Barabbas's Guilt

“Barabbas or Jesus, whom do you want to be freed???’ thundered Pilate.. The camera panned across Pilate’s fuzzed face to valiant Barabbas and then zoomed in with his rough nose on the hard exterior prominently making it an eyesore. Barabbas looked disconcerted with all the attention he was getting, he was a killer, or so he liked to think of himself as… He had killed innocent children for money… women for their beauty and men just for the spite… He was an angry man, and it was anger that was marked all over his face. Now the camera split.. There were two faces laid alongside… the angry, scowling Barabbas and the bloodied yet calm Jesus… Jesus was looking down, sometimes up…. Sometimes looking at the crowd, some other times the priests… Pilate wouldn’t have found a better contrast even if had searched the corners of the empire…. A heart of a man and a stone of a heart… The Son of God and the other, a worshipper of man.

The camera was sweeping across the room with terse rapid moves. The crowds were chanting “Barabbas”, “Freedom for Barabbas and death to Jesus”, “Death for the Jew” and god only knows what else interspersed with choicest of slander and uncouth serenade blasting the man who was claiming to be the king… The camera, fleeting towards Jesus’ face, captured unwittingly the free man’s face… and there was surprise, guilt ridden surprise, despise for the crowd and tears for the condemned.

Shome got up from the bed and switched off the TV, Jesus’ condemned face slowly zipped away from the TV and the crowd’s chanting was being replaced with a disconcerting silence. Shome looked up at the watch, which showed the hour hand between 2 and 3 and the minute hand just after 8.. He computed for the time and got two answers… He didn’t know whether it was night or day… What was outside… the glimmering sun or the simmering moon… For him all were the same, condemned to the golden cage, all he could do was absolutely everything but move around in the sun… But then he should be thankful… thankful to god for providing his father with riches… thankful to his father for being powerful … thankful to the police to find a perfect sitting duck to dupe the public, thankful for that person who will hang from the noose, so deftly prepared from him..

Shome looked lost in the cluttered room, he looked around his room like Selkirk in Cowper’s poem, the lord of whatever he surveyed, the lord of the fowl and the brute… here, sadly he was the lord of only the inanimate. He looked at the vase filled with long-withered flowers and the vase had itself leaked staining the colorless tablecloth with a bright yellow sun, setting from one angle and dazzling from another. He was all alone in the room, save for his reflection in the mirror and that too looked so unlike what was in his memory. People do look good to themselves but when reality stares in the face only a few can stare back; Shome was not among those select few. His eyes wandered from the mirrors but wherever he looked he could see himself looking at his being, judging him, condemning him.

Shome was burning in the fire, Shome was freezing to death, Shome was boiling in hell, Shome had his legs broken into two, Shome was headless with blood oozing from the neck drenching the dancing Shome. Shome was everywhere, everywhere he was in pain, but then thanks to his father’s money he was alive. At moments like this he blamed his father, Death seemed so very enticing, Death would have been an end but life had made his suffering so very endless. Life made him die everyday a little.

There was peace in Hell now and Shome was thankful for the calm that had spread all over. He took a book and opened it at random, Sumi laughed from those pages and he shut the book close. He slowly opened it to the page where he had seen her last, there were just illegible writings, which he thought, if concentrated upon, will give him eternal peace as the priest had promised. He tried reading those verses trying to understand what the cowherd king had to say. Soul is eternal and body is just a vessel, death is just a transition of one body to another, a transfer of soul. He closed the book, so right he thought. When he had opened up Sumi’s body he had felt a whiff of air from her lungs, that must have been her soul and when the same whiff Shome breathed in, it felt so right, Sumi was in his body at last, Sumi was his, if not in life then at least in death.

He picked up an old slam book with Sumi written all over. There were lots of idiotic odes and sweet nothings, some illegible ranting and some other stolen quotes. He never knew what happened that night; he never knew why that happened, what happened. His girl was dead, that was a fact. His girl was raped, that was a fact. His killing Sumi on the streets was a fact too. He loved her and they were “Shomfused” or so they joked, but he had killed and there was no denying that.

The mirrors were getting animated yet again; Shome had covered his head in despair. The mirrors were alive now with Shome accusing himself of murder. Isn’t it kind of funny when the accused and the accuser are the same person, when the perpetrator of a crime and the victim is one and the same? Coming to think of it, every crime is absolutely that, a murderer before he murders anyone else actually kills himself; the first victim to fall on the ground with an unmusical “thud” is he himself. Shome was now standing valiant before the judge and the jury, unusually looking similar. Shome was in the center; Shome was all around, Shome hanging from the ceiling, Shome sobbing on the ground.

The accusations stopped suddenly, the dim light illuminating the room had suddenly brightened up, A corner of his room was on fire and all his tears could not drown that flame that was beginning to take the whole structure down. He could do nothing to drench that fire, which he suspected had its origin from some corner of his heart. The fire kept on burning, taking shapes of Sumi, sometimes laughing, sometimes jeering and some other time pleading for her life. Shome kept on looking at the fire, half expecting the fire to take the shape of the divine Sumi and cling to him. Sumi was waving from that fire wearing that white blouse and black skirt with the large dots. He tried waving back but then Sumi was gone in a puff. The fire was taking shapes yet again… Sumi as a child with her umbilical chord buried deep in the ground, Shome picked up a shovel and dug in a frenzy, the chord was strangling him now and he dug more furiously, he dug further. The chord was tied to a skeleton and he tried untying but by then the baby Sumi was giving birth and then a new kid and a new set of umbilical chord. A baby born and baby dead and all that was new was a new set of chords going deep in the ground. Shome kept on digging, a lot of skeletons around, some deep in the earth some in some closet, some deep in the sea, a lot of babies dying a lot of babies being born and the constant strangulation that was suffocating him.

Shome opened his eyes; the fire had long receded. The pages of an open book were fluttering with random pages being opened and then shut as if it was just the wind which could open up memories, sometimes sweet most other times bitter, pickle them under the disturbed mind and then shut them in that part which you no longer want to linger around. Shome expected Sumi to be in most of those pages, but out of those pages there lurked the smoke of a blunt nosed, curly haired, oval shaped ugly man who did nothing save look at him in despair. The ugly man looked at him in pity and occupied the empty chair, that not a long time back was covered with books. Shome looked at him, he was the last man he expected to come out of that book. He had seen him only once that too fleetingly. The man had covered the naked Sumi with a piece of newspaper that was lying around. The newspaper hadn’t been enough, the blood was dripping all over, and he had taken some more newspapers, a torn handkerchief and tried covering the essentials.

Some days later the old man was all over the newspapers. “Old watchman, father of three, brutally rapes and murders a seventeen year old college girl”, the newspaper screamed. “Boyfriend, son of the tobacco wizard, forced to witness the bloody act”, screamed another. Shome looked the old man in the eye; the old man had a smirk and his twinkling eyes had questions. “He is the man”, a voice was whispering in the court, some other voices were echoing in the room, which were gagging the muted screams of a girl, the muzzled whispers of an innocent convict, the wailing wife, some howling children, and then only silence followed.

Shome got up, closed the book, switched off the fan and switched on the TV; Barabbas was still on the screen, looking sadly as Jesus was being dragged around. He looked as they nailed him in the wrists and crowned him with thorns. He looked as Jesus was slowly dying on the crucifix and the world was watching him in tears. Barabbas looked up at Jesus and saw the son cry for his father. He saw the angels descend and carry the soul to reign in heaven. Barabbas was still alive, thanks to the public and he lay kneeling before the lord. As Jesus was taken to the tomb, he looked behind, straight at where Shome was standing. He looked square in his eyes and Shome felt he seemed to smile.

An Ode to Hope

Note: This song is one of the pieces which is rarely found blaring from the neighbouring barber shop's radio. But its lack of popularity in noway berates the amazing philosophy if professes. A song about fantasy, a song celebrating Hope.

As always I request You to go though the translation only if you are not well versed in Hindi.

Film: Thoda Sa Roomani Ho Jaye
Director: Amol Palekar
Singer: Chayya Ganguly
Music : Bhaskar Chanvarkar
Lyrics: Kamalesh Pande

Hindi:
Badlon ka naam na ho ambar ke chaaon main
jalta ho jungle khud apni hi chaaon main

yehi to hai mausam,
yehi to hai mausam aao tum aur hum ,
baarish ke nagme gungunaye,
Thoda sa roomani ho jaye

Mushkil hai jeena
Mushkil hai jeena ummeed ke bina
Thode se sapne sajaye
thoda sa roomani ho jaye(2)

Translation
No trace of the clouds in the sky's shadows
Its the forest that burns in its own meadows

Isnt this what is clime?
The trees sways and the winds, do chime
Let us then hum the songs of the rain
Let the fantasizing begin.

Its impossible for life to hold up
without the existing continual hope
let us then nurture the world of dreams
Let the fantasizing begin.

That Phoney Ram

Note: I am no feminist and am no catcher in the rye.. but sometimes I am troubled. The underwritten is a product of that ailed mind.

Disclaimer: I know a million Rams, and I dont mean any of them with my title ;)

The fire was burning bright and my heart was burning brighter. I looked up at the pyre that was lit,standing on the opposite side was the leader among men standing along with his monkeys. Standing there was a god who was not omniscent any more, a king who was no more omnipotent, a husband who had lost his trust. We were watching eachother through the fire, both seemingly burning to each other.

It seemed long ago now but It was just yesterday when my grief was paused and there was some whiff of happiness, the whiff was to be obliterated, I had no idea.

The garden was filled with half heard whispers.. some screams were heard with bated breaths, "Ravana was dead" someone managed to say.. I looked up with mosit eyes and a gleam of smile in my half open lips. Mandodari's wail reached my ears, but being sorry for her could not wipe my glee off. I was no longer a captive anymore and I was free , free as a bird, no Ravana to browbeat me to succumb to his lusts, no demons to jeer and no more exile. Ram's face floated around and I tried to close my eyes to make him remain within my eyes and my dreams, as I had done for the last few years. Today though, I no longer needed his memories, he would come for me, his loving eyes upon mine, his touch burning me with a love that I had missed, his breath on mine, peace at last I thought.

These last few minutes seemed like years to me, the gates opened and my eyes met with bibhishan who had come to escort me to my husband. I was led to the queen chambers and I prepared for my lord, the warm bath, the scented flowers, the heavy jewellery all to please my dark lord. The memories were now rushing to me.. how he had got jasmine flowers for me saying I looked like apsaras with these flowers adorned, I had winked and had asked him which apsara he was fascinated with and he had just replied.. "Sita". I could still hear his voice whispering all around.. Sita, Sita.. Sita... The inner chambers were now echoing my lords whisper and I was dancing around in the music.

I saw Mandodari waiting for me, now the vanquished queen was my maid, her head was bent low and she waited for her orders. I was now a queen again but then wasnt I a woman first. I embraced the widow, I embraced her as a sister, as a queen meeting another queen. Lakshman had come and I ran to him, he touched my feet and I hugged him with all might.. He was scarred and thin.. his hands had become more sturdy and his face had turned rough, my son I thought. I took another deep breath and looked at him again.. he looked sad.. he was avoiding my gaze.. I looked around searching for the person whom I wanted to see, He was nowhere..

The fire was burning still, the pyre was still hungry.. the woods werent enough.. it was flesh it wanted, and my husband, the great man that he was, the lord of the weaklings had wanted me to burn at stake to pacify the hunger of the inanimate. Lakshman was crouching behind me.

I remembered with a smile how I had pleaded with Lakshman to lead me to my husband. It was night all around, the lamps were dimly lit, the yellow noise of these lamps were galling and I marched ahead.My lord was standing among his men, his back to me.. the posture was taut, his heads were bent and he was sermoning the monkeys and the demons. I leapt ahead and adorned myself on his back.. my bosom melting into my lords body.. our bodies encompassing to form a single truth. My past, my present my future all culminated in one.

Ram turned towards me, and I bent downt touch his feet, there was no blessings of a long life from him.. He stood silent.. I looked in his eyes and all I heard from his silent eyes were clanging of daggers.. the mark of murder, the shreiks of my trust... the rape of my chastity.. How can one give proof of chastity I thought.. isnt words enough.. isnt trust all. I never asked proof from him.. my love had spoken from him.. maybe his love was mute.. maybe his love was no more alive.

I looked in his eyes... my defiant eyes silenced his glare.. His lips trembled when he asked me to enter the pyre to prove my innocence. I dragged my legs ahead.. my husband following me.. the same way I had followed him for fourteen long years.. the same way he had followed me around our wedding pyre. We walked as a couple, but being no longer one..

The fire was still burning.. and I was still watching it.. The monkeys, the demons, the men, the god all encircling to watch a lady burn.. The gallant soldiers who rescued Lanka from a vile king were now watching the "Purushottam" Ram burn his wife. But did anyone care for me, care for Sita as a person.. If I come out unscathed from the holy fire I will be deatified, worshipped by millions as the virtuous goddess and if I burn to my death I will be villified as a sinner.. a monster.. but I am neither... I will no longer remain what I am.. A wife, A sister.. A daughter... A Mother.. This fire burning before me has now become the crux of my life... All my life before has been destroyed and my life will be judged on the basis of this fire... the mirror of truth!!!! this fire..

I had no choice before me.. I was dead if I remained alive.. My chastity was dead if I was burnt... I stepped forward and sat on the pyre.. The pyre trying to burn me.. My cloths started burning... the fire playing around, touching me here and there... touching me in places where I was suposed to be touched only by my husband.. My husband was still standing in front of me after giving me to fire. I was being tickled by the fire but I still loved my husband.. I was not chaste in my husband's eyes but my soul knew the truth.. and as I sat on the pyre, with eyes closed, with love for my husband, I burned. I opend my eyes to see the god standing before me with open arms, ready to take me back.. All my love died at the moment.. the Ram of my eyes burnt in front of me and the person standing before me was a pitiable man.. The fire had encompassed me now, but now with my heart burning, the body had stopped doing so and I came out of the pyre to my hold my husband's hands.

As we walked back to Ayodhya, I realized my exile had commenced.

Virgin Of The Roads

Note: The crux of the story is inspired from Delacroix's famous painting of the Greek civil war, Massacre at Chios. A similar sketch exists in Bruigel's Triumph Of Death. The title is intended as a pun on Leonardo da Vinci’s Virgin of the Rocks.

The flowers were of a different shade today, the brilliant orange, which had so flamed the desolate roads, were replaced with a pale pink, but I was still burning with the raw love of my native hurting me with poisoned arrows. I was trying to take a lonely walk along the side of the vast field which maybe still had the footprints of my baby steps parading around it. I could see myself some 7 years back playing football with my friends on the hard laterite which had cut and bloodied our skins but we still continuing with the game and now I was finding it difficult even to take the leisurely stroll. I stared up again at the flowers of the huge trees which had provided a canopy for the roads for some strollers to walk in peace and some poverty stricken wretch to catch a nap under the tree and over the flowery bed. The flowers had always amazed me when I was a kid; it was huge and flaming orange.. the fruits were poisonous, my brother had said then and I had believed him.. now I wanted to find it for myself but then being lazy dropped the idea. I looked at the field, the early kids, were looking like solitary figures marking the huge field like pegs. They were watching the wrought ironed gate which having stood for a lot many years was rusting, not able to battle the elements. Those much awaited friends instead of coming from the main gate were jumping the barbed wire fence, looking like valiant young knights ready for the battle, Some others were trying to slide themselves between the barbwires which were widened by some vagrants to make a thoroughfare. Some of them were getting cut by those wires but ignoring those small scratches they were ready for play. All these made my lips twitch with a smile and I reminisced under the flaming tree waiting for the games to commence.

The games had begun and I was beginning to get bored and I walked away towards the main road, which this desolate road joined. The road was as busy as this was desolate; it used to bustle with buses and trucks, cars and jeeps added day in and day out. Some steps down the road there used to be a bus stop, which held some half broken seats, the walls had been painted with betel juice spitted out by some moronic traveler. I remembered the day when I was trying to walk the busy road to go back to my house on the other side and I saw this ninny for the first time, the crazy female was short and had dirty, unkempt long hair, her eyes were wild but she had that goofy smile on her face.. her clothes were falling apart and she didn’t even try to hide her breasts that were popping out. I looked away embarrassed and then tried to look back at her breasts feigning a nonchalant look. Those days a glimpse of raw skin used to make my day, be it the wonderful Naomi Campbell from the magazine that I had hidden under my bed or the disgusting lunatic scrambling on the busy roads.

I was not that desperate or frustrated as my previous statements may make to me be but then one cannot lie to himself. I remember my feeling very clearly, it wasn’t lust at all.. Actually what ever I say I was disturbed then as I am now. She was a picture of distress with no one to care about her.. she was forsaken by kin to take refuge in the dilapidated bus stop, struggling to stay alive by begging from the bystanders, who gave her some money to make her move away from there cultured self. The ubiquitous paanwaalahs were her mainstay, they teased her.. pulled her flowing tunic and sometimes even threw stones at her, but gave her the moth-eaten biscuits and cakes to eat and ramble around on the busy road. I remembered me on the cycle, my eyes were no longer looking at her half popping breasts and searching for her nipples but it was filled with guilt-ridden piety. I had no longer looked at her and had sped away. I used to avoid that road, maybe because of the traffic but also because to avoid the pitiable crazy lady about which I couldn’t do anything but feel guilty, don’t know what for.

Today I was walking towards that bus stop; today I had coins in my pockets. I was contemplating of giving her a tenner but would she understand the value of money.. I had no idea but did I even care. All I maybe wanted to do was try to atone my sin of that lustful gaze with some money and then may be walk away free. The road looked busier than before.. there was a traffic jam with the vehicles lined up. There was crowd gathered at the center of the road looking at something.. Some accident I thought. We Indians are quite philosophical about death, we are never disturbed with death just take it in our stride.. with a billion strong population and half a million getting added every month.. we have someone die every minute.. we just stare at death with a disenchanted glance and then carry on with work. I forgot to add, we also love prancing around the dead with a sorry on the lips and none in the heart, and try to poke the mourning living with bullets of deprecation for being alive. I walked slowly trying to have a glance at the dead too, to find out who was dead and who was alive, trying to look concerned and questioning about the incident.

There were various different stories floating around.. Some one slit someone's throat in view of everyone but no one had seen anything. I smiled.. seven years and nothing had changed. Neither had I, I pushed around to see what had happen, there was the mad woman lying on the roads. She still looked the same... disheveled hairs.. short height .. maybe a little bit more fat, the same ugly nose and dirty face. The lips were cut with blood marking her face.. A few flies were hovering around sucking those fast drying up blood. Her neck was slit and blood was oozing from there too and had colored the road crimson. Some other swarms of flies were hovering there too. Her white dirty cloths were scattered around her body and had formed some crooked curvilinear circle inside which she slept, may be peacefully. Her legs were a little open revealing those essentials, which some "Gentleman" had tried covering with his white handkerchief. On her chest was lying an infant of maybe two months.. It was as beautiful as she was ugly and it was trying to suckle those dead breasts for milk.. Not able to suckle and hungry it was wailing aloud and the crowd of gentleman were asking each other for help and looking at the dead mother and the dying baby.

I looked back at the mad woman.. she was dirty but now she was now looking beautiful to me.. her face was looking so serene. The world bustling around, she was sleeping in peace. I reflected about the baby and it's father. Did the crazy woman had even understood when some ruffian from the crowd of gentlemen had molested her, had she enjoyed the process of procreation which had resulted in the blessed birth. The moment before she died, did she still think of her as a virgin.. some innocent daughter of some loving farmer, near a lake of still water, reflecting the sun. There was no one to answer my silent questions.. not even myself. The baby was still trying to suckle her virgin mother.

I took two tenners from my pocket and threw it on the dead woman and walked back fallen.

Epitaph for the lost love

Note: This is a song which I loved to hear. Tried my hands at translating this song, a very difficult job and nowhere near the original. Please read the translation only if you are not conversant in Hindi.

Info of the song:

Lyricist :Rajendra Krishna
Singer :Talat Mehmood
Music Director :Madan mohan
Movie :Dekh Kabira Roya - 1957

Video:


Lyrics:
Hum se aaya na gaya, tum se bulaya na gaya
Faasla pyar me donon se mitaya na gaya.

Woh ghadi yaad hai, Jab tum se mulakaat hui,
Ek ishaara hua, do haath badhe, baat hui
Dekhte dekhte, din dhal gaya aur raat hui
Woh shama aaj talak dil se bhulaya na gaya

Kya khabar thi, ke mile hain toh bichadne ke liye
Kismatain apni banayi hai, bigadne ke liye
Pyar ka baagh lagaya tha, ujadne ke liye
Iss tarah ujda ke phir, humse basaya na gaya

Yaad rah jaati hai aur waqt gujar jaata hai
Phool khilta bhi hai, aur khil ke bikhar jaata hai
Sab chale jaate hain, kab dard-e-jigar jaata hai,
Daag jo tu ne diya, dil se mitaya na gaya.

Translation:

Not me to make an effort to return, not you to make the plead
The rift that so grew, could not be without an effort breached

Recall the time, when for the first time we met,
A glint, two hands touched and had our hearts did confabulate
But with time's passage, the sun had made way for the dark
The spark that had been ignited then, had left its lasting mark.

Who it was who knew that we had met only to part
Only to crush our destinies we had them so lovingly carved
The garden nurtured with our love was created just to be ruined
No amount of love can have these wrecks ever redeemed

Only the memories remain but time passes on,
The flower blooms and then wilts, after its moment under the sun.
Every one departs someday, but will these heartburns ever digress
The scar of the departed's pain is so difficult for my heart to efface.

A Father's story

Note: The style of the story is the same as Crime and Punishment(My previous blog). Its not actually a sequel or something but part of the series.

Punishment:
My son was coming back in an coffin and all I could do was wait. I didnt even know what I was waiting for.. the dead body emblamed with some chemical for him to look presentable to us, his deep cuts sewed togather, his imposing height cut in half and he, all wrapped in some hospital post mortem clothes. What was I waiting for.. my son? but the person coming back with the half shut eyes, half open torn lips and the broken nose was not my son whom my heart longed for. But I kept on waiting. Maybe just waiting to kill all my hope with that one glance of the dead.

Sometimes I wished they never even told me that my son is no more.. an insolent son may be I could have accepted, a dead son was difficult to bear. The house was abuzz with friends whome I had last seen some years ago at some other funeral.. with relatives, whose display of sorrow, never stopped them from asking for some more tea and salt biscuits. All dressed in white, they were ready and presentable for the occasion. I kept on looking at my wife who was sitting at some corner sorrunded by ladies, some wailing, some wiping away their tears and some others silently stealing glances, looking around.

Who can fight destiny, a learned friend of mine opined. I stared at him with not a comment. The same friend, long long ago, had praised my luck and had predicted of me going places because of my glorious destiny, now my destiny was taking me to the graveyard to bury the dead. I had laughed then, I couldnt do the same now. I looked at my wife again, she was sitting quitely now.. she had maybe got tired of crying for her young son, the youth who would never be old.. a la peter pan. I remembered the day when we had all gone to the resturant, and saw that bald but sauve married man with kids. We all joked that my dapper son would turn up like him after some 10-15 years. Now there was no way of finding that out.

People were now getting impatient, they had expected the dead man back soon... they had better things to do than wait for the dead. Some had to catch the saas bahu serial where the heir to the viraani family was to be born... some other had an appointment at the pub and others just wanted to relax with a book. I envied them and looked at the blaring TV which was running some ads of some cola.I kept looking at it without anything being registered. I could instead see the small baby in my arms, mumbling something incomprehensible, cooing something, laughing the heavenly smile. I had tears then with happiness. I remembered the moment when I saw him for the first time, so small lying near my wife , with tiny hands, tiny fingers and feet. He tried to clutch my fingers and I had promised myself that I will always love and protect him. Maybe Today I had failed my promise.

There was a commotion downstairs, my son had arrived in an ambulance.. His dead eyes maybe wandered around clutching all the views he could see and filling his eyes with them. We folowed his ambulance to the graveyard racing with the settig sun. The trip was uneventful with desolate empty roads, and long trees providing a picturesqe twist to the landscape. I could see some kids playing in the hot sun and their watchful mothers looking from the shade of some tree. I stole a glance to look at my wife who had finally slept on my shoulders, her shut eyes were swollen and the dried tears had marked her still beautiful face. I not wishing to disturb her disturbed sleep looked ahead with my son flooding all my visions.

My shut eyes had him riding the bicycle, my open eyes could see the ambulance ahead with his body lying on the strecher. I closed my eyes again to look at my 8 year old son trying to cycle with me holding the seat tightly. I had released my hands from those and he had fallen down on the grass. I had picked him and had asked the crying child to be brave. He had stopped crying, but now I didnt have the same courage. I remembered the day when I had come home after a long stint abroad, he was a small kid of 4 and he had refused to call me father inspite of my proddings and bribing(with chocolates). I also cannot forget my delight when he had uttered those word so lovingly, that I had my knees going weak. He had uttered the same word, "dad" million of times there after but that voice, that utterance still echoes in my dreams. I could see him growing up again in front of my eyes. The shy lad walking unwillingly to the play school, the mischivious kid kneeling down in front of the principal, the willful teenager disobeying me to go for the movie and the chivalrous youth who still had his eyes low when he came semi drunk from some party. A gallant and sauve guy ,he was popular with girls and I was so proud of him. But now what? All I had of him were a handful of memories being played in front of my eyes, again and again and again. The car braked in front of the graveyard.

There some distance away in the midst of thousand other graves was the pit where I was supposed to bury my kid. My son climbed down from the ambulance, carried by friends and relatives alike, dressed in white hospital bandages. I didnt look at him, didnt want to obliterate my image of him, the smiling dimpled image with a torn unkind one. I held my wife with one hand and the lamp in the other and we walked down to the pit. My wife followed me, half dragged half carried by me with tears and wails. The place was bubbling with graves sprung everywhere, somekind of memorial to the dead, or maybe the living. These 6 foot long, 3 feet wide and 10 feet deep graves were the only reminder of these once existing life forms. I kept on reading those epitaphs etched on the black granite.. some had died young and some very old, some others were kids, some of them even had died without a name. I kept on looking for a damsel among those black stones for my son to atleast have a married dead life.

We had reached the pit and my son was laid on the earth.. dust to dust the priest had proclaimed. I looked down at him. He was adorned with flowers and garlands, a waste of those beautiful flowers i thought, laden on those who appreciates them least now. But then maybe the flowers were not for making the dead feel narcissious, maybe it is about those alive getting themselves to be used to their loved ones being dead. Its maybe just painting the picture of death with bright colors instead of the usual hue of black and grey. I knelt at my sons feet presenting a picture of desolation maybe, but did I care. I had dreamt of this moment before, dreaming of touching my sons feet, but always like Jacob bowing before Joseph, always like Suddhodhana washing the Buddha's feet but never as a old father burying his young son. I looked around, the friends and relatives were wiping their silent tears. Far away, in some other corner of the graveyard, there was a dog strewn over someone's grave, lying on the shade of the "krishnachuda" tree. He was looking at me with his doggy eyes, maybe surprised and disgruntled having being woken from his slumber by wailing banshees. He loked at me with his buttoned eyes and went back to sleep on the forsaken grave cluttered with the brilliant yellow krishnachudas. My son's sleep was undisturbed by wailings and tears. All his life, He, following what I had tought him, praying for the world's happiness, had forgotten to pray for himself. Maybe that is where I had failed him. I stared at my son's blissfully serene dead face, wiped away the wandering flies and wetted his clothed feet with my tears.

Crime:
Sometime in the middle of summer,1948 I was born. Or is it that some three decades later My son was born.

Crime and Punishment:

Disclaimer:
This is one blog which I cannot call my own.. though the story is mine.. it is inspired by a short story, which I had read before.. 'The meek one' by Dostoevsky and various others by Maupassant. The title is obviously stolen from Dostoevsky's famous novel. Dont know when they slept and I wokeup to dream their dream.. or is it that they never slept???

Crime:
My wife was hanging from the ceiling. Her face was distorted with the neck broken, eyes wide open with the sad, resigned look she always had.Her hands were clutched shut with the remains of the mangalsutra dangling dangerously from it.The saree was pulled a bit up and I rushed and tried to iron it a little and cover those beautiful, revealed thighs before the police came and saw her in that position, What a shame it would have been for my family if her thighs were so displayed it to the public.She was always like that, thoughtless, never caring for anything I liked.. yesterday the eggs she had prepared had pepper in it, having told her thousand times about me not liking pepper, she had put it just to irritate me, was sure of it.But she was beautiful... May be I had married her because of her gray eyes and auburn hair, or was it because of the sweet fruity smell of her hair or the jasmine scent of her body.

I dont know why I married her.... but now I was no longer married.Her corpse was in my bedroom... Her alta clad feet was still in front of my face. The feet were heavenly... so shapely.. She had the red circle at the centre of her feet, to ward of evil, and some more small dots sorrounding it, and her toenails.. those were also painted with the alta red. She may have done these for prolonging my life, yesterday had been savitri amavasya(Orissa's Karwa chauth) and she had fasted the whole day. I just clinged to those and had cried "on" her feet... Why not I loved her so much... I had told you so.. right? I was in love with her.. maybe thats why I married her. But why did she die, I was a good husband.. Wasnt I? I loved her.. I worshipped the ground she treaded on.. I never looked at another woman.. never said no to what ever she wanted.. then where did I fail her.. Did she not love me?

I decided she didnt love me then. All these fasting were just to fool the world and herself of her true feelings, I decided. I was sitting at the bed and her feet was touching my cheeks.. I gave it an angry push and tried imagining with whome was she cheating me with. I couldnt make up my mind,may be it was Ahmed or was it Santosh... I couldnot decide who it could be.. It could have been anyone in the world, she was sweet to everyone.. to me too. She had that winning smile that she sprinkled on everyone who ever had the fortune of being on her path. She could smile at that 80 year old man, in the dirty rags and unclean yellow teeth, the rabid dog which had an arm aputated and cooed at the neigbour's kid which could have won the ugliest kid contest if he had even enrolled. She was sweet and was the perfect hostess with all my friends(and also enemies) won over by her altruism. I would have been jealous with a vengence, save for one fact which I knew.. She loved me... I had told you so.. right?

She did love me.. Dont ask me how I came to know of it... I can feel it in my bones.. Maybe it was the way she smiled at me when I was hogging the food, the way when she kept looking at me when I was looking at the TV, maybe the way she held me tight before just going of to sleep, maybe the way she kissed me goodnight, kissed me good Morning, kissed me good day... kissed me every hour, every minute every second. We were so much in love but still she was dead.. instead of lying on the bed she was hanging from the ceiling, you may laugh at my desperation but what could I do it was 3 Am in the morning.. and i have been sitting with my dead wife's feet all over my face for an hour or so. Her feet was cold and I was missing her warmth, her smell, her.

I had to know why she died before I called the police.. I clambered around the closet looking for some clue to atleast let me know why? I scrambled across the room empteying every drawer, reading across her diaries.. her papers but found nothing. Then I found at that letter, where I least expected to find, on the table in the living room with the TV's remote acting as the paper weight. The letter was short...
A,
Dont make it tough for me.. I have to do this. I cant go on with you.. nor without you. Sometimes I wished you had a mistress.. sometimes I wished you u came home drunk and bruised me.. sometimes i wished u didnt love me the way u do... sometimes i wished I didnt love u the way I do.. sometimes I wish...
We have loved each other while ignoring each other.I wanted us to be a couple and not each other's habit.
But today when am expectiong, instead of being happy i feel sorry for the baby yet unborn, our unborn baby.
Will we be just a potemkin family, seemingly in love? while unknown to the world, the truth would be different.
I dread myself.
The food is in the fridge please heat it up and eat it.
Sorry for I killed your baby and your wife
Love
W

I looked around.. the feet was still alta clad, the feet was still cold, and I had tears in my eyes. I kissed her feet, my tears wetting those pale feet. The red circle, that was supposed to wade the devil was distorted now with the devil's tears. I picked up the telephone and called the police.

Punishment:
The pundit was chattering something in sanskrit, and was demanding my utmost attention. How could I give my attention to the bald pundit when my love was sprawled across the floor and my heart still not distangled from her. My umblical chord still tied me to my wife and all the pundits hogwash just reminded me of the vaccum my wife's death had created. My sacred thread had changed their directions... from a householder, i had become a sanyasi and then a pariah whose wife was dead. She was clad in a new red saree, my relatives were admiring her beauty.. some old uncle contemplating of times when she had shown her face to him the first time, a moon clad in a veil, he reminisced. The moon was at my feet now.

They asked me to pour water in her mouth. I poured water in those lips, zombie like... Wanted to kiss those half shut pale lips.. but just poured the water.. Ganges.. some said. I didnt care, nor did she. She had some half smile smacked on her face.. may have heard my old granny thinking of getting me married to the village balle. Another victim, she may have thought and thus the smile. We were carrying her now.. four of my friends... i was given a lamp to carry and show the path to the dead.. to the dead or to the alive? I walked in the front leading the way... I walked fast trying to do away with the rituals..

The graveyard was in the corner of the city.. near some god forsaken railway line.. the line to maybe nowhere. They put her in the pyre so lovingly prepared by her husband and the pundit. We had arranged for sandalwood.. the pundit had looked shocked when i had asked if we can burn her along with the jasmine flowers. She smelled of jasmine not sandlewood, I reasoned. I was a hero there... the world reasoning that my love for my wife was just next to shahjahan... She was lying on the top of the pyre.. her auburn, fruity smelling hair shining in the sun. I was asked to stand up and a pot full of water was placed on my left shoulders and was asked to make an anticlockwise circle of the pyre, the pundit made a small hole in the pot while I started walking, the water wetting my back.. The receeding water were filling my heart with all the unspoken wails, unshed tears. I was all welled up but i couldnt create a scene.. my family name would be ruined. I was given a torch smelling of kerosene, and without looking back I lit the sandlewood pyre.

My wife, the one who smelled of jasmine, was burning in front of me. I had killed my wife with my indifference and then I had burnt her with my so called sense of duty.

The world had sympathised and empathised and had proclaimed they understood what I was going through. I smiled.. the smile of a senile man.. The world left, leaving me with my wife who was still burning. The smell of the burning flesh was repulsing.. but for me it was still the smell of jasmine. She, with her sweet temperament was not actually the burning type, so she burnt with a little help from me. I kept on poking at the fire, the passing breeze helped. It was actually romantic, me alone with my wife, in a dilapidated graveyard with a old rail line passing near by, the pleasant breeze and the cool sun, only my burning wife took the romance away.

She was all ashes now. I kept collecting her unburnt bones. I filled the silver urn with bones, with ashes, stones and burnt wood. The ash didnt smell of jasmine as I had expected.. I took the urn and went back home. I placed it on the TV stand and sat on the sofa. The TV was blaring but I kept looking at my wife's ashes, actually the urn. I wanted to be near my wife. I took the urn and held it as I saw the news. I was missing my wife's touch. I remembered when we used to watch movies, with ourselves entwined. She was right, she was my habit, but didnt she understand that i didnt look at her but I wanted her to be near me, so that I could hear her breath, feel her sighs on my trembling hairs, bathe in her smell, now when her urn didnt provide that warmth and all I could do was cling to her memories.

The police found my body, two days after, hung from the ceiling, all covered with my wife's ashes.
Their report said, I smelled of jasmine.

The Recluse

Naveen kept looking at the balcony waiting for Roma to make an appearance on the balcony. He had been waiting for a single glance of her for days now, seating in the road-side chai stall sipping tea. He kept on looking up at the balcony, with the flowering pots with wilted flowers, and the half hidden, moth eaten doll strewn from a heap of old cothes dump. He was talking to balwant, the proprieteer of the shop while stirring the cup, to make the tea cooler, in a periodic movement of his hands. He remembered how happy he was the day when the magazine, he worked for, asked him to pen an article on Roma, the beauty of yesteryears. Naveen was ecstatic at the thought of interviewing his childhood fantasy, the lady whose saree clad picture had been under his pillow for long, the beauty, whose twinkling eyes, laschivious smile and a heavenly gait had made his nights passable and days happy. He looked forward for the divinity to speak to him, but he was not prepared for this, speaking to balwant, sipping the cold tea and waiting for that one glance.

Roma's secretary, also her supposed lover, had emphatically rejected his proposal for an interview; Roma, it seems, never saw anyone, never talked to any individual, she had hidden herself from the public which was willing to give their arm for that one smile. No one had an inkling of why she did that, why she left the lime light to hide behind those heavy curtains.She could have got the world if she wanted, she just had to ask, but still she chose to just vanish away. She must be 44 now, she must have grown a bit fat, her lips may not be as pink as they were, her hair may have lost the rich texture and those shapely figure may not be as etheral as it was before, but 29 was not an age for a diva to retire, even at 44 she must be pretty, Naveen mused.

All his efforts for an photo, leave aside the interview had been futile. He had done everything humanely possible to coax the secretary to grant an interview, save maybe point the gun at him, but to no avail. Roma, never left the house, never rested on the balcony, never roamed in the vast garden, never swam in the vast pool, so how was he supposed to click a snap. He thought of forcing an entry at night but the images of being an late night dinner for the huge mastiff came as a deterrant.. Rightly so, Being a messiah who brought back beauty to the world was one thing, sacrificing oneself at the alter of Page3 journalism another. His vigils at the balwant's shop had brought no results save one, he had become a friend of the nearby plumber who was sometimes called to Roma's sprawling bungalow.. and Naveen waited for one such call.

He dreamt of winning the pulitzer for the story, dreamt of standing next to the stunning Roma.. dreamt of Roma's lips on his, Why not he reflected.. Roma may not have seen a male, save the bald secretary and he may be the best option for her. His day dreams remained incomplete with the sounds of pawan, the plumber running towards him with a 100 watt smile. Naveen knew the reason why, with a pounding heart and an anxious mind he made way for the bunglow hoping he doesnt see that rude secretary. He was shown the bathroom by a old butler, There was no sign of the lady, not another soul could be seen in that bunglow, no voices were heard, the silence was broken periodically by the clocks ticking in some part of the room and the water dripping from the broken tap. Naveen sleathly climbed the stairs, with the camera in one hand and his shoes in the other.

He saw a wonderful looking huge room with chandaliers lighted, the candles lit everywhere, and the room smelling of some french perfume, maybe in preparation of some grand ball. A smile lit on his face.. in addition to Roma, he may see someone equally grand. There were pictures adorned on every wall.. huge potraits of Roma. She was looking so beautiful with the trademark locks of hairs falling on her face, she wearing a saree in one, a dress in another. Naveen was lost on seeing those snaps, beauty has an intoxicating power, a beautiful face makes one more still than copious amounts of grass. He picked a picture .. kept looking at Roma, who looked the enchantress in that particular picture,her hairs were left open for the picture and they fell behind her back seeming like an ocean of flowing black hair.. the eyes were hiding some twinkling mischief, those lips were a picture of interwined gloom and grace and she looked so lovely in those long skirts and loose blouse.

Naveen just kept looking. The door adjacant to him opened suddenly and there was someone dragging onself across the floor, the dead foot lying so dead behind her. He had dropped the picture he was carrying and he kept looking at the face on the floor, if you call it a face. It had no trace of the lovely eyes, just two sockets with the eyes deep within, the luscious lips that were the fantasy of millions were looking sickening and there were protrusions all over her face. The voice which had men whine in their dreams was reduced to a whimper and she kept mewling some obscure paraphrases. Naveen shuddered at the diva at whose feet millioneres used to fall, lying so pitiably at his feet. He picked up the camera and clicked, the flash lighting the leper's face for a second. She was dragging herself across the hall, oblivious of anyone's presence. Naveen kept looking while she went to the nearby desk, took up a framed photograph and kept on fondling the same.

Naveen clicked another picture. He could see the pulitzer in his hand. He kept on clicking, Roma suddenly broke down... there were no tears just the silent whimper. She was touching her face, her hair her skin... She turned around with the lifeless leg dragged around like an appendage. She touched her lips and fell on her back crying aloud a voiceless sob. Naveen went on to her and kissed those non existant lips.. maybe trying to make her remember of the waman that she actually was. He kissed her on the forehead, his tears drenching the lady's face. The face had no reaction.. She just lay there with the beautiful Roma of the past lying on her bosoms. Naveen took those reels out of the camera, threw them at the fire and walked away.

There was a notice in the 5th page in an obscure column of the paper, the next day.
Naveen Chaubey has been terminated from the newspaper services and any legal dealings with him are no longer hold valid.

The Banshee

(WikiPedia defines Banshee as a spirit which according to the Irish Mythology is a omen of death and a messenger from the Other World)

Anshu was going mad, and to make it worse he knew of it. He kept staring at the bottle of sleeping pills lying so casually on the nearby table. The look of the bottle was inviting for Anshu and he emptied them all on his bed and started making obscure pictures with those pills. He kept on arranging and rearranging those to make figures on the bed, some of which looked like a knife, some a rope and some still a well lit candle. He kept smiling at the pills, a smile of a maniac, a smile which betrayed pain and loss of reason at the same time. He stared at his palm, the right one.. frowned, and then at the left. He searched for a line on it but it was as blank as the blank paper placed near him. He took up the pen and started drawing a line where his supposed life line was ought to be.. and laughed aloud while he drew.

He remembered some 15 years back when a friend and a budding palmist had looked at his palm and was dumbstruck by the absence of lines. He asked him how he was alive with a hand like that and had thrown his hand in disgust. Anshu had smiled then and had cared a zilch abt what he had said. He had gone home that day and had told his granny about the incident. His granny was the only one person he was close to... the only person he actually had in the world. His mom, a very pious lady, had it seems, died at childbirth from some complications. His Grandpa had died a year before his birth and his father had followed his mom some decades after. Anshu today could smile about the deaths in his family. Death had lost its impact on him... the first loss may have been a painful experience but the periodic losses had him immune. He was in a waiting for his own death.. praying each day shelfishly that he die before his granny or atleast on the day she died. He used to look at his friends and their parents and felt betrayed. A parent's loss is tragedy, but as wilde had said, loosing both of them was carelessness. He couldnot laugh.. he was their only child and born to them long after their marriage, maybe after his parent's pleased some million of goddesses and bribed them with flowers, incense, gold, silver and a life too, his mothers. Anshu had kept praying for his granny ... but inspite of those his granny had died.. some years after.

Anshu had been shattered then. He had turned religious, visiting saints.. some godly, some not.. some interested in the offerings he had to make, some not. He had travelled across India searching for answers to a question he didnt even know, trying to find a solution to an unmentioned but ubiquitos problem. One of the saints?, he met, was lying naked on the banks of ganges with ash all over, some half eaten dead animal lying near him, his hair was matted, his eyes red and a stench was coming from him. Anshu was disgusted and wanted to move away from there as quick as possible but the hermit had hold his gaze, the hermit had laughed a maddening laugh and had bellowed,"Who was it who died that You are standing still.". Anshu couldnt comprehend what he had said and ran away from there. He had left his wanderings then and had joined back his college.

He tried forgetting his past, he took care of himself and was quite presentable. He was a picture of his granny now.. far from the days when he had looked like his dad, today he had his granny's upright posture.. the sad eyes, the acquiline nose and a pale complexion. He made friends.. was difficult but he did. Ritu had taken the same courses as he and they used to sit togather chatting philosophy, discussing religion, quoting poems and sharing a moment of peace in the crowded canteen. Days had passed.. Anshu happened to smile a lot then, the rising tempereture that ceased to go down and the headaches that used to parody his blissful sleep had no impact on the smile on his lips. Love does add a different shade to the color of life, some more minutes to to your existance, some fragnance to the smell of happiness. He had missed college for long.. he longed to see Ritu again.. he missed her auburn hair.. the blue eyes, the way she used to jump around when excited ,the tilted head accompanied by the dancing feets which she always did when discussing something. he missed her .. He had got better in a sudden.. a night of pain which he thought would obliterate his existance had actually made his pain vanish. He had got ready wearing the maroon shirt that Ritu so liked, combed his hair to the right very unlike what he used to do before.. but the excitemnt of seeing ritu maybe had made him more like the way she admired. He jumped his way to college. He saw students coming out of college with an air of unexpected joy around.. some were talking abt an "bitch who died" making classes suspended. Anshu was happier that he now had ritu to himself. Looking around for ritu, he saw the notice board with ritu's picture smacked across with a "Sad Demise" Label on it. Anshu's face was tilted while reading the notice.. a tear had escaped his eyes... He didnt try to find out things which would pain him more and he caught the first train that night for mumbai.

Anshu lived a dead man' life now. He hovered around in the city like a dead man. Dead he was, a man with his brains living, heart beating but not soul. He wandered around, getting down the mumbai local at obscure stations, visiting pubs.. bars resturants.. rave parties trying to forget his existance. He kept on repeating what the saint had told him once. He had started blaming himself for Ritu's untimely death. His hands were begining to have cuts.. he had a perenial blood mark on his shirts.. his hands were bruised and he wandered around now like a mad man. That day He was sitting and staring ahead at the open sea, the crows were flying above him, some lovers to his left and some tourist to his right. The vendors were rying selling their wares and a lone dog, loafing around waiting for some kindly soul to tickle its belly. The vultures were flying a long distance away maybe waiting for the priests to leave so that they could carry on with their work. He realized with a start that the tourist to the right had started talking to him. He nodded at him.. unlike asking him to shut up as he normally did. He talked after a long time with someone, He chatted about mumbai, abt the history of the gateway of India, about the sprawling Taj hotel infront of it.. abt the cosmopolitan nature of the place .. abt nothing.. but he talked.. kept on talking. The tourist was listening in content and after sometime left to catch the local. Anshu's eyes followed him.. he saw him crossing the road.. he saw him look back at him.. he saw him wave at him.. he saw the bus approaching and hitting him .. he saw the blood oozing from his face.. he saw him vomit blood.. he saw the soul swishing around he saw the crowd gather.. saw the police approach and remove the body... Anshu remained rooted his seat looking at the non existant life line.

The sleeping pills still lay on the bed... the light had dimmed.. Anshu was still playing with those white round pills, sonorel someone called them. He had put his ears to the window.. trying to hear some wail.. hear maybe a dead man's wife.. maybe a dead kid's mother.. whose son had relinquished his breath for Anshu to live, whose husband's pyre had used the wood on which Anshu was to lie. He kept on looking blankly at the palm, waiting for someone else to die for him to live.

Compromise

This Poem is in Hindi and is from the movie ArdhaSatya.. An excellent poem which you have to sit and ponder... Have tried my hands at translating this for guys not so well versed in Hindi ...

Chakravyuh mein ghusne se pehle
kaun tha main aur kaisa tha main
yeh mujhe yaad hi na rahe

Chakravyuh mein ghusne ke baad
mere aur chakravyuh ke beech sirf jaan leva nikatta thi
is ka mujhe patha hi na chaley

Chakravyuh se bahar nikalney par main mukt ho jaun bhaley hi.
phir bhi chakravyuh ke rachna mein farak hi nahin padega

Marun ya maarun
maara jauun ya jaan se maar dun
iska faisla kabhi na ho paayega

soya hua aadmi jab neend se utkhar chalna shuru karta hai
tab sapnon ka sansar usey dubara dikhai dega kya

us roshni mei,jo nirnay ki roshni hai
sab kuch samaan hoga kya?

ek paldey mei napunsakta
dushray paldey par paarush
aur theek tarazu ke beech ke kaantey par

ArdhaSatya

Translation(Plain):

Before entering the field with encircling enemies
Who was I and How was I,
This I hope I dont still remember

After entering the field of enemies
There was a deathly nearness between them and me
This i hope I dont even get to know

Once I get I out of this field of madness
I may be freed of the world
but there will no difference in the field of enemies itself

If I die or I kill,
If I am killed or destroy another life
That decission can never be taken

A sleeping man after waking up when starts walking
then will he be able to see the world of dreams

In that light, which is the light of deliverance
will everything be weighed equal

In one balance there is cowardice on the other there is valour
and lies exactly in the middle of the scale is ...

Half Truth

That familiar face:

I hoped it was her. It looked like her.. How could I be even sure... It was long time to the day that I had seen her for the last time. Actually didnt even saw her then ... just saw someone who pretended to be her but it wasnt her.It could not have been her... the lady I was saying goodbye to, wasnt smiling, she just looked like a dark shadow of the lady I knew and maybe, at sometime, liked. Coming back, some 20 years from the past, to the same city where I had met her last, Bhubanswar, hadnt changed at all but I think I had and maybe, so had she.

I kept on staring at her from a distance... a eye on her and an eye on the date of mfg of some biscuits which I had no intention of buying. She was buying some grocery items... butter,flour and cereals, oil, which by the way was Dhara ... i smiled ... it had to be her. I still had not thought if I should go ahead.. and talk to her.. I didnt know what I would say, what could I say?? Things that had needed to be spoken had remained silent... it was loud for all to hear but it had remain silent. I still carried those moments with me... the puchkaas(paanipuri) near RDWomen's college, the walk along the desolate roads in Saheed nagar... the ride on the pedalboat in Nicco park, where only I had pedalled and she had enjoyed sitting like some rani and not helping at all. The memories made me smile... I still could see both of us fighting over the last piece of pastry that we had ordered and had shared, and the grimace that she displayed when i dived in and ate the puchkas that had kept piling on the plate when she was struggling to put even one in her mouth. Those half eaten puchkas were falling, the masala water was dripping from her mouth, the lips were looking so enchanting with the "dhaniya leaf" still struck to it. She was trying to wade her disheveled hair with the unused left hand, but they were still falling on her face, a few streaks of those hair were covering her pretty eyes from me. I couldnot but sigh then and think how wonderful she looked. Her eyes were watering with all the chillies that we had put in the puchkas and her nose was moist but she still had looked so beautiful... so very vulnerable... but still so very beautiful.

The lady I had been following had moved to the next section, buying some soaps cosmetics and all... I continued to stare from the magazine section... She seemed alone.. she seemed unhappy and I was so sadistically happy... I remembered when I was playing with her ear rings that day... they were bright and seemed to hang from her small ears, they jingled when she shook her head for something... her smile was so fascinating, so full of innocence. I remembered staring from a distance when she was blabbering and chattering like a monkey along her thousands "double chotied" friends near the school canteen, she looked so enchanting, with so many people around, with the distance between us, she was so very close to my heart. Today when she was so near, she looked so distant, so far away. My heart ached again, the familar feeling was rising again... the burning sensation and a pain that was so difficult to even tolerate, even then, even now.

I was still following her... same like I used to 20 years before... but then we used to walk separately but still togather but today we were standing so near yet we were so far away. I could relive those momemnts as if they had happended just yesterday... but I was always silent about it...Whome do I say... What do I say???? Even if I try how can I even imagine talking of that smile which had so luminated my life... about those eyes which so used to pierce my heart...about those silences which so used to fill me with fantasies... about those soft hands which are no longer in mine. It may not matter to anyone but me.. the difference of "Lucy's death" is only to me.

She stood there in the queue waiting for the counter boy to give her the bill, I still stared ahead unashamedly... She was wearing a pink salwaar today... a color which she had liked and me hated..I still remember when we had met in the park.. another place I always hated to meet her... and ironically had to meet her there for the first and last time. Then too she was clad in pink... had applied god knows what makeup but she was looking so pretty, she told me of the impending marriage and how she had agreed to it.. I have to marry someone, she said... and looked at me , I had no answer... I kept on talking crap about how we should follow our heart but I said nothing that she wanted to hear and may be nothing that I wanted to say. I just kept on going and she kept on listening and we parted with her saying, "I dont atleast dislike him ... maybe I will just grow to fall in love with him... ". I had no answer to the double negatives. I kept silent... I was shattered but still remained silent... I was so afraid of myself... I was so afraid of everything...I am so like Naim in Manto's Barren... I am just incapable of love... I am in love with love itself, but so incapable of falling in love, maybe just incapable of accepting being in love. I could again feel the burning pain shooting in my heart but I just stood silent.

She was going away... walking towards the parked car... She must have settled in bhubaneswar then, but hadnt she told me that she was to marry someone from Mumbai. I looked ahead... she walked towards the black Corolla, a small kid jumped on her... a smile flashed across her face. A bald man coaxed her from the drivers seat to make it quick... she gave a weak smile at him... put the things in the back seat,kept on hugging her son... climbed the front seat and drove away...I still stood standing at the supermarket. I looked ahead.. The man at the counter was asking me if I needed some help... I shook my heads and walked away from that place.

Dreams:

(The above still is from Passion of christ, Mary magadalane, Mother Mary and John waiting for the resurrection)

Salim was dead, there was no denying the fact. The fact though had still not sinked in. It was not even a day to the evening in which, he, just liked that died. No premonitions, no instinctive denials... just a morning of shopping, a late vegeterian lunch, a few hours of sleep, the customary hugs while leaving, the wistful thinking that we should all stay in Mysore, and barely the bike had been out of Mysore, he was gone... Just like that. A crash, few clatters, the piercing silence, someone's cry for help, the din of the sudden crowd which had erupted and then silence again... and .. and he was gone... Just like that.

Another day had just begun to end perhaps... the seconds were ticking... perhaps waiting for something to happen. The TV remained silent as everyone was grappling with their very own personal dreams, fighting with their personal thoughts .. A fight which they maybe were going to loose. Tomorrow was the day they all dreaded, some of them were burying their son, some their friend and some their brother. They chanted along.. "A lily of a day was fairer far in may" but what about the bird whose oak has fallen in his prime and not "bald and seer". A 7 foot long pit for a 6 ft guy... a 3 ft wide grave for a thin chap and there he will lie to grow like an oak.... A tomb will say what may be he never even wanted to say and a place where maybe the birds will chirp and the dogs rest. Not able to take it any longer... they all slept...atleast tried to....and they dreamt on.

A mother's dream:
Mama.... get up... u still sleeping, have to go to office... a voice echoed from somewhere. The mother woke up in her dream jumped to cling to her son never may be to let him go away.The tears which had dried near her eyes had formed a white layer which her son so lovingly wiped. She pleaded with him never to leave her even a second on which he so agreeingly nodded. She wondered why her son was so thin... he had to eat better now ...She just looked at his face and clinged to her more strongly than ever. Now that she was convinced that all the phones that had come the other day were rumors, all the wailing that she had heard was just a bad dream, she looked at the watch which showed 3 AM in the morning. Surprised, she looked back at her son but he was no longer there... he maybe was lost in her cling. She went back to her bed, truth had atlast dawned on her. The next day, after getting up from feigning sleep, she went to the front door. The plant that till yesterday was barren had bloomed and a while lily smiled at her. She smiled. Her son was back.

A friend dreams on:
It was no use lying on the bed... sleep was difficult to come by. Anshu got up to have some water and then went back to the gory bed. He thought of thoughts, memories flodding by, some sweet, some sour but memories which were difficult to let go. He drifted along to reach a zone where he was not sleeping nor was he keeping awake. He was just floating along. He realized he had reached some god forsaken graveyard... the dark graves were covered with wild grass... some pink flowers were blooming in the hedges... there were tombs all over, some markings etched all over. He stopped to look at the epitaphs.... some had died young, some were babies and some in their prime. A lady was lying with her 2 young sons and a dutiful? wife with her loyal husband. He saw a grave with his friend's name on it. He stopped and then started pounding on the grave with all might.The grave caved in... and he found his friend at the end of the tunnel, the same huge nose, ugly face and the small eyes which sinked in when smiling... eating some mangoes in the white "You can legally marry a goat" tshirt. Anshu got angry... when the world was in mourning, this guy was eating mangoes. He tried dragging him from the pit but couldnt, his friend was being sucked more into the tunnel. He started despairing, he kept wailing and calling for help but all he saw was the dark tunnel and darkness that was crowding on him. He woke up in a start and found his friends gathered around him asking him to be ready for the burial. He got up and went to the balcony. He looked ahead at a small kid playing in the mud who had put some of it in his mouth too. He looked on at the small kid, the kid caught his eyes and smiled.

A lady weeps:
Ahana replaced the phone and straight went to the kitchen, her refuge where she could be alone, where no one would disturb her. She remembered college, where they used to meet secretly escaping those prying friends. The touch of his hands when it brushed across her side, the carefree smiles and the talks, how can she forget the talks. Now all that she had of him was the memories, he was no more, so the informant had told.Ahana couldnt believe for a second, she was far away in taxas where as he in bangalore, but still, they had shared moments.. once.. long ago. How could she forget. She remembered how he didnt come for her marriage, he couldnt he said and she understood... pretended to be angry but understood. It was getting late, she had to wake up early for the doctor's appointment and for that she had to sleep, if she could. Her husband was on the other side sleeping like a log, the telephone rings never seemed to bother him.Ahana tried sleeping... her half open eyes were looking at her husband, she saw instead of her husband it was salim,smiling at her.It was the same face, the same cringed eyes, the ugly nose and the dimpled smile, and they were sharing kisses. She didnt know if she was enjoying it, she didnt even try to think... the face was still changing... there were now sweats on his face... it was red... instead of sweat it was now blood which was flowing from his face... his face was cut... his tooth broken... there were dark spots all through and his eyes betrayed hurt.She woke up with a sudden pain. She sat on her haunches and patted her belly... her 7 months old baby had kicked.

They were all dreaming... living with the dead... burying him, exhuming him... and then burying him again...Mud prints everywhere... all dreams bloodied...Someone was dead and the living were dying with him. Those alive were living but they were dying again and again and again.