Incidents

The Beach

The bike whips through shadowed roads, and with each curve are those arms around him...not holding but trusting, soft as the waves that trail his left, beautiful as the spring to the right. He parks by the shore as she hops and skips her way into the water, making god's impressions in the warm sand, and he smiles to himself. Afraid as always of the fragility of emotion and the sting of circumstance, he's amazed at how the veil of happiness is always whole, perfect, unlike its counterpart that always makes space for a ray of hope...she beckons to him and he jogs in after her, putting off perspective for a lonelier day...

"This way now, and keep your eyes closed"...he guides her along the beach, letting the sleepy water make moments with their naked feet, almost there now. She's wearing a sleeveless red dress and looking like an angel's song. He cues the music and takes off her blindfold, the candles and table-for-two looking just right. She weakens a little and he scoops his darling up in his arms, carrying her to the chair and the wine as she whispers into his ear, "You remembered my dream"...

The music plays on softly as they dance in the sand, entwined in abandon and enchanted by the pure sky...a tête à tête in the midst of chaos, a stolen minute against fate, a divine moment amongst atheists. Her fingertips trace the outline of his palms and he holds her tenderly, her feet on his feet, her arms around his neck...her life with his. For tonight there is no reality, there are no others, they are under the stars and the night is beautiful...

She looks up at him now, hesitant to break back into actuality, and he knows what she wants to ask..."We don't have to go back tomorrow" he says, "we don't have to go back ever. I've booked you out of the hospital, and I've taken indefinite leave. We're going to stay here by the water and live each day, just live it, until its time...". Her eyes drop silken tears onto his shoulder as they make god's impressions in the sand, the sleepy water making moments with their naked feet. For tonight nothing matters, they are under the stars and the night is beautiful...she's wearing a red dress and looking like an angel's song...

Incidents

Her

The phone jolts him out of confused slumber, and his social reluctance is apparent as he picks up the call. Planning on monosyllables, he is pleasantly astonished to hear her voice. The lilting flow brings back memories of those days, those moments, those eyes...he's jerked back to the present with her question. "Of course I'm still in New York" he answers, "how does Saturday sound? I'll show you the sights and sounds, we'll make a day of it..." He hangs up and falls back on the pillow, wondering how after ten years she can still make his heart skip a beat...

"Of all the things I knew you for, shopping is a talent I had no idea about" she says as she skips down the aisle. As he guides her through the throngs at the mall, he recalls what infatuated him all those years ago and smiles to himself. She pulls him into another store, and he helps her decide handbag colors and boot styles as they joke about personal choices of lingerie. "This is amazing!" she exclaims, "I'm having the best time ever"...

Her fingers in the wind and her hair like wine, they drive through mountain roads along the river, making their way to nowhere. The roof is down and so are his walls, a haze of euphoria and a pinch of nostalgia. She hums along with Bruce Springsteen and gazes into the horizon, and he cant take his eyes off of her. Under the autumn leaves and evening sun his heart melts once more, walking down old alleys and familiar mistakes...

He hands her the glass of champagne and sits down beside her, for a while in quiet moonlight and comfortable silences. They watch the dusty stars and make new conversation, intertwined in flitting touches and duets. They talk about college days and busy lives, cities and relationships, his lack-of-commitment and her upcoming marriage. He tucks her into bed and lays down on the couch, wide awake in disorder and heartache...

They walk towards the counter and check her luggage in, making small talk with muffins on the side. "Thank you for such an amazing time" she says, "NY wouldnt have been this much fun without you". He smiles and hands her her plane ticket, and with a quick hug he walks away, not daring to look back...his mind knotted in old memories and new ones, final goodbyes and tears, bygones and incidents...his heart broken again...

Incidents

Ego

And you're telling me this today...", his anger is cold as he manipulates the Mustang around traffic lights and New York minutes. He can see she's apologetic as she begins to explain, "Honey please try and..." but he cuts her and a Volkswagen off simultaneously. "Please do not 'honey' me, its demeaning." She's a little taken aback at his response, but she knows this is all she'll get for a while. His anger is patient and volatile...and always painful. But her decision depended on his silence and his fury...his penetrating gaze and his ability to dissuade her knotted in the dance between the heart and the mind...

He makes the left turn towards JFK, mute with emotion and analysis. His walls are up and he's already questioning commitment and signs...his hope against pride, distance against month-long relationships. He pulls up in front of the terminal and drops her off, driving into the horizon pock-marked with planes, a quick and frosty goodbye...she, silhouetted against the evening tarmac glow...him, bundled up in November fog and rising temper...

Amber signals and road blocks toying with his restlessness, he gets on the highway, preoccupied with all that he should have said, and all that he didnt. 4 am conversations and romantic movies weighed against lonely comfortabilities and the ego, the battle wrapped in familiarity. His mind becomes clouded with the moments flitting by, each an impulse of his time, and the Mustang gathers speed to match thought. He wages the silent war inside, nanoseconds unto eternity, and he almost doesnt see the truck driver veer into his lane, just another nobody trying to get home amidst nachos and radio stations...

She hears the last call over the intercom and knows its time to board. She's waited three hours for the damn phone to ring, pride allowing her only the dignity of checking voice mail every ten minutes. Now as the last few minutes go by, a rushed past and a disordered present collide over and over in an attempt to make sense and reason, and she loses patience. She switches off the phone and walks away, making a silent promise not to weaken, not to make that first call...

Incidents

Memories

She ambles at a deliberate pace, slowed by time and arthritis. What used to be ten minutes is now an arduous battle against nature and gravity, and these last few minutes of uphill crawl are particularly excruciating. But she takes warmth from the sunlight and patience from memories, the doors to the library almost within grasp. All around her are streaming swarms of people, seemingly moving at hyper-speed in a bid to steer around her, lost in isolated bubbles of thought and emotion. She can barely catch a glimpse before they're gone through the doors in a puff of importance and hurry.

It really is a beautiful day she thinks to herself, easing her mind away from the cramping joints. The lazy sun and cracked pavement take her back almost 50 years - to flowery dresses and red lipstick, to park benches and Oldsmobiles...to Frank. Across the candlelit table with flowers, grinning through the windshield with the kids tucked in the back, a bear hug for everytime she felt sad. He had held her hand through 40 years of bliss, right until the moment she found herself staring at his coffin and a tear in a white napkin. Frank, lugging the boxes across the hall as he reprimanded her, "A lady like you should never have to do grunt work". Frank, waiting patiently in the car while she finished gossiping after sewing class, "A lady like you should never have to walk alone". Frank, surprising her with vacations and white wine, "A lady like you should always be smiling". Frank...

Her reverie is broken as rock music brushes past her. He looks to be about 21 and in definitive haste, trying to sort out stock market rates and birthday gift ideas all in the minute to the elevator. He passes her and heads for the door, glancing back at her measured gait and wistful eyes, and he slows down. He hold the library doors open and waits patiently as she makes the last few steps past him. She turns to thank him for the moment of kindness in a sea of impatience, an act that defies human emotion and lives up to it all at once, but he hushes her with a single finger. "A lady like you should never have to open a door herself" he says as he walks away from her, and she finds herself standing there staring at him, and a tear in a white napkin...

Inspiration...

Sometimes life is a complete dead end. A writer's block in a blind alley. A series of indelible circumstances that lead you to nothingness. And although we may pride ourselves on finding our way in the more adverse of situations, sometimes the urge to give up overcomes sense and gravity. An overwhelming desire for a shoulder. A desperate need for scotch. A singular attempt to bite the tears back. Its moments such as these that are defining in failure. Like an emotion stretched thin and frayed at the edges. A breath underwater stretched unto infinity.

Its times like these that we are most in need of inspiration. A ray of light, a nudge in the right direction...divine guidance. To make the impossible seem human. And its times like these that we feel most forsaken. Lost, disoriented, helpless...cursed. Our greatest strength rendered useless in a single chess move. God's sleight of hand.

Its surprising how subtle inspiration is. It reveals itself not in a flash of color and blinding light, but rather in a veil of banality, the elusive shades of gray. In the amicable preaching of parents. In the discussion of life with confidantes. In faded journals and conversations. In that photograph when you had short hair. In home-cooked chicken curry, courtesy Mom. In clichéd movies about the impossible. The last pages of a book that made no sense before. An old song rediscovered. A lover's faith. The lonely drive through familiar roads and intimate memories. An evening walk down a rainy path. A second look from a stranger. A helping hand with no name. An implicit trust.

Watch for a twinkle in the eye. A fleeting rainbow. A happy day. The smallest things.

Sweet Nothings...

A lot of my posts talk about understanding the mundane. About everyday incidents and fluttering thoughts joined together at the hip. About repeatability at its best, wrapping itself around our frailties and our weekends. About the indefinite cycle of hop-scotch. Things taken for granted. The Earth's rotation and Google maps.

A book I read recently had one of the most beautiful quotes I have ever come across. It stated, "The most amazing thing that a man will ever get to see in his life is the body of a woman". Being the closet romantic that I am, it struck a chord. Not an orchestra of hope or the flashback of reminiscences, but a slight breathlessness of emotion, a skipped beat. A recognition of those faded moments when fate and feeling collide in a flash of color, when time slows down and closeness intensifies.

I have always believed that beauty is instinctive, that the awe is animalistic. That its not in the comfortability or the trust or the relationship itself, but in something much more clichéd and commonplace. Its in the flick of her wrist as she pulls at that contemplative strand of hair. Its in the place between the head and shoulder where she lies to listen to your voice. Its in the blink of her look, her want. In the smile of last night and the last hug before the rain. The hand around the waist in that timeless dance. The cheek-to-cheek. The static of first contact. In the movie scenes and the lyrics. In that final wandering thought, and the next one. Its in the faded picture thats crumpled from being in the wallet so long. Its in the jacket that smells of her. Its in those infinite little things that melt together into one breath of bliss, one gaze at eternity, one shot at love.

Life throws quite a fair share of conspicuous issues our way. And its this bag of small wonderfuls that makes it all worthwhile. The whispers and the silences, the scents and the touches, the glances and the flickers. The sweet nothings that we seldom understand.

Defining Moments...

We all look for defining moments in our life. Punctuations in our otherwise continuous survival. Pinpoints. Put up on the refrigerator door to feel good about ourselves. A scrapbook neatly arranged into dates, color-coded, and cross-referenced. A neat row of milestones behind us to lull us into the security that life can be written onto a set of greeting cards. That all of it can be arranged into sections, like a shopping mall. Where you can walk into your past and know from the labels just where you need to go...to relive an old incident, to relearn an old lesson, or just to look up something you never intended on doing or being. Like a grammatically correct sentence, with the appropriate amount of commas in between, to pause for effect.

And a nice big full stop at the very end for everyone, an exclamation point for the fortunate and the prosperous. The proverbial fulfillment of everything. The answer to the question of Life. We look away at the very mention of the Big White Light being a question mark. That after all this time we still leave with questions unanswered...dreams unfulfilled...thoughts unsaid...moments left behind. That after everything we've been through, we're still lost between the sun and the moon and the almanacs. That after the countless debates, discussions, self-reflections and analysis's, the tombstone lacks the phrase it needs. A whirly mist of overlapping shapes. A shadow play of silhouettes.

And so we look for song lyrics in our existence. Turn to chocolates and shoulders. Stare into the night and think about intersections. Pick up the phone and dont dial. Help the needy and play monopoly. Take annual vacations. Cut ourselves shaving, burn ourselves cooking, wound ourselves trusting. Give names to emotions, titles to streets, and hearts to strangers. Define our lives into little moments that only we can remember. Catalog them neatly into our mind and guard them jealously, in hope that at the very end all the pieces will fit together into one giant jigsaw.

Its all just one big cotton-candy machine. Smeared eye-shadow fading into last night's bruise. A tinge of purple in gray. Broken pieces of the last glass.

25 Things I Hate...

25. Small talk.

24. Giving up smoking. Giving up.

23. People who think they're smarter than me, but arent.

22. Inspirational sayings.

21. The rain.

20. Hopes and expectations.

19. People who expect the world to "work in a certain way".

18. Indian cuisine at restaurants.

17. The concept of emotion, and second chances.

16. Bad color combinations and condescending bullshitters.

15. Promises that cannot be kept.

14. Humid mornings, cloudy mornings, sunny mornings...all mornings.

13. New places that look so much like the last place I've been to.

12. Having chosen...having to have chosen.

11. Lies. Gossip.

10. Knowing so much and keeping so quiet.

09. Disorder, crowds, and optimists.

08. Being right most of the time.

07. Women who clap you on the back, or pull their own chairs.

06. Keeping in touch via biweekly offliners and "how're-you-doing"s.

05. Incorrect grammar and bad firsts.

04. Looking back. Might've-beens. Far-aways.

03. Old voices in new conversations.

02. Missing people who've gone.

01. Searching...

Life and Love

Army life and young dances...bus rides and unhooked bras...riverfronts and Sidney Sheldon books...boy/girl groups and age differences...dog bites and sweet gestures...playful flirting and valentines...moonlit walks and quiet understanding...cold creams and unsaid feelings...first times and first mistakes...

Hidden crushes and first proposals...soft toys and lucky charms...lost earrings and real love...borrowed roses and chaperoned by mum...poems and kisses...sweet nothings and library corners...little notes and new wallets...skipped tuitions and slow dances...reassurances and holding on...missing pictures and growing up...distances and letting go...

Cute chinks and unrequited attraction...corridor performances and fairytale dreams...yellow kurtas and canteen dinners...confused emotions and double dates...flings and models...dedicated songs and sleepless nights...friendly advice and smoky roofs...immature crushes and misunderstood ways...

Music rooms and birthday gifts...train journeys and bad results...waist chains and cat-eyed stones...car breakdowns and phone breakups...bengali festivals and beautiful saris...missed calls and lost hopes...unsent messages and unresolved issues...efforts and questions...honest confessions and new beginnings...late-night calls and comfortabilities...

Retreated months and pleasant surprises...farewells and hellos...three-day blooms and borrowed rides...iPod dances and black dresses...halted emotions and lonely nights...movie-like love and smiley messages...A Walk to Remember and dark theaters...musical nights and dreamlike caresses...painful heartaches and "I dont want to go"s...final calls and last-second doubts...

New York and a few tears...real promises and real problems...shoulders and blogs...replacements and bystanders...stubborn independence and open arms...cyber tries and drunken admissions...time differences and messenger statuses...ISD calls and "how're you"s...long waits and last times...god-complexes and self-induced complications...heart-breaking acceptances and moving on...

Life and love...

Random Flittings of the Overcharged Mind

A recent comment made me realize that it'd been a long time since I posted, and the truth is that life is preoccupying...thats the exact word for it. You get entangled in the subtle web of hope and self-satisfaction, rummaging for the future in a maze of insecurities and a barrelful of lessons. Given the lack of occasion and the unsystematic unloading of opinion, I thought I'd let myself go this one time in an attempt to trade prose for rhyme...I leave the interpretation for this one upto you...


I rest like an autumn leaf in rain,
prematurely seasoned but not washed away.
The thrushes pumping in a single vein,
I may miss that last flight, that last ray.
Its the best laid plans for the ordinary,
with just the whiff of caviar and sherry.

If you've seen a thousand birds fly by,
you'll know that insight is true.
And although most times we sigh,
sometimes life smells like a fresh brew.
Morphine after a rough night,
Or a shoulder and a bed in sight.

Things change in the singular of time,
universes multiply to chase chaos.
And just when things seem unfine,
distances numb the sense of loss.
Big words from a heart of stone,
substitute the self scrutiny of the alone.

I've seen the sunsets of heaven,
and survived some years of insane.
There's a lot of black in happiness,
and a lot of white in pain.
Its all a matter of color and intellect,
of seeing a rainbow, of living a reject.

So every time the sky changes hue,
know that the winds will blow and whine.
Its the artifacts of nature that do,
and the relics of you that shine.

How Much Can You Take...

• He stands in line for his visa interview. He's wearing a new Peter England shirt, a gift from his father, and he holds a small satchel with the documents that describe his life, neatly set in the order his father thought best. The wait is long and his thoughts are many, but a voice rises foremost, saying "Son, you've made me proud with each step you've taken. I want you to fly away to that land of dreams and riches, and be what I could never be, but what you have a chance at. And when you come back next, it should be with a one-way ticket for your old man and his wife. Make us proud". He knows he will not be able to fulfill all his father's dreams, but he's going to make it his life's ambition to do what he can. His father died of a heart attack two days ago.
• She just sits there, a light on in the background to make sure there are no dark corners. She's been staring at the monitor for hours now, unable to sleep, to eat, to move. There is the constant tapping of her feet through the dead of the night, to keep away the sound of silence. Its what they term a "panic attack". She has lost that youthful childish laugh that made the room light up, and the twinkle from her eyes is gone, the sign of a happy life. She talks but does not think, she jokes but does not laugh, she survives but does not live. She'd come out stronger with each curve ball that life had thrown at her, but this time she's beaten and broken. She's lost more than just hope and happiness, she's lost herself. Two days ago, 20 odd men beat and raped her in a dark alley.
• She was the epitome of resilience and strength for others, but not tonight, as she sat crying softly in her room. No one was allowed in, and even the tears crept carefully away from the cheek for fear of showing any signs of weakness. She held a swiss knife in her hand, but nothing there to slice except... She had been fighting with herself for some hours now, trying to push away thoughts of him while the knife edged slowly towards her. But it was not to end tonight, or any other night. A smile came back to her face for the briefest of moments as she saw him for the last time, if only in haze. Her fiance had been diagnosed with a tumor some weeks ago and the message on her screen read that he was dead, a last visit unvisited, a last kiss unkissed.
• He had always been average. In school, in college, in life. He didnt have much in terms of money, or family, or love, but he had always been satisfied with what he had. It didnt take much to make him smile, maybe a peg or two and a joint to widen the smile. He had never been smart, or versatile, or suave, but he had always been happy. And now that was gone, replaced by terror at what was happening to him. This was unknown and beyond his grasp, and although his doctor told him there was help, he did not know what to believe, if the doctor was even real or another figment of his imagination. Schizophrenia was driving him wild, and he dangled at the edge of sanity, his simple mind confused in a haze of realistic memories of people he knew.
• He just received the phone call five minutes ago, at a dhaba where he was enjoying his daily cup of tea and his favourite cigarette. He's sitting there numb with shock, the butt casually burning his fingers while his friends realize that he hasnt moved or breathed in over a minute and begin to swarm around him in joking concern. But his mind is not with them, it has fled to the deepest recesses of his memory to pull out an old incident. He had lost his mother some years ago, and would have lost his mind too if not for his loving father, brother and grandparents, who took over the role and made him what he was today, a balanced and able young man. The phone call had been to inform him that all of them had died last night in an accident with an oncoming vehicle.
• He was sitting at the edge of the bed, his back to all his friends, who were pre-occupied with some computer game . He could not hear their hoarse shouts or their coarse language. He could not hear the people shouting outside the window in the cricket ground, or the music playing in the next room. He could not hear anything except for the ticking of his watch, and her words in his head telling him to stay away. The love of his life had left. The only happiness he had known in his life had told him that it was "over". He hadnt known what to do, and the last few hours had been a haze of emotions and feelings, but realization crept back as his friends began to crowd around him, with mugs of water and hankerchiefs, guiding him carefully to the medic to avoid the blood dripping from his wrists.

I am none of these people. Some of them are just flutters in the wind, incidents taken place far away, while others I have been very close to...watched them go through hell so to speak. I do not know how many have truly made it back from there...some of them still cower in the shadows and pray to God, others put on a brave smile while they cry inside every second of every day, cursing Him for what he has done. I cannot console them, and I cannot say I understand, because I dont. I cannot advise them or shed any drops of wisdom. I cannot help them, I cannot fix them. I can only stand by their side and hold their hand while they stare blankly into space, going through something that we're not supposed to go through, that we're not built to go through. This "is not supposed to happen to good people", it shakes the faith and eats you inside out. It crushes the soul and leaves you a hollow shell.

Do not pretend to empathize, because you cant...do not begin to comprehend, because you dont...do not dare to judge, because you have no right to. It doesnt matter, and it wont make a difference. Just realize that no matter what we do or why we do it, who we are or how we live, why we choose or what we go through...we have just this much in common...

We are all innocent. We are all bystanders. We are all fragile.
And we are all just Human.