such person such zone

Return to sender, address unknown.
No such person, no such zone.

Sing it.

Return to sender, address unknown.
No such person, no such zone.

A half burned cigarette. That knock on the door.
With a little more heart, with a little more start.

Return to senderr, address unknownnnnnn.
No such personn, no such zo----ne.

A long ride, two riders, a horse, a seat belt.
Sing it for yourself and sing it for the love.

Return to sender, address unknown.
No such person, no such zone.

Accepted gift. Discarded beef in kitchen sink.
Sing it as a whole and sing it for your soul.

Return to sender, address unknown.
No such person, no such zone.

Conscience of a man. That fountain pool. Few lost coins.
Sing it for the sender, sing it for the address, sing it for that person, and sing it for that zone.

Return to sender, address unknown.

No such person, no such zone.

Incorrigibles

Incorrigible afeemkhor, Amitav Ghosh calls one of his characters in Sea of Poppies. The word brings a smile to Habshi’s face.

The word has been with him for past few days. Hanging by.

Incorrigible: Etymology - Recorded since 1340, from Old French incorrigible (1334), or directly from Latin incorrigibilis "not to be corrected", from in- "not" + corrigere "to correct" + -ibilis '-able'
Adjective - incorrigible (not comparable)
· defective and impossible to materially correct or set aright.
· incurably depraved; not reformable.
· impervious to correction by punishment or pain.
· unmanageable.
· determined, unalterable, hence impossible to improve upon.
· (archaic) incurable.
Noun - incorrigible (plural incorrigibles)
· An incorrigibly bad individual

Incorrigible Shiv Sena. Incorrigbile MN Sena. Actually, incorrigible Thakerays’. Infact, incorrigible politicians. Incorrigible terror. Incorrigble terrorists. Actually, incorrigible terrorism. Infact incorrigible war against terrorism. Incorrigible bombs. Incorrigible planters of bombs. Actually and infact incorrigible makers and sellers of bombs.
Incorrigible incorrigibility around.

But it’s not all these incorrigibilities that have been with Habshi these days. Incorrigible afeemkhor. There is a memory of the word that brought that smile. From a very far, and where he sits now, a distant world.

Information is easily accesible and abundantly available these days. A click on www and you have more answers then you care to read. But this memory is long before the days when he saw and perused a computer and even before he got familiar with www.

It was 1994. Lt. Col. Sham Sunder Dudeja was the principal at Sainik School Kapurthala (SSK). A strict man. And, from Habshi’s memories, a man far removed from the world in which the pupils under his charge lived. Not physically, he lived right there in the middle, but in every other sense of the world, as worldly affairs go. He had a tattoo on his forearm (most likely if Habshi’s memory is anywhere close). It said Sham or Dudeja, maybe Sunder in Punjabi. One of the three words from his name. In one of those rare moments of trying to mix in with the pupils, in the art room of SSK, he had displayed the art that was his tattoo to few young and not very excited or aspiring artists. But that’s that, Habshi thinks.

So it was 1994. Like any other year. As far as the world of SSK was concerned, they sometimes called it as Sat Saal Kaid, so 1994 was another year out of the seven of the Kaid for the seven classes at that time attending the school under the charge of Lt. Col. Sham Sunder Dudeja. And it so happened that Habshi was in class 8th at the time.

In the hostels (or houses as commonly called at SSK) and there were 10 of them if we don’t count Ranjit which did not have much of a say, maybe because his downfall lead to the complete British domination and the other 10 proudly fell in chasing away the British or they survived the British or so the person who named the houses thought so. Personally, Habshi thought Maharajah Ranjit Singh deserved much more recognition than that little three room shamble that the house was. But he wasn’t particularly concerned. His loyalities lying with Chitranjan, Sarojini and Patel, and somewhat with the batch of 1992-99. 1992-1999, yes the seven years of his kaid.

But we are in 1994. He was thinking of 1994. Of the word incorrigible and the smile that was there a while ago and the just about thereness and so very nearness of the memory these past few days. So he had left Chitranjan where he was with his class, class 8th and after the re-allotment of the houses he was now in Sarojini with pupils from 7th, 8th, and 9th all housed together, junior houses. 10th-12th shared houses as well, senior houses. The restructure was to promote more unity and harmony among classes. The seniors fought among themselves on a class basis. So they thought maybe putting them together could solve the issue. Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja thought so. And didn’t he know that he was far removed, living in a different world from his pupils. Well he was an army officer and in an army institute seniormost officer is right (at least what they say). So the restruture happened. In 1994. When SSK was under the charge of Lt. Col. Sham Sunder Dudeja. When Habshi was in class 8th.

He was given Sarojini house in the re-allotment. The worst house as far as location goes with respect to the senior houses. Blood sucking hounds. And useless hounds at that. And that’s not a thing to be proud of. Proud to be a Saikapian. Well most of the hounds say that few years after getting out of Kaid. So, Habshi was alloted Sarojini house. Mr J L Jain was the housemaster. Funny fellow he was. Habshi thinks so. JiyaLalJain was funny. Funny fellow. Mr. Sher Singh was the other teacher who was attached to the house. Now they had a term for those two teachers attached to a house (other than the housemaster), but Habshi’s memory fails him. Maybe tutors. Maybe. Sher Singh caught him and few others with the stolen rotis from the mess once. But that’s a story for another day. Sher Singh was a fine fellow. The third teacher with the house. Habshi has a memory of his face. Sukhi or some similar sort of name. He wasn't a very catchy personna so his memory fails to bring out this name. Though he did help Habshi with one of the declamantion contests. Or was that in Chittaranjan. Habshi is getting confused now. So leave that as that.

Still, we are in 1994, the classes of 8th, 9th and 10th are living together in few houses (junior houses they call them) and Sarojini is one of them. J L Jain is the house master. And Lt. Col Sham Sunder Dudeja is the prinicipal of SSK. And, that is that.

Now what did he say. That restructure of the houses was to promote the feeling of harmony. What a bloody Joke!!. Of cousre Habshi knows which book he gets this line from but its apt and that is what came to his mind so that’s that as well.

Habshi’s friends in class 9th thought that they have struck a lottery. How it was in dear SSK, as he thinks now, is that it was a thoroughly horrible place to keep youngsters and have the control of their lives in the hand of mob-rule. Not that Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja thought so. But then it was 1994. In 1995 he would think a little differently, though not much. He was very near to the incident that caused that smile. And that prophetic word was just hovering around in his books, in the pages of his dictionaries, the daily raddi of his newspapers, somewhere around the corner, just away from the eye, but there to be discovered. A word that that was as true for him and his institution of mediocracy as he thought it was true for the pupils he asked that question.

In a chain of few very disturbing incidents, to the minds of class 8th, 9th class started taking a few unwarranted liberties with the newly acquired power in their hands. They were not the smartest lot Habshi had seen and from what his memories tell him their lot never improved outstandingly. Not with the coming years in the school and not after leaving school. Not all but most of them. Anyways. So after what seemed like few very unfair and unjustified events class 8th decided it was time for some action. To make a fight for it. Now that was something. Imagine bunch of 14-15 years old trying to bring in what they were thinking some sort of revolution. Again Habshi will have to give in to the temptation. What a bloody joke!! Yet, it was a noble idea. Coming where it was coming from. The minds of class 8th of SSK under the charge of Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja in the year 1994, in the third year of their Sat Saal Kaid.

His memory is not with him now. Can’t remember who was the first to suggest and who the first to second. But there it was, said by someone, heard by many, acceptable to most, understood by few, but there it was in the middle of all. The idea of a revolution. And it did happen. It was 1994. The year that preceeded 1995. The year when Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja will think differently, though not so differently. But it was the year where he was going to make that statement, say the word that defined so many things in and around him, including his charge, SSK.

It, the revolution, didn’t occur in the grand style they had thought. It was not a 100% success. Not by any means of trickery to the rules of Mathematics can it be approximated as close to 100%. But it did happen. And it was funny to look at if you think about it now. But for the perspective of 14 year olds it was nothing short of a war. And then one night Habshi, along with many of his class, found himself jumping the four feet boundary of SSK. It was the third year of their seven year Kaid. Most of the fellas took the roads to their homes. He went along with few to Jalandhar. His road to Sultanpur had no companion and it was dark and he was still 14, though amid revolutionaries. And so it happened that in 1994, class 8th pupils ran away from SSK in the middle of night to protest against the restructure of hostels and against the liberties taken by the seniors with the newly acquired power of living among juniors.

As everyone knows it was not a very successful revolution. Apart from apology letters signed by parents, few warnings to all students and some serious warnings to those who were considered leaders not much happened. Though it was fun and the lot of 14-15 years old thought that they have made their statement.

And in the aftermath of the revolution, when the last of the parents had signed apologies and taken warning letters home, leaving their charges once again under the charge of Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja, in the year of 1994, during the third year of the fellas’ seven year kaid, a meeting was called. Above the sports store, at the first floor terrace, on the right side wing of the palace. All the class 8th students sat there and in walked Lt. Col. Sham Sunder Dudeja.

The silence was audible to all as he took his chair and surveyed the young revolutiories. After what seemed like an eternity in silence he said “Incorrigible”. A pause, a very long pause, the one that Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja could have pulled only in front of a gathering of 14-15 years old. “Can anyone tell me what incorrigible means?”.

Who answered him, who was the valedictorian that day? Habshi does not remember. Most likely it must have been Scientist or may be Bawa madam’s son Aditya. They were the closest to understanding the sound of that word in 1994 among all those revolutionaries. How does it matter anyways.

“Kutte ki dumb” that’s how everyone understood after Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja was done with the revolutionaries. A dogs tail. Of course the rest of the proverb goes along.

He smiles now. Thinking of the day and how it marked the life of many. Most of them were truly incorrigible and are till these days. Indeed the words of Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja, in the year of 1994 said as they were in front of young revolutionries of class 8th, in third year of their seven year Kaid, were prophetic. And Habshi thinks for a while about all those incorrigibles. Just for a while before he gets back to Sea of Poppies and the incorrigible afeemkors of Amitav Ghosh.

Happy Birthday

Once again giving in to your memory dude. You have been around the corner all the while. I wonder when I will move on from our break-up. The kind of break-up which is not mutual, but deeply mutual. The kind of break-up from which there is no getting back together.

I do not remember wishing you a birthday wish all the time we were together. One of mine is close to yours (it still is a confusion that which is the correct date, mother keeps on changing her memory every year to suit what kind of person I should be, whether born in katte or the lunar month before that and many other reasons). VOLVOVIRGO did convey the message very loud and clear but I was not the kind of person who remembered dob’s easily. Maybe I did wish you sometime. How does that matter anyways?

But now I do remember and I guess many people do. Some remember the date all the while others are helped by orkut. Strange isn’t it. You still live on in orkut. Your email ids I guess must have been stopped by various providers for no activity over two years but junta keeps your orkut profile alive. Some send those scraps which go to everyone’s account and hence you also get them, some remember you the day you were born, some the day you went away and there are some who remember you in between when something reminds them of you. But for time being you are alive in many hearts and very alive in orkut. By the way dude, uncle aunty did not like your “About me” from the profile. I wish that your account stays forever, that orkut does not delete it. At least there would be something to remind people of you when the memories start failing us. Every Sept 10 there will be "you" under birthday’s for all that log-on.

I wasn’t checking out orkut today, though. It is blocked here offshore for some reason. Something else reminded me of you today and then I remembered its 10th Sept. Your birthday. Here is wishing you a very fantastic of the birthdays.

The Ephemeral Vigil

"We must realise and be ever conscious of the fact that life is fugacious and ephemeral." This is how the usage of fugacious is presented in the AWAD entry. I look up for ephemeral in wordweb dictionary (which I recently installed at a suggestion from K).
Short-lived, here today and gone tomorrow.
It reminds me of Ugly. I try to shake the thought away. I look at the date of the AWAD email. Its 15th of August. I am thinking I should have checked my email earlier and read this. Maybe I would have felt something was about to happen, maybe I was about to see the usage of the word in the real world. Then it comes to, it is 15th of august 2008. It has been two years. Reading the email on time would not have changed anything that happened. The email is two years late. I wish I could be mad at Anu Garg for being two years too late.

As if he knew someone was going to blame him. He has answered the accusation in the same entry. A THOUGHT FOR TODAY: The conscience of the world is so guilty…. Yes, it is the guilty conscience that keeps me reminding of the incident but there isn’t much that I can do to wash away this guilt. I think it is for this reason I have started looking further back in the time to memories that are pleasant that do not remind me of the things I want to forget. The events that I know changed me a little, may be more, but the events that changed the lives of many around me and in worse ways and at some level I was to blame for those happenings. These are the events I try to forget, to run away from. I could have affected the events, if not fully, in certain small significant ways. Who knows what could have transpired after, but anything would have been better than what it is today. May be I am just being a fanatic and thinking it all wrong but I guess the heaviness in the heart says that it must have been better, somewhat better, but for me.

I try to think of the times I was young, just to keep away from those significant events, but every time I try I fail.

It was after the call from his cousin S and when everyone had rushed on bikes to the hospital. There were six of us with two bikes. With some apprehension we could decide on the second driver that night. I rode the bike as fast as I could, hoping against hope that what she has just said was not true. I knew the route Ugly would have taken for home. We got out of the Shushant Lok, turned right and started towards the Metro Mall. The road was pitch dark. I always used to slow down on this part of the road but today I could not. Even in the dark we, against our wishes and fighting our fears, could make out the white which we did not want to. The car has been moved and was parked on the side of the road. The front right was all crushed. At the first glance all were aware that it was hard to survive that accident if you were in the driver’s seat. We were all scared to speak up this at the moment. Somehow without a word being spoken we moved on further to find the hospital where they had taken Ugly. Every body had a general idea of the hospital’s direction. I do not remember who was guiding me but after five minutes of most difficult driving I had ever done we reached the hospital. I do not remember the name of the hospital. It was named after someone is all I have remembrance of. We ran in as fast as we could. Running fast still in hope of holding his spirit back, preventing it from departing. It was too late.
I remember staying awake all night on many occasions. However, I had never stood a guard of the dead before. A dead friend. We were all there outside the hospital. The hospital authorities wanted to get rid of the body. Someone argued and somehow managed to keep the body there. Ice blocks were arranged to preserve the body. Preserve it so that parents can find there dead son in an unspoiled condition. Relatives were informed, friends were called. Many came, saw, some mourned, some were silent, some stayed, and some went back. Everyone had an opinion, everyone had a different observation of the dead, everyone had a new way to explain the injuries, everyone had the same questions for us (who were with him the last), we had no answers for anyone, everyone had a judgment to pass, an accusation to make, a sympathy to give and some of them had a tear to shed.

Sometime during the vigil I remembered calling Saurabh. Me and Saurabh were with Ugly at his last meal. Ugly has called him and said that he was bringing a present. I was wondering what is going on when he rang the door bell and hid behind the wall. Only when Saurabh said that this is the gift, pointing at me, I realized what Ugly was upto. It was a long time since I had last met Saurabh. It was to be the last gift of his life. Saurabh was as shocked on hearing what I had to say as every friend will be in coming few days. But he was more composed when he arrived. He knew better about what was to be said and what was to be done. I think his presence there was a comfort, at least for me.

At some point in the night V arrived at hospital. She did not have the courage to go and have a look at Ugly. “No. Not him. Not in a road accident. He was such a safe driver.” She refused to believe he was gone. Probably the best way to console yourself. Deny the dead the right to be. A was trying to console her as best as he could. I thought of saying something to her but even in death propriety demanded not to say something to a girl I had never met before. In the days that followed I remember wishing her the best for the future.

We kept the vigil whole night and most of the next day. Ugly’s parents were in Shimla when the accident happened and they reached Gurgaon late in the afternoon. Whole day we stood there. Some went back for a while to do whatever they had to. Most of us just stood there. I went in the room where they had kept Ugly one or two times. To see how he was doing. To give him company before he was turned into ashes and dust. That night he looked beautiful. More beautiful then he ever looked before. He had a radiance, a serene glow about his face.

Sometime before his parents arrived I felt water in my eyes. I had held on for a long time. There were many who had broken at the sight of his dead body and there are many who held on during everything. I moved away from the crowd and in the corner of the road looked up and let the tears fall. I hated God at that moment but asked Him to keep Ugly well.

It has been over two years now. Every now and then the memories come back. Things would have been different if that night had been different but that’s the way life is. Vogacious. Ephemeral. What’s left behind is memories. Thanks Anu. For the new word, for the old memories.

In the land of cupid

“Kabhi hamari zindagi ki ek kahani thi,
Ab har kahani ek zindagani lagti hai.”

There is a person in love and there is a person desperately in love and there is a person desperately trying to fall in love. My dear friend misses all these categories. Then there is a person who is someone’s love and there is a person who is some hopeless lover’s hopeless love and there is a person who is hopelessly trying to be someone’s love. Again my dear friend misses all these categories. Still, there is a person who is in the land of cupid and there is a person who has been to the land of cupid and there is a person trying to be in the land of cupid. Very sorry to disappoint you, but my dear friend again misses all these categories. I can’t think of what exactly he fits into but he is trying to be in love while trying not to be himself and trying or rather praying to be someone’s love and trying to open those already open doors of Cupid’s land. …. phew….

Even I am confused……

This is not what I am about to write about. Actually why I wrote that paragraph even I am confused. Something like modern art. After finishing the painting the painter is all confused but when he hear what others interpret that confusion of colors as, he is proud of the confusion which he has created.

I am getting more confused…..

I was trying to kill time as usual when I got a call from Ugly. Few New Year wishes which can take his case a step further in his lady’s court was what he required. I don’t know why he thought I can provide him with what he was looking for but I agreed that I will try to arrange something.

His story is not that complicated. I mean his love story is not that complicated but to keep his love story uncomplicated his story is getting complicated. Its a fairly complicated thing for me to write in an uncomplicated way.

So here I was with all the burden of his love story on my shoulders. These shoulders had already failed one love. Ugly had taken a big risk.

I was not able to think of what to send him so that my reputation and his story could survive, for a while, at least. As always the answer was GOOGLE. After a decent amount of googling I could not shortlist a single message as relevant though I copied two as backup.

Seriously I never had a hint or an idea about what to tell him. I mean what a looser like me can tell in a situation like this. I wish he had asked Hills about this. He must have known million tricks.

I called Hriday for help. The success of Ugly’s love story will depend on a good team effort. Erich Segal would be proud of this ‘Love Story’. Even Hriday had no messages for such a situation. I asked him to write one. He said he will try. I knew he will write a gem.

I wanted to send Ugly more than one message. It’s always good to have choice in such a sensitive matter. I tried to make that non-existent brain work. But e=mc^2 had worked very well so far. There is nothing but space left inside.

So I looked in inbox and selected two messages which could be played with to yield some results. After few tricks I had two very stupid looking messages ready. When it comes to love it is preferred to be original. I wanted to be original for Ugly. Only then could he look original. So I tried a medley of songs and some words thrown here and there and the third message was ready.

If Ugly wasn’t happy with these results than he will have to wait for Hriday. But I guess he found the third attempt worthwhile and perhaps he used it. I am not sure. I just hope that whatever his plan was, it worked.

Hriday is a great person. And his writing (not handwriting) is even better. He has always been good with poems.

Kuch door hamare saath chalo hum dil ki kahani keh denge,
Jo baat tum aankho se samajh na sake hum apni jabani keh denge.

Don’t know why he has not been able to impress that girl for last 10-15 years. You know one or two really good poems and it generally works. But it looks like finally his story is also getting a shape (actually more than a shape).

Hichkiyan batati hain koi leta hai mera naam chupke chupke
Sitare laye hain mere liye jinka payam chupke chupke
Bhari mehfil mein jo meri wajah se tanha hai
Naye saal pe karta hoon unko apna pehla salam chupke chupke.

Hriday is an awesome writer. Wish I could create something like this. I sent this to Ugly after adding some words. Again I don’t know if he used it. I just hope that he did.

I was happy that may be I have helped a heart. But “Bhari mehfil mein jo meri wajah se tanha hai” had pierced my heart or whatever was remaining of it. I just couldn’t get these lines out of my system.

It all looks great. Love. It’s a rose garden. And if you could spend your time in this garden in the spring it is the best place to be. Or better if you can make all the seasons spring it’s a life worth spent. But when autumn comes it’s this rose garden that you want to be away from and it’s the only place where you find yourself all the time. This autumn makes those thorns look lovely. They pierce your heart, your existence all the time. Actually that one moment in the spring of the land of cupid is worth living all the autumns that may follow.

“Bhari mehfil mein jo meri wajah se tanha hai” and it hurts even more if you are the reason for autumn in another persons rose garden.

I know whatever I have written is all mixed up and makes no sense but isn’t it good if things don’t have to make sense all the times.

Perhaps I should stop.
----------------------------------
Written Jan 2006...

A year thence

The time had stopped in this house. The hands on the clocks were turning, the seconds were passing but the time had lost its significance. The walls, air, furniture, the gate knew it wont be the same again and in a way it will be the same forever, just like the way he left everything, the way everything was when he last looked at it. In that place everything had a soul. In that place he was still alive. Moving anything was to create a proof of his not being here, his being dead.

Some journeys are hard to make. It was with great courage, mostly thanks to Nanha, that I went see Dhupar’s parents sometime back. Since the phone call we received about his accident I had known that I will have to face and, if possible, answer these two persons someday. This journey would be among the most difficult ones.

Even if there was a sound outside or inside the sounds didn’t reach us. There was a sense of fear and a kind of shame deep inside me as we stepped in that house. Afraid for everyone there and ashamed, for I knew I will not be honest with these two people I should be.

They had lived their lives it seemed. I could see two persons hung between the real and the world where they still had two sons. They were as old as they could ever be and yet they still seemed the same as they were when they had lunch in the mess of Aravali many years back. Only the link to Aravali was missing.

Over the conversation I tried not to break down and tried not to admit the things which his parents knew were true but wanted to hear from me or from anyone who was there with him in those last moments. They were still trying to justify the unjustifiable. They were trying to give a reason to why their son was gone. Was he drunk? How much? Was he himself responsible for his death? Has he gone before his time was due? Or was he just simple plain unlucky and was destined to live only such a short time? Were we his friends so careless to let him drive if he was that drunk? Didn’t we realize that he should be stopped? Was it his mistake? Was it the other driver’s mistake? Was it a mistake at all? There was anger in the questions and I could feel the anguish and agony and pain in those eyes and hearts.

We recounted the events of that day for them, as if that will make it all seem more real. For my part I tried not to say that yes he was drunk, yes I knew he was drunk, yes it didn’t occurred to me that he will leave us that night, yes it wasn’t the first time I have seen him drunk and then drive (mostly safely), yes it was beyond me to think what was going to happen would be the events that happened. I could not give them the answers they wanted to hear from me, I could not speak.

Life moves on. Things change, events happen, time moves on and the important becomes insignificant and the very insignificant becomes the truth that we live with but for most part of it we keep playing our part as the drama keeps unfolding. However, certain events stay there in the memory as they happened, neither important nor insignificant. The scale and magnitude of life and death hanging at a perfect imbalance and that’s the way we remember what passed in those moments of our lives.

Rushing from office to home to airport, buying the earliest available ticket, jumping into a car full of friends at the other airport, the ride, the mountain peaks, the long trek, the Independence Day, the meeting with friends, the get together, all lead to the moment when the sanity, sensibility, the meaning, plans, aspirations, dreams all lost there meaning forever, for some.

Tera Yaar Bolda and many other numbers bring a smile and a remembrance of the energy which surrounded these songs in his company. The one time lift from Kailash to Insti and he getting red all over on the mention of that name. The so very smart dumb of our dumb charades.

The dead look serene, unaware of the mayhem around, carelessly beautiful. Ugly did. Radiating a kind of calm, trying to sooth the nerves of all the shaken souls around him. After his passing there had been many more daru parties and there will be many more but I some times wonder how many times we friends have raised a glass for him or how many times we will. How many times we will remember what his presence meant or if we ever feel his absence. If we ever look up at the sky and say ‘Hey dude’.

Road goes ever on an on…
Pursuing it with eager feet…
Pursuing it with weary feet…
And whither then I cannot say.

Whither where? Of all of us only Ugly knows.

-----------------------------------

Written a year back...

He will be...

Life is fairly complicated in everything, almost everything, but its end. The end brings all the complications to rest. All the dreams, all the wishes, all the plans, all the work, all the breaths. All the complications, at least for one person.

It is as if nature conspires only for this one moment. It is as if He is so busy with making lives uncomplicated that there is no room for any considerations. He plans it to every tiny detail. To make it happen. Everything has to come together at that very moment. Some friends should be in the city for you to be out. Family should be away from the home for you to return home to do the care taking. The phone lines, the numbers will not work so you can’t spend an extra minute and let that truck pass by. The destinations where you drop your friends have to be exactly at the distances which He wants them to be. The short cut which you are told that day was planned by Him years back. You step out of the car to hug your good byes as if you know its coming. You check the tyres to make sure they will take you to ‘the destination’. The truck driver applies the brakes the instant you are not looking. This is His moment, your rendezvous with reality.

It is so easy for Him to plan this, to do this. He plans for all, even if you are a non-believer.

The guys who took him to hospital say he shuddered for a while before resting for the last time. He must be fighting Him. He was a fighter. He never let others have it easy when it was he against them. That’s why He needed a concrete mixer; a simple truck would not have served His motives. When they were taking him out of that steel trap, may be he was telling Him to go back, trying to reason out, trying to fight back. “I am a non-believer why have You come for me” “She never let me stay away for a weekend and she do believe in You” “What about the girl” “The wine, Hillu is yet to come” “Majnu ka Teela is to be kept for all these majnus” “Oh come on, not a road accident”. These questions, these pleadings, He has heard all this before, He is used to it. He hesitates, sometimes a little, sometimes a while longer for the father, the mother, the brother to say their good byes. Today He is in hurry. May be He has plans for others as well. He doesn’t even have time to answer. Plus this one is a non-believer.

There are many ifs and buts in all of our minds, all of us, who were with him that day. What if we had done this and what if we had not done that? But He was too smart for all of us. He still is. He will always be. His is the job to make it uncomplicated.

It was during our facha skit that I got to know Dhupar better. He was the best fit Prabhakar we had amid the mess of characters which we were trying to put up. The six years from then on were always full of dear Ugly.

Ugly wasn’t the type of guy who would have asked for things to be simple. He was this power house of the weirdest kind of energies. Since the day I met him for the first time he would always stand out among any numbers. Any kind of group it be. He was the barman, he was the DJ, he was the kind who didn’t even spare his boss. He would be the best person to teach you how to spend the minimum possible resources in the maximum way. Volvovirgo in his own words was a two-stroke amid all of us four-strokers.
Ever ready to help, he was always there for you. Dhupar always had his own unique ways. “Unpredictable yet dependable”. Cigarette is not good enough for this kind of driving; he said when he and I were riding Mogoo’s bike to Chandigarh from Delhi. That night he burned bidis.

He was a highway man. One of the rare engineers from our batch who really had the passion for engineering. Roads, bridges, transportation were essential part his being. He found passion, fun, career, friends, life on highways. It was on a New Year eve and it was on a highway he was trying to win his girl. Highways took him. He is still a highway man. He will always be.

Saurabh Goyal was going for his job interview. Ugly and I were sitting in Ara lawns. As Saurabh passed I shouted “Good luck”. As Ugly was about to follow I stopped him. I always thought his good luck was not so good for others. Saurabh got the job. We always laughed about this and kind of believed in his unlucky good-lucks. He took me to meet Saurabh on that last day. I said him those star-crossed final good byes.

The woods were burning. He lay peacefully. I wanted him to get up and say it’s too hot in there. I wish Tolkien would send a King to raise this dead for us. He didn’t. The boy was enthusiastically throwing the powder on the pyre, to keep the fire. He was the Aragon releasing the dead from that age old promise. “Be at peace”. Some times the water in the eyes defies you. “All the tears are not evil”. And I sang for a love of my life, our beloved Abhinav Dhupar, Dhupar, Ugly, Toon, Launda, DJ, …, and above all Rishi.

Home is behind
The world ahead
And there are
Many paths to tread
Through shadow
Till the edge of light
Until the stars
Are all alight
Mist and shadow
Cloud and shade
All shall fade
All shall fade…

‘Hardy Singh where is my son?’

“In a better world, uncle. In a better world, Sir. In a better world…”