People don’t really get out of the place with magical wands in their hands and spells on their lips, they are not really wizards by the time they pass out, neither the place is reached by entering into a quarter of a platform but the place is no less magical than the Hogwarts, if a comparison can be made. One thing which can’t be helped but said is that the people who go in are special just like they are when they are selected for Hogwarts but unlike most leaving Hogwarts the souls that leave this realm are of questionable variety. Yet it’s a place worth all its perils.
There must be dark arts and magic at work there. Habshi is sure of that now. For how else can he not see the darkness that day. Then again a ten year old has not the best defense against the dark arts.
Getting down at DC chowk they hailed a rickshaw. It was not much of a chowk. But in that city that was best available option for a chowk so they called it one and the DC lived close by, hence DC chowk. Mother haggled with a rickshawalah and got the price to whatever was good enough to be paid in 1991. As the rickshaw pulled away from the chowk towards the pink-walled-silver-gate realm, a magical realm Habshi thinks now, of Sainik School Kapurthala, the sounds of the world faded. Calm descended onto the world. Habshi was too young to know about the calms before the storms, of raising guard against the unknown charms, of staying alert to the stabs at the heart and he let the fascination take him and sweep him.
That gate for sure was possessed, the gate and the extension of it towards left side as the rickshaw approached from the DC chowk, the extension facing the thandi sadak. It wasn’t thandi enough to give you a chill. It was thandi if you knew how the magic worked. Habshi only ten and too young to understand and his mother too eager to meet her elder one hardly paying any heed to the magic around. The food was getting cold and to linger too long near the thandi sadak didn’t seem such a good idea. The rickshawalah was paid his due at the gate and they pushed forward.
Habshi could not take his eyes from all the heads that were jammed in the grills of the gate and the arms that slowly raised themselves to point at the regular flow of rickshaws coming towards the gate. The arms would point, some of those will withdraw back and the body that particular arm belonged to will run to the gate with extended arms to hug and be hugged. And the space that was created in the grills was momentary before another head got there and before another set of arms showed. The gate and its extension of grills were alive.
Once inside the silence, the magic, took over. Habshi (who was not yet christened with the name) walked as in a trance. The first look on the palace stabbed deep inside and that’s what stayed with him. Amid the spreading of the chaddar, all the talk on all the things and, all the devouring of the food the palace stayed in front of eyes. The magic was everywhere to be seen. It was a place full of people, hundreds of them and yet it was quite. All the talk ended in nothing. In the presence or rather the absence of that magical being the hubble-bubble of life never fell on ears. And then it was time to leave. The parent’s day was over. Rubbish thrown away, the panjiris and morabbas secreted away to hostels, twenty-thirty rupees transferred from mother’s hands into the pockets of brother, the chaddar folded back and slowly but surely Habshi and his mother stepped out of that magical realm.
That is the nature of this beast. When it hunts it transforms into a beauty and attracts its preys. Then the particular prey that it feels is most suited for the kill is selected. Sometimes it captures a herd. Like an artist the beast works on the captives for years. Some it breaks and some it makes. It can break them in an instant or take years. It teases them and sometimes let them make or break themselves. The captives see the deep fall in front but turn a blind eye and instead stare at the beautiful peaks and keep marching. As is the nature of this beast, it lets some fall and it lets some climb.
The journey back home was over in a jiffy. He reached home. The feeling of being stretched to another place took over and throwing away whatever was close by Habshi declared he will only study in the school with the palace and nowhere else. Now he can say it was the dark arts at work in that magical realm that spoke through him. He was among those chosen to be a prey, to tread the paths of glory ridden illusion of peaks and reality of the pest infested valleys.
And rest as they say is history. Rest is seven years, a number 3969, a nickname Habshi, three houses. Rest as they say are memories. You can make them as grand, romaticise and tell tales of whatever length and caliber but Habshi knows how many times and how close he came to a steep fall. In the end the beast let him be, he had swallowed him but not finding the meat to its taste spat him out. Habshi was a wiser man once he stood up on his feet after that exit. Thandi sadak, as he walked that day towards the DC chowk, was as chilling as reality generally is. Seven years of enchantment were over.
Monday, May 03, 2010
Jis Lahore Nahi Vekhya
Lunch hour at Perth office is a time for a short walk along Hay Street and a choice of various food types from among the hundreds of tiny, not-so-tiny and not-tiny-at-all places. I usually hunt for Indian, vegetarian game. Maya Masala downstairs has been shut down (their food was not good anyways), Kebabs and NYC have been visited over the week, so it was time for a stroll down the street towards other veg-game places. The Great Indian Curries (no worries!!) was closed even before I left Perth eight months ago. There are various other Indian places on the street close by but those can be classified under high-end-game areas, so it was a walk to the Hay St Mall food court, to Thali.
Walking down the street I made my usual one minute stop at the Elizabeth’s second hand bookshop. A table outside the door carries two dollars and 4.95 dollars collection. It used to be one dollar and two dollars a year ago. This, to me, is the only place with affordable books in Perth. If your mind works with a conversion to Indian rupees calculator whenever you buy something, you can’t buy a 30-40 dollar book which it costs here on average. And mine works just like that. No luck today with the books and I move on.
Perth is one of the cities, an example of the now growing trend, where Chinese outnumber Indians. Chinese are competing Indians in the global race of ruling the foreign cities. Perth it seems has over a million of them infact if your nose works fine you will smell the Chinese all around, I mean the food. Lots of Chinese places and their usual variants which I as a general rule stay away from, they don’t believe in veg-game it seems. There is no shortage of junk food here in Perth as well. The McDonalds and KFCs along with their many brothers and sisters (Red Roosters, Hungary Jacks, Burger Kings, and various other names that one doesn’t care to remember) rule the streets. On a thought I decide it’s been a long time since I had had some junk-game and to get some today. Baku hardly affords such options so I steer myself to the junk section of the jungle and go looking for some junk-veg-game. One of the places has a veg burger.
The line at the junk-game-places is usually longer than the others. I get in one. To me it is such an easy place to order anything. All you have to say is this-combo-please or that-combo-please, yet all these Chinese folk in front can make it a special affair. I think on principal they can’t do anything without making it an occasion. After all the Chinese people are satisfied with what they want it’s my turn. I say one veg combo, medium, no ice (please) and ‘Navi’ relays the order into microphone and I let the next person place his order (guess he was Chinese as well). Amid my attention on all the Chinese around and following Navi’s movements on the other side of the counter I forget to get the receipt (only remember it when I am back inside the office), so these ten dollars which I am entitled to claim from company will have to be made up in some Indian way, some sacrifice observing hindi-chini kinship.
One thing that very rarely happens in this place is someone asking for a veg burger or at least that’s what I think after nearly ten minutes when I am still waiting and by now getting tired of staring at Navi. Even she is restless by a sardar staring at her (so shamelessly I must add). I am trying to make out the name. It could be Navdeep or Navpreet or Navleen or Navjot or any of the other Nav+++’s. But it definitely is a Punjabi name. When finally a veg burger is ready the guy on next counter picks that up and hands to the only other veg-game-hunter around who incidentally has just placed his order. Navi nearly has a heart attack and tells the fella in no mean terms that I have been waiting (and staring at her) for ten minutes. The other guy is Punjabi as well and Navi’s message in Punjabi confirms my assumption in the guess-a-name game. Maybe it’s just Navi. But Navi Kaur sounds funny. Anyways the next burger makes an appearance much quicker and with an apologetic smile (and a thank God countenance) Navi hands me the meal and I find myself a place.
“Main Hindi bol lete hoon” someone shouts in the background. I turn my head around to see a sardarji sitting with a girl. It was the girl who was speaking, a little too loudly. After a short interval she continues “old movies are good. I like. I like Hindi movies. Dilip Kumar, Dharmendra, Amitabh Bachan.” “Meena Kumari” sardarji adds. “Yes, my mom also likes Dilip Kumar, Dharmendra, Amitabh Bachan, Meena Kumari.” Then it is quite for a while. Now the ears are all trained onto the direction of conversation, waiting for the next act. She says something on Punjabi that wasn’t very audible but it gets sardarji started. “Very proud of our people, very proud of our culture, very proud of our lands, very proud of our language, very proud of our religion, very proud of our country”. There must have been few more very prouds and some repetitions as well. Finally, he takes a breather. But there he is back again, “Manmohan Singh, you know? Prime Minister is a Sikh as well.” There are few lines which he says in a little lower volume which are more on the lines of “Manmohan Singh is the best economist ever”. Then he rests his case.
There was a long gap after that, which I used for a good effect to bite through the pile of chips and burger. After a while I had to turn my head to check if my lunch time story was still around. They were. The girl was writing something on paper. A little while later the voices were back in action. “Aap bolenge wo jis Punjab nahi dekheya…” A pause and then she remembered it, “jis Punjab nahi dekheya wo paida nahi hua. In Punjabi, please say it”. The gentleman was happy, it seems, to have aroused some Punjabi spirit. He obliged. “Jis Punjab nahi vekheya oh jameyah nahi”.
It was with few friends in Bombay that I went to see this play at Prithvi. The pimary object was to visit Prithvi, sit there for a while and if possible catch a play. We were on time for the play and in luck with the tickets so watched which I could surely say was a very good performance. The story of a women left behind in Lahore in a huge ancestral haveli during partition, found there by the new owners after they move in, the old lady adamant on staying there, slowly but surely loved and liked by the family and neighbours and mohalla, there were the usual hardcore fundamentalists villains but in the end, as in most of our tales, good always win over the evil. The play was well directed, acted and presented. Jis Lahore nahi vekhya, oh jameya nahi.
It’s time for the walk back to office. I throw the trash into bin. Sardarji is gone and the girl is also next to the trash bin. Some things can’t be helped and with me it’s more of a case very many times. I have to feed this urge of spreading the gyan. “I could not help but overhear your conversation. It’s not jis-Punjab-nahi-vekhya, it is jis-Lahore-nahi-vekhya, oh-jameya-nahi”. And suddenly it dawned on her and she goes, “Ohh yes, now I remember it”. I am not sure of the origins of the proverb but have a feeling that it talks of the glory days of Lahore (and Punjab). It refers to Lahore when it was the center of the true Punjab, the land of five rivers when it had five flowing through it. So I did defend the Sardarji by putting forward the Punjab and Lahore case. And then I was on my way.
As I stepped out I heard the lady call “You from Lahore?” I let her catch up and replied, “No the other side of the border, from Punjab in India”. Apparently she wants to clear few things and as we walk to the crossing she goes on, “I lived in Lahore for ten years when I was young and just now I remembered where I picked up this saying.” I again apologised for butting in but told her that she was shouting in there in her attempt to speak Hindi and I could not help but overhear. “The old man had hearing problem” she said, “that’s why I had to shout plus I was writing on paper as well to talk to him”. So that explains both the shouting and the occasional silences.
It was red lights at the crossing. She didn’t look Indian and her English was anything but Australian and she didn’t seem Australian either. “Where are you from?” “Afghanistan”. The pedestrian lights went green and with the flow of humans I turned right as she turned left.
Walking down the street I made my usual one minute stop at the Elizabeth’s second hand bookshop. A table outside the door carries two dollars and 4.95 dollars collection. It used to be one dollar and two dollars a year ago. This, to me, is the only place with affordable books in Perth. If your mind works with a conversion to Indian rupees calculator whenever you buy something, you can’t buy a 30-40 dollar book which it costs here on average. And mine works just like that. No luck today with the books and I move on.
Perth is one of the cities, an example of the now growing trend, where Chinese outnumber Indians. Chinese are competing Indians in the global race of ruling the foreign cities. Perth it seems has over a million of them infact if your nose works fine you will smell the Chinese all around, I mean the food. Lots of Chinese places and their usual variants which I as a general rule stay away from, they don’t believe in veg-game it seems. There is no shortage of junk food here in Perth as well. The McDonalds and KFCs along with their many brothers and sisters (Red Roosters, Hungary Jacks, Burger Kings, and various other names that one doesn’t care to remember) rule the streets. On a thought I decide it’s been a long time since I had had some junk-game and to get some today. Baku hardly affords such options so I steer myself to the junk section of the jungle and go looking for some junk-veg-game. One of the places has a veg burger.
The line at the junk-game-places is usually longer than the others. I get in one. To me it is such an easy place to order anything. All you have to say is this-combo-please or that-combo-please, yet all these Chinese folk in front can make it a special affair. I think on principal they can’t do anything without making it an occasion. After all the Chinese people are satisfied with what they want it’s my turn. I say one veg combo, medium, no ice (please) and ‘Navi’ relays the order into microphone and I let the next person place his order (guess he was Chinese as well). Amid my attention on all the Chinese around and following Navi’s movements on the other side of the counter I forget to get the receipt (only remember it when I am back inside the office), so these ten dollars which I am entitled to claim from company will have to be made up in some Indian way, some sacrifice observing hindi-chini kinship.
One thing that very rarely happens in this place is someone asking for a veg burger or at least that’s what I think after nearly ten minutes when I am still waiting and by now getting tired of staring at Navi. Even she is restless by a sardar staring at her (so shamelessly I must add). I am trying to make out the name. It could be Navdeep or Navpreet or Navleen or Navjot or any of the other Nav+++’s. But it definitely is a Punjabi name. When finally a veg burger is ready the guy on next counter picks that up and hands to the only other veg-game-hunter around who incidentally has just placed his order. Navi nearly has a heart attack and tells the fella in no mean terms that I have been waiting (and staring at her) for ten minutes. The other guy is Punjabi as well and Navi’s message in Punjabi confirms my assumption in the guess-a-name game. Maybe it’s just Navi. But Navi Kaur sounds funny. Anyways the next burger makes an appearance much quicker and with an apologetic smile (and a thank God countenance) Navi hands me the meal and I find myself a place.
“Main Hindi bol lete hoon” someone shouts in the background. I turn my head around to see a sardarji sitting with a girl. It was the girl who was speaking, a little too loudly. After a short interval she continues “old movies are good. I like. I like Hindi movies. Dilip Kumar, Dharmendra, Amitabh Bachan.” “Meena Kumari” sardarji adds. “Yes, my mom also likes Dilip Kumar, Dharmendra, Amitabh Bachan, Meena Kumari.” Then it is quite for a while. Now the ears are all trained onto the direction of conversation, waiting for the next act. She says something on Punjabi that wasn’t very audible but it gets sardarji started. “Very proud of our people, very proud of our culture, very proud of our lands, very proud of our language, very proud of our religion, very proud of our country”. There must have been few more very prouds and some repetitions as well. Finally, he takes a breather. But there he is back again, “Manmohan Singh, you know? Prime Minister is a Sikh as well.” There are few lines which he says in a little lower volume which are more on the lines of “Manmohan Singh is the best economist ever”. Then he rests his case.
There was a long gap after that, which I used for a good effect to bite through the pile of chips and burger. After a while I had to turn my head to check if my lunch time story was still around. They were. The girl was writing something on paper. A little while later the voices were back in action. “Aap bolenge wo jis Punjab nahi dekheya…” A pause and then she remembered it, “jis Punjab nahi dekheya wo paida nahi hua. In Punjabi, please say it”. The gentleman was happy, it seems, to have aroused some Punjabi spirit. He obliged. “Jis Punjab nahi vekheya oh jameyah nahi”.
It was with few friends in Bombay that I went to see this play at Prithvi. The pimary object was to visit Prithvi, sit there for a while and if possible catch a play. We were on time for the play and in luck with the tickets so watched which I could surely say was a very good performance. The story of a women left behind in Lahore in a huge ancestral haveli during partition, found there by the new owners after they move in, the old lady adamant on staying there, slowly but surely loved and liked by the family and neighbours and mohalla, there were the usual hardcore fundamentalists villains but in the end, as in most of our tales, good always win over the evil. The play was well directed, acted and presented. Jis Lahore nahi vekhya, oh jameya nahi.
It’s time for the walk back to office. I throw the trash into bin. Sardarji is gone and the girl is also next to the trash bin. Some things can’t be helped and with me it’s more of a case very many times. I have to feed this urge of spreading the gyan. “I could not help but overhear your conversation. It’s not jis-Punjab-nahi-vekhya, it is jis-Lahore-nahi-vekhya, oh-jameya-nahi”. And suddenly it dawned on her and she goes, “Ohh yes, now I remember it”. I am not sure of the origins of the proverb but have a feeling that it talks of the glory days of Lahore (and Punjab). It refers to Lahore when it was the center of the true Punjab, the land of five rivers when it had five flowing through it. So I did defend the Sardarji by putting forward the Punjab and Lahore case. And then I was on my way.
As I stepped out I heard the lady call “You from Lahore?” I let her catch up and replied, “No the other side of the border, from Punjab in India”. Apparently she wants to clear few things and as we walk to the crossing she goes on, “I lived in Lahore for ten years when I was young and just now I remembered where I picked up this saying.” I again apologised for butting in but told her that she was shouting in there in her attempt to speak Hindi and I could not help but overhear. “The old man had hearing problem” she said, “that’s why I had to shout plus I was writing on paper as well to talk to him”. So that explains both the shouting and the occasional silences.
It was red lights at the crossing. She didn’t look Indian and her English was anything but Australian and she didn’t seem Australian either. “Where are you from?” “Afghanistan”. The pedestrian lights went green and with the flow of humans I turned right as she turned left.
Paranormal Activity
If I wasn’t me, if it wasn’t the belief that I am who I am, if it wasn’t the physical presence of me in the mirror, a grown up almost thirty year old (or young if you are older, what can I say) I could very well.. well what can I say... what craziness!! A normal evening with a plenty of paranormal activity.
The airport roof has suddenly developed a leak and is pouring drops of water at a rapid pace onto the plastic container, hurriedly found by a janitor, tuptuptuptuptup. It is only a minor addition to the sounds my hyper sensitive ears are suddenly catching out of nowhere since last night. Things unheard unnoticed before, are ringing bells and making me jump all over.
After delaying as much as possible and making the office hours as long as I could, it being a Friday evening and people in Perth are hardly found in office after 4:30, even Alan helped kill an hour by suggesting some socialising in the bar downstairs and the racket that the Aussie bars make drowned in its maddening roar the sounds the ears were picking up and after the inevitable could be delayed no longer I was back in the hotel room around 1930hrs.
I shut the door and hesitated a little before putting on the safety chain. Bulb on dining table was on. It usually isn’t. The AC was alive and breathing. Not the regular unnoticed prrrrrrrrrwhrrrrrrrrrr in the background it was a hurtful moan of someone in pain. Steps upstairs, right above where I was standing. The steps moved onto the roof of the bedroom as I entered mine. I put in some clothes in the washing machine and gave it a life, just to drown the sounds of the room. For a while it helped. Time to put the pot on the heater and enjoy a cup of tea. Within few minutes the sounds from washing machine started calling me. Peeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnn whistles someone outside the door in the alleyway. The boiling water hissed at me. I hurriedly added sugar and tea leaves to calm its hunger. Switched on the exhaust in the toilet to add another sound to drown the existing sounds, switched on the laptop and played, of all songs, a Himesh Reshamiya song. All an attempt to ensure the individual sounds lose their individuality and let the heart beat get back to normal. Even it, the heart, was beginning to have a sound of its own.
For a while the noise coming out of the nose of the singer helped divert the attention from the other sounds. Gulped down a cup of tea in relative peace (not silence) and afterwards did the dishes. The water swirling and finding its way to the centre of the wash basin roars, burps air at me. Amid the racket of washing machine, toilet exhaust, songs on laptop, an episode of Two and a half men on TV, I pack up. Packing is followed by eating the leftover meal from yesterday. No plans of cooking tonight. And suddenly I find myself out of all the chores to divert my attention. A drop of sweat travels down the spine and I jump to face whatever has come. It is time to bring back some normalcy.
I pick up a book and walk out of the room. A shadow walks past the door as I open it. I close the door behind me hurriedly and walk to the elevator. Stand in front of the elevators for a while before realising I am yet to hit the button. And when eventually the elevator doors open and swallow me the elevator stands still. Refusing to travel down, to ground floor, to a place where there are others, human and normal. Then I notice that none of the buttons on the elevator brains is glowing. I press G and it moves down. The doors of the elevator open to the reception and a warm breath of air greets me with the normal sounds of fellow human beings. I crash onto the lobby sofa. There are three stories left in the book. The bookmark takes me to “Cat Within”. The story has its own paranormal activity, I remember from the TV episode. I skip it and read the last two.
It all started when Sanya copied few movies onto my hard drive. Have watched few over the last week. On Wednesday evening started watching Paranormal Activity. Had to leave it by the time it reaches half way mark and watched some animation movie to calm the nerves and sleep. Planned to finish Paranormal Activity next day evening. Next day, due to some task or the other in the office the daylight disappears by the time I get back. Watched the movie anyways. By the time I am done with the movie paranormal activities had already started in my hotel room.
All these normal routine sounds that have been ignored by the ears till date start reaching my hearing system, the drums are over charged with the excitement. Washing face becomes a challenge. I am standing at an angle to the washbasin, not ready to present my back to the unknown. The angle helps watching out for whoever is about to strike. Didn’t bend my face over the basin, wash the face standing with head up and back straight, can’t risk the blow coming from above either. Was it the lights flickering on and off or me just covering my eyes with towel while drying the face?
Alone in a hotel room, with not much to occupy the thoughts, watching this movie was not such a good idea. In a company it may have been fun, but all alone a person gets too involved with the characters of a book, if well written, or a movie, if well made. And this one is for sure made very well.
Finished watching the movie around eleven in the night, tried to sleep, tossed and turned and listened and felt all the paranormal activity in my room, the sleep never came. The spirits or demons of the movie have suddenly entered this hotel room. When sleep deserts me for more than an hour, I switch on the light and make a phone call home (have to use the time somehow and it’s a good diversion). That kills about fifteen minutes. Another attempt at sleep ends with another phone call, this time accounting for another hour. Another attempt, no sleep and I just give up. Switch on the light and let the paranormal be. Sometimes soon after the tiredness must have taken over as I wake up to my six o’clock alarm. And then I found myself in the office and the sounds of daily work in office have no paranormal ring to them.
Things are normal only till I get back to the hotel and step inside the room.
Finished the last two stories from the book. The watch tells me it will only be two hours wait at the airport so I decide to get a taxi a little early. Leo texts saying the flight is delayed by an hour. I know the fellow who didn’t let Micah get away when he had time is trying to keep me here. I am not falling for the trap and am off to airport an hour ahead of the planned two-hour-wait-at-airport schedule. Let’s hope the demons/ghosts and everything paranormal in this room finds a new place over the weekend I am in Sydney.
The airport roof has suddenly developed a leak and is pouring drops of water at a rapid pace onto the plastic container, hurriedly found by a janitor, tuptuptuptuptup. It is only a minor addition to the sounds my hyper sensitive ears are suddenly catching out of nowhere since last night. Things unheard unnoticed before, are ringing bells and making me jump all over.
After delaying as much as possible and making the office hours as long as I could, it being a Friday evening and people in Perth are hardly found in office after 4:30, even Alan helped kill an hour by suggesting some socialising in the bar downstairs and the racket that the Aussie bars make drowned in its maddening roar the sounds the ears were picking up and after the inevitable could be delayed no longer I was back in the hotel room around 1930hrs.
I shut the door and hesitated a little before putting on the safety chain. Bulb on dining table was on. It usually isn’t. The AC was alive and breathing. Not the regular unnoticed prrrrrrrrrwhrrrrrrrrrr in the background it was a hurtful moan of someone in pain. Steps upstairs, right above where I was standing. The steps moved onto the roof of the bedroom as I entered mine. I put in some clothes in the washing machine and gave it a life, just to drown the sounds of the room. For a while it helped. Time to put the pot on the heater and enjoy a cup of tea. Within few minutes the sounds from washing machine started calling me. Peeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnn whistles someone outside the door in the alleyway. The boiling water hissed at me. I hurriedly added sugar and tea leaves to calm its hunger. Switched on the exhaust in the toilet to add another sound to drown the existing sounds, switched on the laptop and played, of all songs, a Himesh Reshamiya song. All an attempt to ensure the individual sounds lose their individuality and let the heart beat get back to normal. Even it, the heart, was beginning to have a sound of its own.
For a while the noise coming out of the nose of the singer helped divert the attention from the other sounds. Gulped down a cup of tea in relative peace (not silence) and afterwards did the dishes. The water swirling and finding its way to the centre of the wash basin roars, burps air at me. Amid the racket of washing machine, toilet exhaust, songs on laptop, an episode of Two and a half men on TV, I pack up. Packing is followed by eating the leftover meal from yesterday. No plans of cooking tonight. And suddenly I find myself out of all the chores to divert my attention. A drop of sweat travels down the spine and I jump to face whatever has come. It is time to bring back some normalcy.
I pick up a book and walk out of the room. A shadow walks past the door as I open it. I close the door behind me hurriedly and walk to the elevator. Stand in front of the elevators for a while before realising I am yet to hit the button. And when eventually the elevator doors open and swallow me the elevator stands still. Refusing to travel down, to ground floor, to a place where there are others, human and normal. Then I notice that none of the buttons on the elevator brains is glowing. I press G and it moves down. The doors of the elevator open to the reception and a warm breath of air greets me with the normal sounds of fellow human beings. I crash onto the lobby sofa. There are three stories left in the book. The bookmark takes me to “Cat Within”. The story has its own paranormal activity, I remember from the TV episode. I skip it and read the last two.
It all started when Sanya copied few movies onto my hard drive. Have watched few over the last week. On Wednesday evening started watching Paranormal Activity. Had to leave it by the time it reaches half way mark and watched some animation movie to calm the nerves and sleep. Planned to finish Paranormal Activity next day evening. Next day, due to some task or the other in the office the daylight disappears by the time I get back. Watched the movie anyways. By the time I am done with the movie paranormal activities had already started in my hotel room.
All these normal routine sounds that have been ignored by the ears till date start reaching my hearing system, the drums are over charged with the excitement. Washing face becomes a challenge. I am standing at an angle to the washbasin, not ready to present my back to the unknown. The angle helps watching out for whoever is about to strike. Didn’t bend my face over the basin, wash the face standing with head up and back straight, can’t risk the blow coming from above either. Was it the lights flickering on and off or me just covering my eyes with towel while drying the face?
Alone in a hotel room, with not much to occupy the thoughts, watching this movie was not such a good idea. In a company it may have been fun, but all alone a person gets too involved with the characters of a book, if well written, or a movie, if well made. And this one is for sure made very well.
Finished watching the movie around eleven in the night, tried to sleep, tossed and turned and listened and felt all the paranormal activity in my room, the sleep never came. The spirits or demons of the movie have suddenly entered this hotel room. When sleep deserts me for more than an hour, I switch on the light and make a phone call home (have to use the time somehow and it’s a good diversion). That kills about fifteen minutes. Another attempt at sleep ends with another phone call, this time accounting for another hour. Another attempt, no sleep and I just give up. Switch on the light and let the paranormal be. Sometimes soon after the tiredness must have taken over as I wake up to my six o’clock alarm. And then I found myself in the office and the sounds of daily work in office have no paranormal ring to them.
Things are normal only till I get back to the hotel and step inside the room.
Finished the last two stories from the book. The watch tells me it will only be two hours wait at the airport so I decide to get a taxi a little early. Leo texts saying the flight is delayed by an hour. I know the fellow who didn’t let Micah get away when he had time is trying to keep me here. I am not falling for the trap and am off to airport an hour ahead of the planned two-hour-wait-at-airport schedule. Let’s hope the demons/ghosts and everything paranormal in this room finds a new place over the weekend I am in Sydney.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
That Moment
It is another of those evenings. It is dark outside, clouds hanging by since afternoon, just like that without blowing away and without pouring down, a drop here and a drop there, every other second, a calculated rate, maximising their lives the clouds hanging onto their passing existence. It was another of those days that comes and passes by, that came and went, unnoticed and without noticing.
It is a different bus, not the usual one with comfortable seats, but an old Merc mini that must have carried school children or may be still does. The seats are all cramped and the half an hour ride gives one all sort of aches. No power nap in these seats. The front seat is empty and before long I have pulled open the side door. I hop on the seat by the driver, the only seat where it is comfortable to stretch legs on this mini. Slam the door shut and put on the seat belt, the latter being a condition of employment all signed when joining Schlumberger. Pull-hop-slam-buckle up. Ready for a ride. Few minutes later it is 5:15 in the evening and the driver puts the wheels in motion.
Putting the head next to the window I let the tiredness drain into the metal. It’s comforting, the metal, the mini (with cramped uncomfortable seats at the back), the hold of the seat belt, the slow motion of the mini (still within the company speed limit of 15kmphr inside the premises boundaries, till it hits the highway), all is comforting, the untiring metal takes the tiredness away and sends weights across the eyelids, weights that bring in rest and calm. About 20 yards ahead on the right the cat lurks, next to the exit. A big black giant of a cat, restless in the evening, this evening, just by the corner. The driver hits the radio button gaining my attention for a fraction of the second. It is the usual. Some Russian/Azeri RJ with some English hop/pop/hip/pip/hap/rap. We are at the exit of the company complex. A right, down the narrow stretch for a hundred yards and another right will put us on the road to the city. The black cat is sitting next to the security post on the left. Driver nods and waves a farewell and good night to the security guard, who acknowledges with equivalent gestures and we are on our way. I am half asleep already.
Nearly ten minutes later, a nasty pothole in the road shakes me out of the lazy sleep. This driver has taken the route through the hills, the new highway, not the usual short way around the hills next to the sea. This route is longer but calmer on most days. The driver keeps the vehicle at company’s maximum allowed speed of 80 kmphr (he has signed few conditions of employment as well) but that is not good enough to keep the others on the road behind. Yet, he being the driver of this city (where all drivers are apparently crazy), he drives on left, next to the divider on the road, in the supposedly fast lane. Others have to do the honours and overtake as they wish. No one minds the trouble here. They all are giving their fair share of troubles to others anyways.
I am looking at the dog-shaped hillock in the middle of the lake. It is quite a fascinating piece of rock, carved by rains and seasons in an almost perfect face of a dog, a kind of old and seasoned looking mongrel. A side of the hillock lights up, shining with a natural brilliance.
The driver hits the breaks. He is virtually standing on the brakes. By the time I look straight the steel rods on the trailer in front are two-three meters away. Another second, maybe. Maybe less.
A toddler falling on a heater or a stove (the details are hazy). A fall from the roof top, a fractured bone and a dislocated shoulder (there was pain but he got up, slid into the bed and moaning groaning slept through the night). The cries that stopped the entire market when that desi hakeem tried to put the shoulder back in its socket. An attempt to get one point for Aravali ending up in a twisted ankle (on the other side of both the pole and the vault). Later the ball flying from the hockey stick of an angry forward of some team made it a twisted ankle and a hairline fracture.
A smooth first ride (to the city) on the scooter. A crash into a building on the way back from the city. Spoiled groceries, a crushed big-toe and a lost big-toe nail. A doctor pulling out the other big-toe nail years later (while talking to his wife who is digging into the eyes of some poor soul on the next operating table). Mem letting go of the scooter handle after being surprised by an unnoticed pothole in the streets of Moga. A motorcycle at 100+ on road from Mansa to Sanam, lost control but stayed on wheels. Mostly safe, always surviving.
Father, mother, sister, brother, few wanted relations, plenty unwanted, many friends, few good friends, some lost friends, some forgotten friends, a love on the sidewalks. A first school, a second school, an only college, a first job, a second job, the last job. Kabirpur, Sultanpur Lodhi, Kapurthala, Chandigarh, Delhi, Pune, Bombay, Perth, flight to Dubai and to Baku, a taxi ride to Salyan highway. A day spent like any other. An evening like any other. A pull-hop-slam-buckle up. The cat walking across from the right to left as gracefully as a tiger. The pothole and a bump. The rock in the lake such perfectly carved, the trailer overtakes the Merc mini like all the others. The sad and slow clouds bursting apart to give a blow to the mountains. That natural brilliance on the dog-rock. The bolt of lightning hitting up ahead on the roads. A push on a break in panic up ahead on the road. Many breaks behind it. The thunder following the bolt, drowning all sounds. The trailer in front out of motion that instant, a dead stop. The driver standing on the brakes of Merc mini. Steel rods two three meters ahead of the comfortable seat. A well fastened seat-belt. A second, maybe. Maybe less.
Does life flashes by in that last moment? Do we remember the pains and joys and loved ones and hated ones and forgive and ask for forgiveness in those last moments? Maybe, if we are lucky and go peacefully lying discarded by old age and neglect. Maybe. Maybe if you are on US1549 and plan your crash on Hudson maybe you have time and then you get a second chance, maybe you are among the blessed ones. Not many are blessed. Hollywood hardly happens in reality.
A pull-hop-slam-buckle up. Nap-bump-rock-bolt-thunder-brakes. He has about half a second to go. And half a second is only half a second long. His last words are lost in the noise of skidding tyres and crashing vehicles and breaking glass and ending lives. He watches the rods come. His last thoughts are forming the words that he will say. He could not complete what he wanted to say. “Oh Shiiiii…”. Half second is over.
Crash. Pain. Lots of pain. Angels and demons. Fatal system error. Shut down.
It is a different bus, not the usual one with comfortable seats, but an old Merc mini that must have carried school children or may be still does. The seats are all cramped and the half an hour ride gives one all sort of aches. No power nap in these seats. The front seat is empty and before long I have pulled open the side door. I hop on the seat by the driver, the only seat where it is comfortable to stretch legs on this mini. Slam the door shut and put on the seat belt, the latter being a condition of employment all signed when joining Schlumberger. Pull-hop-slam-buckle up. Ready for a ride. Few minutes later it is 5:15 in the evening and the driver puts the wheels in motion.
Putting the head next to the window I let the tiredness drain into the metal. It’s comforting, the metal, the mini (with cramped uncomfortable seats at the back), the hold of the seat belt, the slow motion of the mini (still within the company speed limit of 15kmphr inside the premises boundaries, till it hits the highway), all is comforting, the untiring metal takes the tiredness away and sends weights across the eyelids, weights that bring in rest and calm. About 20 yards ahead on the right the cat lurks, next to the exit. A big black giant of a cat, restless in the evening, this evening, just by the corner. The driver hits the radio button gaining my attention for a fraction of the second. It is the usual. Some Russian/Azeri RJ with some English hop/pop/hip/pip/hap/rap. We are at the exit of the company complex. A right, down the narrow stretch for a hundred yards and another right will put us on the road to the city. The black cat is sitting next to the security post on the left. Driver nods and waves a farewell and good night to the security guard, who acknowledges with equivalent gestures and we are on our way. I am half asleep already.
Nearly ten minutes later, a nasty pothole in the road shakes me out of the lazy sleep. This driver has taken the route through the hills, the new highway, not the usual short way around the hills next to the sea. This route is longer but calmer on most days. The driver keeps the vehicle at company’s maximum allowed speed of 80 kmphr (he has signed few conditions of employment as well) but that is not good enough to keep the others on the road behind. Yet, he being the driver of this city (where all drivers are apparently crazy), he drives on left, next to the divider on the road, in the supposedly fast lane. Others have to do the honours and overtake as they wish. No one minds the trouble here. They all are giving their fair share of troubles to others anyways.
I am looking at the dog-shaped hillock in the middle of the lake. It is quite a fascinating piece of rock, carved by rains and seasons in an almost perfect face of a dog, a kind of old and seasoned looking mongrel. A side of the hillock lights up, shining with a natural brilliance.
The driver hits the breaks. He is virtually standing on the brakes. By the time I look straight the steel rods on the trailer in front are two-three meters away. Another second, maybe. Maybe less.
A toddler falling on a heater or a stove (the details are hazy). A fall from the roof top, a fractured bone and a dislocated shoulder (there was pain but he got up, slid into the bed and moaning groaning slept through the night). The cries that stopped the entire market when that desi hakeem tried to put the shoulder back in its socket. An attempt to get one point for Aravali ending up in a twisted ankle (on the other side of both the pole and the vault). Later the ball flying from the hockey stick of an angry forward of some team made it a twisted ankle and a hairline fracture.
A smooth first ride (to the city) on the scooter. A crash into a building on the way back from the city. Spoiled groceries, a crushed big-toe and a lost big-toe nail. A doctor pulling out the other big-toe nail years later (while talking to his wife who is digging into the eyes of some poor soul on the next operating table). Mem letting go of the scooter handle after being surprised by an unnoticed pothole in the streets of Moga. A motorcycle at 100+ on road from Mansa to Sanam, lost control but stayed on wheels. Mostly safe, always surviving.
Father, mother, sister, brother, few wanted relations, plenty unwanted, many friends, few good friends, some lost friends, some forgotten friends, a love on the sidewalks. A first school, a second school, an only college, a first job, a second job, the last job. Kabirpur, Sultanpur Lodhi, Kapurthala, Chandigarh, Delhi, Pune, Bombay, Perth, flight to Dubai and to Baku, a taxi ride to Salyan highway. A day spent like any other. An evening like any other. A pull-hop-slam-buckle up. The cat walking across from the right to left as gracefully as a tiger. The pothole and a bump. The rock in the lake such perfectly carved, the trailer overtakes the Merc mini like all the others. The sad and slow clouds bursting apart to give a blow to the mountains. That natural brilliance on the dog-rock. The bolt of lightning hitting up ahead on the roads. A push on a break in panic up ahead on the road. Many breaks behind it. The thunder following the bolt, drowning all sounds. The trailer in front out of motion that instant, a dead stop. The driver standing on the brakes of Merc mini. Steel rods two three meters ahead of the comfortable seat. A well fastened seat-belt. A second, maybe. Maybe less.
Does life flashes by in that last moment? Do we remember the pains and joys and loved ones and hated ones and forgive and ask for forgiveness in those last moments? Maybe, if we are lucky and go peacefully lying discarded by old age and neglect. Maybe. Maybe if you are on US1549 and plan your crash on Hudson maybe you have time and then you get a second chance, maybe you are among the blessed ones. Not many are blessed. Hollywood hardly happens in reality.
A pull-hop-slam-buckle up. Nap-bump-rock-bolt-thunder-brakes. He has about half a second to go. And half a second is only half a second long. His last words are lost in the noise of skidding tyres and crashing vehicles and breaking glass and ending lives. He watches the rods come. His last thoughts are forming the words that he will say. He could not complete what he wanted to say. “Oh Shiiiii…”. Half second is over.
Crash. Pain. Lots of pain. Angels and demons. Fatal system error. Shut down.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Talking Letters - 2
Dear Baku,
When the driving coordinator tells you the bus will pick you up at Majakia, when the drivers tell you the pick-up is from Majakia, you go looking for Majakia. It’s a good thing that there are other colleagues who wait at that bus stop. And once you know where that place is you know where you need to go the next day, every day. But still one keeps looking for Majakia. Just to make sure. Few days pass. You haven’t found it yet. You go to the driving coordinator’s office for some work and read the bus schedule and, hence, a name on the board. Next morning there is no difficulty locating ‘mothercare’. Acha majak kiya. Khoob maja kiya. mothercare. Majakiya.
On ‘five parallel’ just behind the building where I stay there is a meat shop. Early morning (when I cross) they, on few days, have a bull there. They are in the process of making it one big piece of beef. But what bloody crude way? They tie the legs with four ropes at four distant poles and that’s about it, out come the blades. Where are your butcheries?
You know my views on the beauty of the women that walk your streets. The more I say the less it seems. What about the men? Let’s talk about their stupidity. Was it just to compensate for the extra portion of beauty in one half, the other half had to lose out on their share of brains? At least half of the men just stand in front of their buildings all day long. Doing what? You should know better. This is what they do in the flights. They are sitting, all calm and ready for the flight to take off. As the stewardess’ are in their seats the smart guys take out their phones. As we hit the runways they are texting, talking on the phones and stay on phone till the signal let them be. And same story while landing. As the lights are switched off for landing the phones are out. And as the wheels touch the runaway half of them are out of their seats trying to get their luggage from overhead cabins and running towards the door. Poor stewardesses have to shout through the PA, on an occasion in fact one left her seat and started pushing these four time bigger men back into their seats. And those who are not running to find their luggage when the wheels touch the gravel, just when they feel that they can’t crash now and are safe they let out the breath they have held for last three hours since we took off, breathe some air in and start clapping. Pilots would love to come here. Rarely are they applauded anywhere else. I guess it’s not the men’s fault. Staying among your beauties it’s not that hard to lose whatever mind you have in the first place.
By the way, I thought Baki was your girlfriend’s name. But that’s what they call you in your language.
Found about the lucky child who got some 20,000 Azeri Manats this Novruz. Lucky fella, nine millionth citizen of your country. Well planned sex can bear some good results.
The girl who sits opposite in the office shares her name with the first lady. Mekhriban, Mehriban. One with k and one without, though it’s silent. Karan Johar would like that. Grateful, that’s what Mekhriban said mekhriban means. Well I am not sure about others but I am grateful that every time I look up from my laptop screen there is a beautiful face to behold. There will be a break from that routine now. I am off to Perth for a month. Keep the beauties safe and I will be back by the time spring turns into summers. They tell me summers give the fairer sex here a better chance to express themselves. We shall see.
Time to cook some dinner my friend.
Narayan Desai (T)
When the driving coordinator tells you the bus will pick you up at Majakia, when the drivers tell you the pick-up is from Majakia, you go looking for Majakia. It’s a good thing that there are other colleagues who wait at that bus stop. And once you know where that place is you know where you need to go the next day, every day. But still one keeps looking for Majakia. Just to make sure. Few days pass. You haven’t found it yet. You go to the driving coordinator’s office for some work and read the bus schedule and, hence, a name on the board. Next morning there is no difficulty locating ‘mothercare’. Acha majak kiya. Khoob maja kiya. mothercare. Majakiya.
On ‘five parallel’ just behind the building where I stay there is a meat shop. Early morning (when I cross) they, on few days, have a bull there. They are in the process of making it one big piece of beef. But what bloody crude way? They tie the legs with four ropes at four distant poles and that’s about it, out come the blades. Where are your butcheries?
You know my views on the beauty of the women that walk your streets. The more I say the less it seems. What about the men? Let’s talk about their stupidity. Was it just to compensate for the extra portion of beauty in one half, the other half had to lose out on their share of brains? At least half of the men just stand in front of their buildings all day long. Doing what? You should know better. This is what they do in the flights. They are sitting, all calm and ready for the flight to take off. As the stewardess’ are in their seats the smart guys take out their phones. As we hit the runways they are texting, talking on the phones and stay on phone till the signal let them be. And same story while landing. As the lights are switched off for landing the phones are out. And as the wheels touch the runaway half of them are out of their seats trying to get their luggage from overhead cabins and running towards the door. Poor stewardesses have to shout through the PA, on an occasion in fact one left her seat and started pushing these four time bigger men back into their seats. And those who are not running to find their luggage when the wheels touch the gravel, just when they feel that they can’t crash now and are safe they let out the breath they have held for last three hours since we took off, breathe some air in and start clapping. Pilots would love to come here. Rarely are they applauded anywhere else. I guess it’s not the men’s fault. Staying among your beauties it’s not that hard to lose whatever mind you have in the first place.
By the way, I thought Baki was your girlfriend’s name. But that’s what they call you in your language.
Found about the lucky child who got some 20,000 Azeri Manats this Novruz. Lucky fella, nine millionth citizen of your country. Well planned sex can bear some good results.
The girl who sits opposite in the office shares her name with the first lady. Mekhriban, Mehriban. One with k and one without, though it’s silent. Karan Johar would like that. Grateful, that’s what Mekhriban said mekhriban means. Well I am not sure about others but I am grateful that every time I look up from my laptop screen there is a beautiful face to behold. There will be a break from that routine now. I am off to Perth for a month. Keep the beauties safe and I will be back by the time spring turns into summers. They tell me summers give the fairer sex here a better chance to express themselves. We shall see.
Time to cook some dinner my friend.
Narayan Desai (T)
Monday, April 05, 2010
such person such zone
Return to sender, address unknown.
No such person, no such zone.
No such person, no such zone.
Sing it.
Return to sender, address unknown.
No such person, no such zone.
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.
With a little more heart, with a little more start.
Return to senderr, address unknownnnnnn.
No such personn, no such zo----ne.
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.
Sing it for yourself and sing it for the love.
Return to sender, address unknown.
No such person, no such zone.
No such person, no such zone.
Accepted gift. Discarded beef in kitchen sink.
Sing it as a whole and sing it for your soul.
Sing it as a whole and sing it for your soul.
Return to sender, address unknown.
No such person, no such zone.
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.
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.
Saturday, April 03, 2010
Nightmares
It was the final presentation for their final year project. They (he and his project partner, MK) had wrapped up the project somehow, not so accurately and not with the correct means but good enough to print and present. Now he was standing between the library and main building waiting for MK. It was slightly odd the way things were happening since he left the hostel for this presentation. He had fallen and nearly rolled down the road after crossing the SAC roundabout and just about managed to come up the incline with all his energy spent by the time he had crossed the sick bay. After a struggle he had reached here and was now waiting for MK. The hard bound, gold embossed final project report was like a weight in his hands. It was pulling him down. The weight was growing with every passing moment till he could no longer bear it. He had to sit down. Walking towards wind tunnel he sat on the side of the computer centre and let the weight fall beside him. There wasn’t much relief. That feeling of being dragged down by that black and golden weight remained.
Usually sitting here was a breather worth the value if not more than the missed lectures but today the place was not healing him. He didn’t get better, the feeling of tiredness in his mind and the feeling of numbness and heaviness in the body grew. Surprisingly, there was no air blowing, not a slight breeze through the wind tunnel. The usual humdrum of life didn’t reach his ears. People were walking by carrying there black and gold weights in their hands and they were all carrying heavy weights, the bodies were being dragged along at the expense of all possible efforts. It was quiet. A quiet full of heaviness, of gravity exceeding the gravity. Things were moving but not with freewill.
Finally, MK appeared at his side. He seemed refreshed. Had two coffees in his hands. Four rupees each to carry them through the final lap of this race. He handed sardar a cup of coffee and sat down and when the recently married girl from their batch crossed, with chooda and hina still gracing her arms, MK had something to talk on for next ten minutes. MK spoke but the sound seemed far away from sardar. He could hear the voice but in strange whispers. Like a bad transmission. Slow, shrieky, sharp, and sad. After a while MK did remember that they were yet to go through the slides and immediately picked up the slides and started proving to the world that this is how the world can run engines better, not even one percent convinced himself. And then it was time.
MK got up and moved towards the wind tunnel. Sardar tried to pick up the black and gold weight but it seemed an effort. He struggled but could not. He tried to raise himself but the weight dragged him down. MK looked back after reaching wind tunnel and found sardar sitting where he had left him. He walked back with a concern on his face. When he was discussing the slides he had seen sardar distracted as if something was troubling his head. When MK got to him sardar raised his arm and MK pulled him up. MK picked up the final report and slides and they started walking.
The gust of wind threw him off his feet, sending him down on his fours. It had caught him unawares after such a windless day, yet the world around him was unaffected. When he got grip of himself he saw everyone else moving on, as if nothing had happened. MK stood by surprised but with an extended arm to raise him up once again. He was saying something. But it was distant. Sardar could not hear him. It should have worried him, he should have told MK that something was wrong but they had to do this. Finish this last hurdle. He was more alert for wind this time. He held on to MK’s arm. As he stepped under the wind tunnel the blow hit him again. He gripped MK’s arm harder, half hidden behind him. Nobody else seemed to notice the wind. MK continued to move forward and slowly sardar dragged himself out of the wind tunnel and out of the wind and then they were climbing the stairs next to engines lab. The presentation was next to department head’s office, first floor, second block.
They had reached the room and were waiting for the group ahead of them to finish. Another five minutes to go before their turn. Their project guide came and gave his final advice and encouragement. Why was it so quiet? Even when their guide talked sardar felt the world quiet, the guide’s voice was not like MK’s voice. It was not distant. It existed somewhere but it did not come to existence through sardar’s ears. Sardar could notice how the words were forming from the guide’s mouth, his lips were curling and giving the words shapes for sardar. He felt afraid. He should tell them, tell MK and his guide something was wrong, but what? And they had to get this project through today, if not tomorrow maybe too late. The apparatus didn’t work and they were lucky the evaluators had not come to check and confirm their experimental readings. Everyone had believed them with their results. So far. He had to do it and it had to be done now.
And then the door to the presentation room opened. Two of his batch mates came out with blood dripping from their eyes. They had wings of birds in their hands, wings bound in black and black embossed in gold. And then came a white man with a black name and red horns and then came short man with long tail, and there came a fat man with thin legs and there was a tiny little thin lady professor with her hair touching the floor and then came the sound of children crying and there came the sound of girls laughing and then came the sound of hammers and horns and there was a horse and elephant and birds and the door was still only opening and all wanted to come out and all wanted to come to him. The girl with choora and hina on her arms, the recently married batch mate crossed by and he felt MK’s pull on his arm. They were getting late and the professors inside the room were looking at him and the door was open and MK had setup the slides and he could see the title of their project and their names on the white sheet. And the rest of them, all of them that he had just heard and seen had left and it was him and MK and professors and slides and projector, and black and gold weight. MK gave another pull on his arm and slowly they moved in. The door closed on them, on him.
MK started speaking. It was the same shrill in his voice, a distant cry. Eeeeennnggggiiiinnnnnnnnee. DDDDDiiiiiiiiieeeeeessssssseeelllllllllllllllllllllll. The words reached sardar and caught him and shook him, trying to wake him from the slumber he was falling into. MK continued on, as was the plan he went ahead with the first ten slides. Ten as sardar could see the slides come and go. With every changing slide he wanted to say one, say two, say three and count till his turn came, say those words so that he can find the sound of his words, listen to them but nothing came and then it was ten on the projector and ten in his head and he knew that he had to find words and somehow speak them and tell the professors all about his project. Now it was eleven. MK moved aside. He was looking at him. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten. It was eleven now. He had counted the numbers of the passing slides in his head. He had tried to say the words to find his voice. He had tried but the tongue did not lift from the bottom, never twisted, didn’t touch the top of month, the lips didn’t find the shape they were meant to find, the air did not turn into the waves of sound it was meant to be and none of the eardrums felt the words that were to make them turn and turn and turn and thus make them part of the sharing, of the forming and of the listening, hearing, fading away of the sounds. And it was eleven and MK had moved aside and sardar had to say something. Something. Engine, diesel, piston, area, efficiency. Something. Direct, indirect, air, fuel, intake, combustion, power, exhaust. Something. Say say say say something. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. The seconds were coming and seconds were going. Seconds that don’t need tongues and lips and sound and ears to make and break themselves. The seconds were ticking, he could hear the ticks in his head, clear and distinct. No shrillness in ticking, it was a clear sound, one, two, three, all formed individually with unique identities. And then it was eleven. And then the slide on the projector was for him. And then it was eleven, the passing second. And then it was a minute.
Ssssssppppppeeeeeaaaaaakkkkkkkk. Along with the ticking of seconds he could hear a sound. It was saying ssssssspppppppeeeeeeaaaaaaakkkkkkk. A command, an appeal, a request, a threat. Ssssssspppppppeeeeeaaaaakkkkkkkk. He raised his head. MK’s lips were forming that sound. There was it, in his eyes, the anger, frustration, surprise, and fear. Sardar knew he had to lift himself out of this weight, the weight of the golden words, the weight of the winds, the weight of the sounds, and the weight of existence. He was in the corner. He gathered all his remaining energy and tried to make his tongue move. All he could do was look MK in the eyes and make his head move. A negative. That was all he had in him. A nod, a nod in negative. The nod saying he can’t do it, the nod saying it’s you or nobody, the nod saying help him, the nod saying that it’s only MK who can open those closed doors. And then his head fell. And then MK took over.
It was eleven and then twelve and shortly it was twenty and then it was the end, the end of the presentation. There were questions which MK answered, the professors had looked concerned but the department head made them move on. This has to be finished. And then the others appeared. With their projects and slides, and black and golden books. MK in his slow forming words told sardar that he has to answer few questions on the project only then the evaluation of the project will finish. Only then yyyoooouuuuuu will pass. And people kept coming in and going out through the closed door. The door never opened but they kept coming in and going out. Then it was over, the last of the presentations. It was time for him to answer the questions.
MK helped him up, and he was standing next to the projector. One of the professors said something and MK put a slide up. The professor’s lips moved. Here was it. The question for sardar, to take him through to the finish line. He had to catch the question and walk along with his answer to the finish line and then that would be it. He would be a graduate. End of the race. The professor looked at him. He tried the same lip movement again. Probably repeating the question for him. Sardar could not hear him and MK didn’t repeat the question for him else he might have heard it, slowly word by shrieking word and he could not tell this to MK and he could not find his voice and then they started leaving, one by one, all the professors were gone. His guide came to him and said something. He had a worried look in his eyes but those eyes seemed to say I tried, I did, and I have done so much already to keep you in this college, can’t help you get out of it, this you will have to do. It was his eyes and then the eyes were not there. His guide went out through the closed doors. MK was still there. Collecting the slides and the remains of the project. And then the dark took over.
As life came back to sardar’s limbs he tried to move. MK was still there trying to raise him to his feet and to take him to the hostel. He lifted him and moved towards the door. Sardar saw that the door was closed but MK kept moving. Sardar wanted to tell him that open the door first, you are walking into a closed door. The words never came to him and MK kept walking through the closed door. He was half out, completely out and as sardar reached the door MK felt the impact. Sardar was lying on the floor. He had hit something and fell. MK could not understand. He went back inside and tried to drag sardar out but he could not, sardar’s body did not cross the door. It has been a tough day on him and he was also beginning to feel the tiredness. He sat for a while on one of the chairs in the room and then he went to look for some food and help.
It was dark. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes into hours. Sardar lay there. The evening dissolved into night and night gave way to day. The day turned into night again and so on it continued for him. As the day would rise he could see the light come in through the door slits, through windows and with night the dark would take him in. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months, he lost conscious, came back to it and lost it again. Yet the words for help never came to his lips. He was lying in the corner of the room, behind the closed doors. He could not move and he could not shout and the help never came. There were attempts to open the door. Some distant sounds reached him every now and then. He had felt that there was someone trying to open that door, sound of friends initially, probably sound of someone from his family later on but the doors never opened. The cycle of dark and light kept on and May turned into June and June turned into July.
July was the month he was to join his job. He was trying to say that someone should help him, let him out he had to join the job, he had to travel to another city, his days in this place are over. The help never came. It was mid of July and the corridors outside starting teaming with life. His shouts never came out of his throat. Noone came inside the closed doors. It was end of July. He was to get his first pay-cheque from the job he would have joined, the salary that was much needed. He cried but the tears never came, he needed the salary. His family needed it. He had the responsibilities of the loans to be paid back, of the tuition fees and the admission forms required but the words, the tears, the cries had all deserted him. August came and yet he lay there. Then there was the second weekend of the August. There was that weekend arriving, an unusual Friday passing, a Friday with more life than usual. All his batch and all the staff were out there rehearsing for the big event and then the light went out of the doors and it was night. Darkness.
The light from the windows woke him. He was alive but how and why he didn’t know. The light came to him today just like it had done every day for last three months. It was a weekend, the quiet and calm life of a weekend morning. And then he heard the bells. He heard the bells clearly. Unlike the sounds he had heard these last few months. The bell’s ringing was clearer. The ship was reaching an island. They had reached their destination. A batch of passengers was ready to disembark after their long journey. He was meant to be one of them, member of that cruise that lasted four years, he was meant to be a part of the celebrations. It was their graduation day. The graduation bells were ringing. They were calling him to life.
The bells went on. Unlike the graduation bells which sounded only for a minute, these bells went on. Then he saw the light, the bright glow of the light coming through the white curtains and glass panes. His eyes slowly took in the place and his ears heard clearly. A fire engine was close by and the lights of the city were coming in through the window. He was where he had slept, on the same bed and inside the same four walls where he has been sleeping for last three months. He came back slowly to his existence. Slowly the light glowing from the curtained glasses and glow of the city brought him back to the real world of quiet and emptiness, of an existence which he wasn’t sure off. He looked around and the door was closed. He was still behind a closed door.
He could not decide which of the nightmares was worse.
Usually sitting here was a breather worth the value if not more than the missed lectures but today the place was not healing him. He didn’t get better, the feeling of tiredness in his mind and the feeling of numbness and heaviness in the body grew. Surprisingly, there was no air blowing, not a slight breeze through the wind tunnel. The usual humdrum of life didn’t reach his ears. People were walking by carrying there black and gold weights in their hands and they were all carrying heavy weights, the bodies were being dragged along at the expense of all possible efforts. It was quiet. A quiet full of heaviness, of gravity exceeding the gravity. Things were moving but not with freewill.
Finally, MK appeared at his side. He seemed refreshed. Had two coffees in his hands. Four rupees each to carry them through the final lap of this race. He handed sardar a cup of coffee and sat down and when the recently married girl from their batch crossed, with chooda and hina still gracing her arms, MK had something to talk on for next ten minutes. MK spoke but the sound seemed far away from sardar. He could hear the voice but in strange whispers. Like a bad transmission. Slow, shrieky, sharp, and sad. After a while MK did remember that they were yet to go through the slides and immediately picked up the slides and started proving to the world that this is how the world can run engines better, not even one percent convinced himself. And then it was time.
MK got up and moved towards the wind tunnel. Sardar tried to pick up the black and gold weight but it seemed an effort. He struggled but could not. He tried to raise himself but the weight dragged him down. MK looked back after reaching wind tunnel and found sardar sitting where he had left him. He walked back with a concern on his face. When he was discussing the slides he had seen sardar distracted as if something was troubling his head. When MK got to him sardar raised his arm and MK pulled him up. MK picked up the final report and slides and they started walking.
The gust of wind threw him off his feet, sending him down on his fours. It had caught him unawares after such a windless day, yet the world around him was unaffected. When he got grip of himself he saw everyone else moving on, as if nothing had happened. MK stood by surprised but with an extended arm to raise him up once again. He was saying something. But it was distant. Sardar could not hear him. It should have worried him, he should have told MK that something was wrong but they had to do this. Finish this last hurdle. He was more alert for wind this time. He held on to MK’s arm. As he stepped under the wind tunnel the blow hit him again. He gripped MK’s arm harder, half hidden behind him. Nobody else seemed to notice the wind. MK continued to move forward and slowly sardar dragged himself out of the wind tunnel and out of the wind and then they were climbing the stairs next to engines lab. The presentation was next to department head’s office, first floor, second block.
They had reached the room and were waiting for the group ahead of them to finish. Another five minutes to go before their turn. Their project guide came and gave his final advice and encouragement. Why was it so quiet? Even when their guide talked sardar felt the world quiet, the guide’s voice was not like MK’s voice. It was not distant. It existed somewhere but it did not come to existence through sardar’s ears. Sardar could notice how the words were forming from the guide’s mouth, his lips were curling and giving the words shapes for sardar. He felt afraid. He should tell them, tell MK and his guide something was wrong, but what? And they had to get this project through today, if not tomorrow maybe too late. The apparatus didn’t work and they were lucky the evaluators had not come to check and confirm their experimental readings. Everyone had believed them with their results. So far. He had to do it and it had to be done now.
And then the door to the presentation room opened. Two of his batch mates came out with blood dripping from their eyes. They had wings of birds in their hands, wings bound in black and black embossed in gold. And then came a white man with a black name and red horns and then came short man with long tail, and there came a fat man with thin legs and there was a tiny little thin lady professor with her hair touching the floor and then came the sound of children crying and there came the sound of girls laughing and then came the sound of hammers and horns and there was a horse and elephant and birds and the door was still only opening and all wanted to come out and all wanted to come to him. The girl with choora and hina on her arms, the recently married batch mate crossed by and he felt MK’s pull on his arm. They were getting late and the professors inside the room were looking at him and the door was open and MK had setup the slides and he could see the title of their project and their names on the white sheet. And the rest of them, all of them that he had just heard and seen had left and it was him and MK and professors and slides and projector, and black and gold weight. MK gave another pull on his arm and slowly they moved in. The door closed on them, on him.
MK started speaking. It was the same shrill in his voice, a distant cry. Eeeeennnggggiiiinnnnnnnnee. DDDDDiiiiiiiiieeeeeessssssseeelllllllllllllllllllllll. The words reached sardar and caught him and shook him, trying to wake him from the slumber he was falling into. MK continued on, as was the plan he went ahead with the first ten slides. Ten as sardar could see the slides come and go. With every changing slide he wanted to say one, say two, say three and count till his turn came, say those words so that he can find the sound of his words, listen to them but nothing came and then it was ten on the projector and ten in his head and he knew that he had to find words and somehow speak them and tell the professors all about his project. Now it was eleven. MK moved aside. He was looking at him. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten. It was eleven now. He had counted the numbers of the passing slides in his head. He had tried to say the words to find his voice. He had tried but the tongue did not lift from the bottom, never twisted, didn’t touch the top of month, the lips didn’t find the shape they were meant to find, the air did not turn into the waves of sound it was meant to be and none of the eardrums felt the words that were to make them turn and turn and turn and thus make them part of the sharing, of the forming and of the listening, hearing, fading away of the sounds. And it was eleven and MK had moved aside and sardar had to say something. Something. Engine, diesel, piston, area, efficiency. Something. Direct, indirect, air, fuel, intake, combustion, power, exhaust. Something. Say say say say something. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. The seconds were coming and seconds were going. Seconds that don’t need tongues and lips and sound and ears to make and break themselves. The seconds were ticking, he could hear the ticks in his head, clear and distinct. No shrillness in ticking, it was a clear sound, one, two, three, all formed individually with unique identities. And then it was eleven. And then the slide on the projector was for him. And then it was eleven, the passing second. And then it was a minute.
Ssssssppppppeeeeeaaaaaakkkkkkkk. Along with the ticking of seconds he could hear a sound. It was saying ssssssspppppppeeeeeeaaaaaaakkkkkkk. A command, an appeal, a request, a threat. Ssssssspppppppeeeeeaaaaakkkkkkkk. He raised his head. MK’s lips were forming that sound. There was it, in his eyes, the anger, frustration, surprise, and fear. Sardar knew he had to lift himself out of this weight, the weight of the golden words, the weight of the winds, the weight of the sounds, and the weight of existence. He was in the corner. He gathered all his remaining energy and tried to make his tongue move. All he could do was look MK in the eyes and make his head move. A negative. That was all he had in him. A nod, a nod in negative. The nod saying he can’t do it, the nod saying it’s you or nobody, the nod saying help him, the nod saying that it’s only MK who can open those closed doors. And then his head fell. And then MK took over.
It was eleven and then twelve and shortly it was twenty and then it was the end, the end of the presentation. There were questions which MK answered, the professors had looked concerned but the department head made them move on. This has to be finished. And then the others appeared. With their projects and slides, and black and golden books. MK in his slow forming words told sardar that he has to answer few questions on the project only then the evaluation of the project will finish. Only then yyyoooouuuuuu will pass. And people kept coming in and going out through the closed door. The door never opened but they kept coming in and going out. Then it was over, the last of the presentations. It was time for him to answer the questions.
MK helped him up, and he was standing next to the projector. One of the professors said something and MK put a slide up. The professor’s lips moved. Here was it. The question for sardar, to take him through to the finish line. He had to catch the question and walk along with his answer to the finish line and then that would be it. He would be a graduate. End of the race. The professor looked at him. He tried the same lip movement again. Probably repeating the question for him. Sardar could not hear him and MK didn’t repeat the question for him else he might have heard it, slowly word by shrieking word and he could not tell this to MK and he could not find his voice and then they started leaving, one by one, all the professors were gone. His guide came to him and said something. He had a worried look in his eyes but those eyes seemed to say I tried, I did, and I have done so much already to keep you in this college, can’t help you get out of it, this you will have to do. It was his eyes and then the eyes were not there. His guide went out through the closed doors. MK was still there. Collecting the slides and the remains of the project. And then the dark took over.
As life came back to sardar’s limbs he tried to move. MK was still there trying to raise him to his feet and to take him to the hostel. He lifted him and moved towards the door. Sardar saw that the door was closed but MK kept moving. Sardar wanted to tell him that open the door first, you are walking into a closed door. The words never came to him and MK kept walking through the closed door. He was half out, completely out and as sardar reached the door MK felt the impact. Sardar was lying on the floor. He had hit something and fell. MK could not understand. He went back inside and tried to drag sardar out but he could not, sardar’s body did not cross the door. It has been a tough day on him and he was also beginning to feel the tiredness. He sat for a while on one of the chairs in the room and then he went to look for some food and help.
It was dark. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes into hours. Sardar lay there. The evening dissolved into night and night gave way to day. The day turned into night again and so on it continued for him. As the day would rise he could see the light come in through the door slits, through windows and with night the dark would take him in. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months, he lost conscious, came back to it and lost it again. Yet the words for help never came to his lips. He was lying in the corner of the room, behind the closed doors. He could not move and he could not shout and the help never came. There were attempts to open the door. Some distant sounds reached him every now and then. He had felt that there was someone trying to open that door, sound of friends initially, probably sound of someone from his family later on but the doors never opened. The cycle of dark and light kept on and May turned into June and June turned into July.
July was the month he was to join his job. He was trying to say that someone should help him, let him out he had to join the job, he had to travel to another city, his days in this place are over. The help never came. It was mid of July and the corridors outside starting teaming with life. His shouts never came out of his throat. Noone came inside the closed doors. It was end of July. He was to get his first pay-cheque from the job he would have joined, the salary that was much needed. He cried but the tears never came, he needed the salary. His family needed it. He had the responsibilities of the loans to be paid back, of the tuition fees and the admission forms required but the words, the tears, the cries had all deserted him. August came and yet he lay there. Then there was the second weekend of the August. There was that weekend arriving, an unusual Friday passing, a Friday with more life than usual. All his batch and all the staff were out there rehearsing for the big event and then the light went out of the doors and it was night. Darkness.
The light from the windows woke him. He was alive but how and why he didn’t know. The light came to him today just like it had done every day for last three months. It was a weekend, the quiet and calm life of a weekend morning. And then he heard the bells. He heard the bells clearly. Unlike the sounds he had heard these last few months. The bell’s ringing was clearer. The ship was reaching an island. They had reached their destination. A batch of passengers was ready to disembark after their long journey. He was meant to be one of them, member of that cruise that lasted four years, he was meant to be a part of the celebrations. It was their graduation day. The graduation bells were ringing. They were calling him to life.
The bells went on. Unlike the graduation bells which sounded only for a minute, these bells went on. Then he saw the light, the bright glow of the light coming through the white curtains and glass panes. His eyes slowly took in the place and his ears heard clearly. A fire engine was close by and the lights of the city were coming in through the window. He was where he had slept, on the same bed and inside the same four walls where he has been sleeping for last three months. He came back slowly to his existence. Slowly the light glowing from the curtained glasses and glow of the city brought him back to the real world of quiet and emptiness, of an existence which he wasn’t sure off. He looked around and the door was closed. He was still behind a closed door.
He could not decide which of the nightmares was worse.
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