred the darkness and the silence. He would have liked to be alone, but people from Indian metros often have to find their privacy inside themselves. He was so deep within himself, tonight.

He was out on the streets close to midnight because the power cut had made it unbearable inside his house. He walked very slowly, lost in thought, almost as if speed might derail the train of thoughts that flooded him tonight.

From the opposite side a small spot of light came towards him, swinging ever so slowly. Every once in a while, the small spot would travel upwards and a puff of white smoke would travel majestically towards the sky.

Just as his eyes were getting used to the darkness around him, he was blinded by the beam of a passing car. One of the new models, it hardly made a sound as it glided past him, but the glare of the headlights stayed with him and blinded him again.

Lost in the darkness again, he slowed himself down to avoid falling into one of the roadside ditches or open drains. The small circle of light was nowhere to be seen. But then, suddenly, there was another flash of light and a flame as another cigarette was lit. He carried on.

He could now again see better in the ambient light. A little light from a lone candle somewhere helped him see a little more once in a while. Everywhere was a new picture to be taken and stored, albeit on the same street he had been walking on for years. Somewhere, the silhouette of a woman, her curves defining the shape of the darkness around. At another house, the lit wonder on a boy’s face, enjoying his favorite comics in candle light.

He reached the turn of a road he used very rarely. By now he could see more. He had preferred the temporary blindness, because he imagined (and hoped) that if he could not see the world, the world could not see him. The world can sometimes see through the facade of a man. The world can sense fake laughter. The world can pierce the shield of goofiness and see the hurt and longing inside. It is then that he wants darkness. He wants escape from the world. He wants to think, not see, not hear.

This particular road had very few houses, and the area was just like a slum. He could not see anything here, except for a few details of the gates and windows. It was as if the moon did not come to this parts. Or that he was not supposed to look into this world. Or he was not ready to look into this world.

His walk brought him to a timber shop, now closed and deserted. But he stopped, because it wasn’t really deserted. They were there. A pair of eyes so intense and bright they could belong to a jungle cat. But these could only belong to a woman. The shape of the eyes told him that. The eyes kept staring at him. He kept staring at the eyes.

Maybe the eyes told him to, but he left and continued on his walk. But soon he was heading back to the timber shop, anxious for another glimpse at those eyes.

This time he was stared at by not one but two pairs of eyes. As he peered into the darkness, trying to attach form and shape to the floating pairs of eyes, when, suddenly, he was allowed access into the mystical life of the timber shop. The girl wore a black dress, probably satin, of the highest quality. The old woman next to her wore a simple sari.

the women kept their steady gaze, hardly even blinking. The more they stared the more he wanted to stay and think. What, he thought, was the lady in the elegant dress doing there? What had caused her to cross into the unknown, where, till sometime back, even eyes were denied entry? Why was she comfortable in the all the wood and why did the gaze have the calmness that he so sought in his life?

It was like the woman had lost her virginity of civilization. She, who it seemed, had all the virtues of civilization had eloped with the hooligan. And yet she was comfortable just standing on their side. The unknown side. The rough side. The side which had tree trunks, but no trees. Wood, but no furniture. Gate, but no entry. Gate, but no exit.

As before, something prompted him to start walking again. He continued walking, again lost in thought. A little while later he was rudely roused from his thoughts by the returning of electricity. He stopped and looked back. There they stood, hand in hand. The ladies. Still gazing at him. Still as comfortable. Among the timbers, in the unknown street.