Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that you only meant well? Well, of course you did.
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that it's all for the best? Ah of course it is.
“Who was driving?”
The universe skipped a heartbeat. The skies spun in agony. The mountains lay heavy with grief.
For a moment, the players felt their souls contract…an involuntary twitch of the eye…a sudden desire to scream…an inexplicable clench of the fist…a wish to collapse. When one of the naturals leaves us, we all feel it. Even if we do not know.
And then... she was on her way.
She checked into a nearby inn first. Anything to postpone the moment when she would go and see him. Alone. And now she looked down at the pine needles and wondered whether she could even build those walls again… well, of course she could! A few days cannot change that much… can they? She did not owe them anything. She could leave enough money at the clinic to make sure they did all they could, and go back to Delhi, to her work, to her safe life. Even as she thought it, she knew she would never be able to leave without seeing him. And she knew she had lost…
A clinic.
A door.
A room.
A bed.
A broken man.
He lay there, unconscious, and she was defeated by her own love. She stayed there for hours, just sitting. She did not look at him. She did not cry. She simply stayed.
The caretaker had accompanied her. He was the one who made arrangements for the funeral. She told him that there was no one they needed to contact immediately. The older man had told her that his wife had walked out on them years ago and they had had no word from her ever since. The two of them had spoken proudly about how self-sufficient they were as a unit, with no family to speak of, in the country. She and the caretaker attended the funeral and she carried the ashes back to her room in an earthen pot that the cremation ground authorities had given her.
He woke up two days later. They did not have to tell him. He already knew. He held her hand and had the bland soup concocted by the clinic’s cook without a fuss. She asked him no questions, and he gave her no answers. The next morning brought her tears. She cried over her breakfast, and went for a walk. She did not want him to see her red-rimmed eyes. By the time she reached him it was early afternoon. That evening, he sent her back early, saying he was tired. He did not want her to see him cry. She went without a murmur. She had sensed tears all day, and thought they were her own. When he requested an early night, she realized they were his.
Neither of them seemed to be able to bring up the death that lay like a heavy fog over them in their waking hours. They would clasp their hands together and spend their time quietly. She rationalized the lack of conversation, reassuring herself that they were healing through silence, and through touch.
A few days and many walks later, the doctor had a few words with her, “You need to cheer him up a bit. He’s physically quite all right now but he’s still very depressed. Some music, some books maybe…”
The doctor had noticed something about his patient that she had not. He was not healing at all. He was wasting away in the silence.
He awoke to Fool’s Garden the next morning.
"I wonder how, I wonder why
Yesterday you told me about the blue, blue sky
And all that I can see is just a yellow lemon tree"
He groaned, “That’s the most meaningless song in the world. You’ve given me a headache early in the morning, thanks a ton.”
“What? I love this song! It’s such a classic.”
“Crap. What is it even supposed to mean? ‘All that I can see is just another lemon tree.’ How pointless.”
“That’s the point, silly. The absurdity of life and all of that.”
He laughed, “I’m sure that’s the last thing they were thinking about when they wrote the song. Germans should stick to beer. They were probably sloshed when they came up with these lyrics anyway.”
It was the first time he had laughed in the week that he had been conscious. She had not expected success so easily. Just goes to show, she thought wryly, how we complicate matters far more than we need to. She laughed at his grimaces, and let the song play till the end. Then she opened the newspaper. “We’ve been cocooned in here way too long, right?” And she read out articles that she thought would interest him. Politics, the latest movies, George Bush’s latest antics, a new study that ‘revealed’ that loud noises are distracting (“like you need a billion dollar grant to figure that out...these Americans are crazy!”), the Balkan situation, Indo-Chinese bilateral trade agreements… After lunch, they both rested a while. Come evening and she popped in an album of Punjabi remixes and imitated one of the singers right down to the last detail. He laughed till he was exhausted, and she went back to the guesthouse still humming the catchy tune.
She took the urn to him a few days later. He held it in his hands as he lay on the bed. He stared out of the window for a few minutes and then put the urn down next to the bed. They held each other and he wept as she stroked his hair, saying nothing. He cried for a long time and she felt him trembling with the loss.
Then they talked. They celebrated his life, and they grieved his passing. They were angry at the unfairness of it all, and they were reconciled to the unpredictability of events. They missed his presence, and they felt his presence. They cried at losing him, and they laughed with his memories. They asked destiny a thousand questions, and they made their peace with kismat.
She took him back to the guesthouse a few days later. They sat on the porch till late that night, drinking their wine and looking at the clear sky.
The taxi to Delhi arrived the next morning. The caretaker blessed them both and she was grateful. Gusts of wind whipped her short hair around as they loaded their suitcases into the boot. She looked around one last time, before getting into the car. As she saw the guesthouse and the old caretaker, and the densely vegetated landscape that surrounded them, she felt an ache so strong that it was almost physically palpable. She felt vulnerable once again, frail in the face of the mighty mountains and the fierce wind.
And she laughed. Because she knew she had won.
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that you only meant well? Well, of course you did.
Mmm, what you say?
Mm, that it's all for the best? Ah of course it is.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Hide and Seek- the Third
Oily marks appear on walls
Where pleasure moments hung before
The takeover, the sweeping insensitivity...
Hide and seek
Now, she pushed herself up, trying to find traces of that day in the air, breathing in purposefully. In vain. The harsh afternoon sunrays hurt her eyes when she tried to look up at the clear skies. She bent her head forward to shelter behind the curtain of her long, straight hair. But no reassuring curtain fell in front of her eyes. Of course. They had robbed her of that as well…
“You should cut your hair.” the younger man was lounging on the bed in her room. He twinkled at her mischievously, almost looking like a boy.
“No.” she said firmly, well aware of the fact that he was well aware of the fact that she had hair- tampering phobia.
“Seriously!” he said, “It will give you a whole new look. Come on! You know it’s a silly, baseless fear. Why not?”
“Ha!” she said, for lack of a better retort.
“Couldn’t think of anything else to say, na?” he said knowingly.
She threw a cushion at him, “Certainly not. I don’t need to justify my reservations to you anyway. So give it up!”
He threw the cushion back at her, “Hey dad, help me convince her!”
“Sort it out kids.” his father said distractedly, absorbed in the book he was reading.
“Kids!?” the two of them shrieked and two cushions flew towards the offender.
“Ouch! What?” and he looked up, annoyed.
“Hey dad give her a haircut” and “Your worthless offspring is irritating me” were said simultaneously.
She turned to the younger man, “Did you just ask your father to cut my hair?”
He spoke at the same time, “Did you just call me worthless?”
“All right, break it up,” the older man put his book away, “yes, she did call you worthless, my progeny, as you undoubtedly are. And yes, I am going to cut your hair.”
Outrage from both sectors at this controversial statement. She started to giggle soon enough till she realized he was serious about his intentions regarding her hair.
“You don’t even know how to! What are you, a CEO who works weekends at the local parlour?”
“Don’t be daft. I was in the army.”
“The army?” incredulously.
“Yes, in addition to my military duties, I gave about a hundred haircuts a month. My own unit."
“Where did you serve? And how come you’re out now? You’re not old enough to have 'retired with distinction…' ”
“Israeli Army. Gulf War.”
“What?! But you’re Indian!”
“Yes… I was working there actually. When the Gulf War began, the government resorted to emergency recruitment. Almost all foreigners working in the country had to sign up. I signed up before they forced me to. I managed to get back to India a while after the war began. Managed to see a considerable amount of fighting before I left though.”
“But-but-“ she spluttered. Then she stopped short; a sneaking suspicion that he was joking occurred to her. She studied his face- he was dead serious. No, he was not fooling her. “But that’s ridiculous.” she finished weakly.
“Tell me about it.”
“It was not even your war. Not even your country!”
“Yes. Though I wonder if that would have made it considerably better.”
She paused, thinking about that and the ex-soldier’s son took the opportunity to stick his head out of the window and shout for a pair of scissors, which were promptly delivered by the gnarly caretaker. Her attention came back to the matter at hand.
“No haircut!” she squealed.
“Yes haircut. You need a new look young lady. Do not argue with your elders.” his mock anger was totally ineffective.
“I’m not some Israeli soldier! I’m a woman! In Delhi! In peacetime!!”
“I gave haircuts to a couple of women too. There are women in the Israeli army too you know. And trust me, you don’t trifle with the tresses of women who have loaded guns on them. Since I am alive and well, you can safely assume that my handiwork was not too bad. Not bad at all, if I may say so myself.” and he gave them a little bow.
A last ditch attempt to run out of her room…the doorway was blocked by the younger man…
That was how she wound up sitting in a chair an hour later, feeling naked. There were huge clumps of lifeless hair lying all around her on the floor.
Long, apprehensive space of time between the moment the last strand fell, and her personal moment of reckoning. Persuasion and flattery finally worked their charm and she stood before the mirror. Almost elfish. An intruder from Middle Earth. She turned her face, first one way, then another. Examining the angles of her face, her cheekbones. Her small ears! The long hair had been part of her for so long that she could not recollect the last time she had looked at her ears. They were quite pretty really. Perhaps a pair of diamond studs…
“Not bad.” she told the triumphant hairdresser, smiling happily.
“A toast to your new look, what say?”, this from the one who had started it all.
She said yes.
They drove down to the marketplace and picked up beer and ships. Father and son had had the foresight to bring red wine along with them, from Delhi. Goan red wine. She had had that wine in Goa, long ago, in another lifetime. And as she tasted it again that night, she tasted the other, long-ago nights infused with the crashing of waves and the swaying palm trees and she wanted to cry. But she did not. Instead, she laughed and opened a packet of Classic-Salted chips.
A couple of drinks later the ambience was pleasantly companionable. When the caretaker entered with the dinner they had ordered, the older man requested him to sing them something. “I heard you singing the other morning as you were making the beds. I have wanted to hear you again ever since. Please do oblige us.”
His son added that they would love to hear him, and she threw in an entreating “Please!”
The worn caretaker sat down on the floor, obligingly. He thought for a few minutes, probably going over the repertoire of songs in his head, selecting a suitable one. She thought abstractedly about how gracefully the older man had put across his wish. She had often winced when tactless friends had asked locals to perform (yes, it was like performing.) for them during trips many years ago. Like they were specimens or something. Really, she had thought back then, that urban Indians were as bad as the ignorant Americans who loudmouthed their way into the country and expected to find elephants on Delhi’s main roads, and snake charmers in Mumbai’s high-rises. But this, this was different- the CEO wanted to listen, not click a photograph and stash it in an album to be shown to all and sundry. And it showed.
So when the old man sang, he sang for someone who was truly listening.
That showed too.
She had often wondered what people meant when they said music took them to ‘a different world’. “I’m transported.” Her sister used to say whenever she listened to Beethoven’s ninth symphony. The caretaker’s rendition of the hilly folk song helped her to understand. She was not ‘transported’. But she was swept up with the notes that flowed from one line to the next, that tripped from stanza to stanza. It was a local song, probably. She could not slot it. It was not racy, but it was not slow either. Cheerful yes, but tragic too. Simple yes, but with a peculiar inflection in the voice. And intense. Wholly and completely absorbed in its own existence. The man sang and it was like the whole universe was just a singing man and an audience of three.
Was he singing of life? Death? What lies after? Love? Pain? Jealousy? Crops? Mountains? Family? Goats? Electricity? Shops?
It did not matter. She listened, and for that short period, she was totally and wonderfully aware- of the brilliant masterplan that governed all existence in its merry chaos.
She simply was.
“Thank you.” this softly, from the young man when the last word (word? Was it in a real language then? It had seemed transcendental) faded away. And the wrinkled person bowed his head in acknowledgement, and left the room. A trance like state (maybe she was just drunk…she did not think so though…). A few moments of silence as drinks were reclaimed and the experience was stored. But not to be relegated to the depths of oblivion. The shelves had glass doors, and you could look inside whenever you wanted.
Followed by ghazals. AR Rahman. The Beatles. Britney Spears’ ‘Oops’ (and she rediscovered her talent as a mimic…the last time she had used that had probably been back in College…Mr. Sharma’s desperate attempts to flirt with his prettiest student). Michael Jackson’s ‘Heal the World’. Ghalib. The older man’s laughable try at the moonwalk. They all cracked up at that and their laughter must have echoed deep and far in the valley that night. The wonderment spread its wings and leapt off the peak.
A comfortable exhaustion after a while. The older man excused himself, “I’m getting old. I need my sleep.” he yawned. Left.
Then it was just the two of them. Glimmering intimacy. They moved out into the porch. Pitch black night and a zillion stars in the sky. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Strains of music in her head. His hand strayed towards hers. The clasp brought fireworks in her soul and the last pillar lay in the dust, reduced to nothing.
Epiphany.
She found herself in the contours of his body. The chilly air pierced their beings, and their love warmed the mountainside. And they were one. With each other. With the wind. With the mountainside. No whispering, no murmuring…a complete and absolute silence that shook the world and she trembled with it. Treasuring the moment and letting it seep into every fibre. The universe exploded, and she was as free as the wind itself.
Later, a deep sleep in her room while they held each other hostage in their mutual embrace.
Still later, he got up and kissed her goodbye. He and his father were going to a nearby hill station for the day. To take photographs of the famous scenic forests there. She had declined to go; it would be nice for them to have some time together. And she wanted to finish her book too. He said they would be back in the evening. She smiled mistily at him, and went back to sleep once he had left. She got up only at lunchtime.
They were not back in the evening. Or at night. She was worried sick by midnight and the caretaker had to give her a talking-to before she realized that it was impossible to get to the forests until tomorrow morning. She tossed and turned for hours before drowning into troubled dreams. When she awoke the next morning, the old man was waiting outside her door. The morning greeted her with the news of death.
A wreck on the winding pot-holed road on the way to the forest. Their jeep mangled with a Maruti Van. Both drivers died instantly. The Maruti had no other passengers. The second occupant of the Jeep was critically injured and lay in a nearby clinic.
“Who was driving?”
Oily marks appear on walls
Where pleasure moments hung before
The takeover, the sweeping insensitivity...
Hide and seek
Where pleasure moments hung before
The takeover, the sweeping insensitivity...
Hide and seek
Now, she pushed herself up, trying to find traces of that day in the air, breathing in purposefully. In vain. The harsh afternoon sunrays hurt her eyes when she tried to look up at the clear skies. She bent her head forward to shelter behind the curtain of her long, straight hair. But no reassuring curtain fell in front of her eyes. Of course. They had robbed her of that as well…
“You should cut your hair.” the younger man was lounging on the bed in her room. He twinkled at her mischievously, almost looking like a boy.
“No.” she said firmly, well aware of the fact that he was well aware of the fact that she had hair- tampering phobia.
“Seriously!” he said, “It will give you a whole new look. Come on! You know it’s a silly, baseless fear. Why not?”
“Ha!” she said, for lack of a better retort.
“Couldn’t think of anything else to say, na?” he said knowingly.
She threw a cushion at him, “Certainly not. I don’t need to justify my reservations to you anyway. So give it up!”
He threw the cushion back at her, “Hey dad, help me convince her!”
“Sort it out kids.” his father said distractedly, absorbed in the book he was reading.
“Kids!?” the two of them shrieked and two cushions flew towards the offender.
“Ouch! What?” and he looked up, annoyed.
“Hey dad give her a haircut” and “Your worthless offspring is irritating me” were said simultaneously.
She turned to the younger man, “Did you just ask your father to cut my hair?”
He spoke at the same time, “Did you just call me worthless?”
“All right, break it up,” the older man put his book away, “yes, she did call you worthless, my progeny, as you undoubtedly are. And yes, I am going to cut your hair.”
Outrage from both sectors at this controversial statement. She started to giggle soon enough till she realized he was serious about his intentions regarding her hair.
“You don’t even know how to! What are you, a CEO who works weekends at the local parlour?”
“Don’t be daft. I was in the army.”
“The army?” incredulously.
“Yes, in addition to my military duties, I gave about a hundred haircuts a month. My own unit."
“Where did you serve? And how come you’re out now? You’re not old enough to have 'retired with distinction…' ”
“Israeli Army. Gulf War.”
“What?! But you’re Indian!”
“Yes… I was working there actually. When the Gulf War began, the government resorted to emergency recruitment. Almost all foreigners working in the country had to sign up. I signed up before they forced me to. I managed to get back to India a while after the war began. Managed to see a considerable amount of fighting before I left though.”
“But-but-“ she spluttered. Then she stopped short; a sneaking suspicion that he was joking occurred to her. She studied his face- he was dead serious. No, he was not fooling her. “But that’s ridiculous.” she finished weakly.
“Tell me about it.”
“It was not even your war. Not even your country!”
“Yes. Though I wonder if that would have made it considerably better.”
She paused, thinking about that and the ex-soldier’s son took the opportunity to stick his head out of the window and shout for a pair of scissors, which were promptly delivered by the gnarly caretaker. Her attention came back to the matter at hand.
“No haircut!” she squealed.
“Yes haircut. You need a new look young lady. Do not argue with your elders.” his mock anger was totally ineffective.
“I’m not some Israeli soldier! I’m a woman! In Delhi! In peacetime!!”
“I gave haircuts to a couple of women too. There are women in the Israeli army too you know. And trust me, you don’t trifle with the tresses of women who have loaded guns on them. Since I am alive and well, you can safely assume that my handiwork was not too bad. Not bad at all, if I may say so myself.” and he gave them a little bow.
A last ditch attempt to run out of her room…the doorway was blocked by the younger man…
That was how she wound up sitting in a chair an hour later, feeling naked. There were huge clumps of lifeless hair lying all around her on the floor.
Long, apprehensive space of time between the moment the last strand fell, and her personal moment of reckoning. Persuasion and flattery finally worked their charm and she stood before the mirror. Almost elfish. An intruder from Middle Earth. She turned her face, first one way, then another. Examining the angles of her face, her cheekbones. Her small ears! The long hair had been part of her for so long that she could not recollect the last time she had looked at her ears. They were quite pretty really. Perhaps a pair of diamond studs…
“Not bad.” she told the triumphant hairdresser, smiling happily.
“A toast to your new look, what say?”, this from the one who had started it all.
She said yes.
They drove down to the marketplace and picked up beer and ships. Father and son had had the foresight to bring red wine along with them, from Delhi. Goan red wine. She had had that wine in Goa, long ago, in another lifetime. And as she tasted it again that night, she tasted the other, long-ago nights infused with the crashing of waves and the swaying palm trees and she wanted to cry. But she did not. Instead, she laughed and opened a packet of Classic-Salted chips.
A couple of drinks later the ambience was pleasantly companionable. When the caretaker entered with the dinner they had ordered, the older man requested him to sing them something. “I heard you singing the other morning as you were making the beds. I have wanted to hear you again ever since. Please do oblige us.”
His son added that they would love to hear him, and she threw in an entreating “Please!”
The worn caretaker sat down on the floor, obligingly. He thought for a few minutes, probably going over the repertoire of songs in his head, selecting a suitable one. She thought abstractedly about how gracefully the older man had put across his wish. She had often winced when tactless friends had asked locals to perform (yes, it was like performing.) for them during trips many years ago. Like they were specimens or something. Really, she had thought back then, that urban Indians were as bad as the ignorant Americans who loudmouthed their way into the country and expected to find elephants on Delhi’s main roads, and snake charmers in Mumbai’s high-rises. But this, this was different- the CEO wanted to listen, not click a photograph and stash it in an album to be shown to all and sundry. And it showed.
So when the old man sang, he sang for someone who was truly listening.
That showed too.
She had often wondered what people meant when they said music took them to ‘a different world’. “I’m transported.” Her sister used to say whenever she listened to Beethoven’s ninth symphony. The caretaker’s rendition of the hilly folk song helped her to understand. She was not ‘transported’. But she was swept up with the notes that flowed from one line to the next, that tripped from stanza to stanza. It was a local song, probably. She could not slot it. It was not racy, but it was not slow either. Cheerful yes, but tragic too. Simple yes, but with a peculiar inflection in the voice. And intense. Wholly and completely absorbed in its own existence. The man sang and it was like the whole universe was just a singing man and an audience of three.
Was he singing of life? Death? What lies after? Love? Pain? Jealousy? Crops? Mountains? Family? Goats? Electricity? Shops?
It did not matter. She listened, and for that short period, she was totally and wonderfully aware- of the brilliant masterplan that governed all existence in its merry chaos.
She simply was.
“Thank you.” this softly, from the young man when the last word (word? Was it in a real language then? It had seemed transcendental) faded away. And the wrinkled person bowed his head in acknowledgement, and left the room. A trance like state (maybe she was just drunk…she did not think so though…). A few moments of silence as drinks were reclaimed and the experience was stored. But not to be relegated to the depths of oblivion. The shelves had glass doors, and you could look inside whenever you wanted.
Followed by ghazals. AR Rahman. The Beatles. Britney Spears’ ‘Oops’ (and she rediscovered her talent as a mimic…the last time she had used that had probably been back in College…Mr. Sharma’s desperate attempts to flirt with his prettiest student). Michael Jackson’s ‘Heal the World’. Ghalib. The older man’s laughable try at the moonwalk. They all cracked up at that and their laughter must have echoed deep and far in the valley that night. The wonderment spread its wings and leapt off the peak.
A comfortable exhaustion after a while. The older man excused himself, “I’m getting old. I need my sleep.” he yawned. Left.
Then it was just the two of them. Glimmering intimacy. They moved out into the porch. Pitch black night and a zillion stars in the sky. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Strains of music in her head. His hand strayed towards hers. The clasp brought fireworks in her soul and the last pillar lay in the dust, reduced to nothing.
Epiphany.
She found herself in the contours of his body. The chilly air pierced their beings, and their love warmed the mountainside. And they were one. With each other. With the wind. With the mountainside. No whispering, no murmuring…a complete and absolute silence that shook the world and she trembled with it. Treasuring the moment and letting it seep into every fibre. The universe exploded, and she was as free as the wind itself.
Later, a deep sleep in her room while they held each other hostage in their mutual embrace.
Still later, he got up and kissed her goodbye. He and his father were going to a nearby hill station for the day. To take photographs of the famous scenic forests there. She had declined to go; it would be nice for them to have some time together. And she wanted to finish her book too. He said they would be back in the evening. She smiled mistily at him, and went back to sleep once he had left. She got up only at lunchtime.
They were not back in the evening. Or at night. She was worried sick by midnight and the caretaker had to give her a talking-to before she realized that it was impossible to get to the forests until tomorrow morning. She tossed and turned for hours before drowning into troubled dreams. When she awoke the next morning, the old man was waiting outside her door. The morning greeted her with the news of death.
A wreck on the winding pot-holed road on the way to the forest. Their jeep mangled with a Maruti Van. Both drivers died instantly. The Maruti had no other passengers. The second occupant of the Jeep was critically injured and lay in a nearby clinic.
“Who was driving?”
Oily marks appear on walls
Where pleasure moments hung before
The takeover, the sweeping insensitivity...
Hide and seek
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Hide and Seek- the Second
Spin me round again and rub my eyes
This can't be happening
She had told herself that she would stop by their room and converse long enough to confirm their academic professions and then return to her book. When the younger man opened the door, he looked comfortably rumpled. She stared for a few seconds and then tugged her gaze away, embarrassed. It was such an odd unfamiliar sight! A man wearing his nightclothes; she could not recall the last time she had seen a man with his hair like that-sleep tossed!
As it turned out, they were not in the academic field. Neither were they artists or photographers. The father was the CEO of a company that had recently launched a new 24-hour news channel that claimed to be comprehensive and international in the true sense. Bilingual anchors. News from around the world, with an emphasis on Indian events. More than one version of the news.
“Garbled!” an acquaintance had labeled it, “How can they tell us that the Tokyo bomb blast were the work of Islamic fundamentalists, and then the very next minute spout some conspiracy theory bullshit about a local hairstylist being behind it?” She had agreed at the time. Sure, there were two sides to every story. But news coverage could simply not function like that. Why, there would be chaos! No one would know what to believe anymore.
Now however…well, she did not know what to believe anymore! The older man had told her about his work as the two of them sat having tea on the porch outside. The younger man was inside, getting dressed. Five minutes flowed into ten..into fifteen..twenty. And she still did not feel like getting up. The younger man joined them. He was a graphics designer. He freelanced; edited movies sometimes. Mainly parallel cinema projects. Though he had worked on a Shahrukh-Kajol starrer once. “Much better money than Nagesh Kukkunoor could ever pay me!” he chuckled.
“But…isn’t that like compromising your-” she searched for a word and came up with nothing better than “-craft?”
He looked at her searchingly. “Is it?” he asked softly.
She was at a loss for words. He must be offended. Of course he was. Such a personal question. What was she thinking? She had gotten carried away by the camaraderie and blurted out what she was thinking. “I’m sorry. I had no business to ask you that.” She mumbled.
“Why not? Don’t look so apologetic for Christ’s sake. I was just asking you why you thought that. Okay, I don’t see it as a compromise because I enjoy working on both kinds of projects. Certainly, I believe much more in a movie that’s not one big fantasy fiesta. But there’s nothing wrong with an out and out entertainer either. And like I said, it pays. Literally. I need to do a college romance type of movie every now and then, so that I can work on projects that are not lucrative but are definitely interesting.”
She understood what he was saying. He would not work for a movie that endorsed Nazism for sure-because he would be against that. But harmless entertainment was just that-harmless fun. No compromise involved. No clash of principles and all that jazz. Suddenly, she was confused. She had categorized them as pseudo-intellectuals. That did not seem to apply anymore. They were too eclectic to classify. And in that moment she gave up trying to classify them. Forever.
The older man enjoyed photography. Hence the destination with the breathtaking view. “I don’t care much for the view. Everything looks the same after five minutes. I did think a couple of days with Dad away from the city would be nice though. And here we are!” his son told her.
Breakfast. Then a visit to a nearby chapel. A short but steep walk. Beautiful, old stained glass windows. Rows and rows of dark wooden pews. And a priest! In a back of beyond Himalayan settlement! Lunch at the priest’s house. Roast chicken and potatoes. Surreal. A return to the guesthouse.
The three of them were too exhausted to go out anywhere for dinner so the older man requested the caretaker to organize dinner. “Whatever is available. Keep it simple.”
They were on the porch once again. Eating aloo paranthas sizzling with butter. In silence, with their shawls wrapped around them because the night air was chilly. The night melted into dawn, which brightened to noon and faded into twilight. A weekend turned into a few days and she spent most of her time with them…
Now, the whiff of pinecones crept up on her again as she tried to remember what the paranthas had tasted like. She could barely remember what it felt like to be hungry, what food tasted like. She had not eaten since lunch the previous day. Food! As if she would ever be able to think about it again. It seemed so trivial, compared with the fact that she had lost everything she had ever wanted to find…
Her mind took her back to the afternoon under the pine trees, in the woods just behind the guesthouse. The heady smell of pine needles filled the air. It was almost potent.
Amusing stories were being exchanged. She related an incident she had to dig out from the recesses of her hoarder memory. Her brain was like her nana’s trunks of clothes. Everything went in, but nothing was ever taken out to air or share. So it was hard. Her sentences were stilted at first. When she reached the part about getting her head stuck in the window grill, the two men burst out laughing. The rest of the story tumbled out easily- hysterical father, fire engines, electric saws, and an everlasting fear of putting her head through small openings.
Father and son regaled her with stories from the entertainment industry. Like the photographer who had an assignment for a photo-shoot with Amitabh Bacchan and told the superstar, “Now, don’t be nervous. It’ll be over before you know it! And you’ll look just fine, not to worry.” She cracked up at that one.
And about the colony where the son had an apartment, where Art of Living was the latest craze. He mimicked the advertiser who lived upstairs, and had enrolled for a course. He had talked about nothing but ‘the Universal Eye’ and ‘cleansing the soul’ for months afterwards. He had also taken to explaining the ‘Twenty Step Program to Inner Peace’ to anyone who was willing to listen. “An advertising guy through and through!” the older man guffawed. Then there was the couple on the ground floor that felt their children would benefit from the spiritual enrichment the programme offered. The children’s ages were yet to hit double digits…
She grinned, amused, but felt obliged to say something in favour of Sri Sri Ravishankar’s brainchild. “Well yes. It’s funny when people take the whole concept to such extremes. But come on, it has helped a lot of people, hasn’t it? It can’t all be a load of hogwash.”
“Of course it is. ‘Hold your partner’s hand and cry and all your problems will be solved.’ Ha! As if years and years of pent-up pain and sorrow can be released during one sobbing session. It’s temporary relief. Art of Living is no better than a quick fix at the local massage parlour. A transient high.” The younger man said with biting conviction.
Suddenly, she was angry. She had felt like they had been telling her not to make judgements these past few days-by setting an example of sympathetic objectivity. Then what was this? A balanced perspective? They were as hypocritical as anyone else was. Pots calling a kettle black. She retreated into herself and said icily, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Just because you’re irreligious or an atheist or whatever doesn’t mean all spirituality is fake and pretentious. I happen to know people who have discovered life all over again through Art of Living and other courses like that. Sure, once it becomes a fad it’s harder to see it as a holy, moving experience. But it is really stupid of you to run it down completely. It’s a hell of a lot more than a couple of hours with a sex-worker.” and she stopped, breathless.
“Is it?” skeptically.
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t you gone and discovered life again through it? Not exactly passionate about your existence, are you?”
She was stunned into silence. Oh, the impertinence! She stood up and walked off into the forest behind her. More like stomped off actually. How, how, how could he ask her a question like that? Like it was any of his bloody business. Presumptuous man! He though himself so much superior to her. But he was just another cynic. Funny, she had always thought of herself as cynical. He made her seem almost naïve by comparison! She knew she was not being naïve though. Her sister had gotten over her child’s death, largely because she did a ten-day Vipasana programme. Ten days of living in silence in an ashram. The heartbroken woman had found solace in it, and had come to terms with her loss. She did not come back home ready to laugh at sitcoms again- no, it certainly did not work like that. But she was at peace. Ready to pick up the threads again, with some idea of a pattern in mind. And this man had just thrown that beautiful, healing experience into filth.
She had stopped to think just a few minutes away from the clearing where they had been sitting. She stood there now, and thought about his question. Not that he had any right to ask her that. Still…she could answer it to herself. She did not enjoy her life, or leap enthusiastically out of bed to greet a new day each morning. Why then, had she not enrolled herself? It was certainly not due to a lack of encouragement. Her sister had recommended it at least as many times as her relatives had told her to get married- hundreds! She knew the answer of course. It was just not her style. Chanting mantras, practicing asanas, laughing and crying in a group, spilling deep, dark secrets to a room full of people, kundalini lessons-most people found it soothing and uplifting. She found it boring. And pointless.
“Hey.” it was the older man. He was standing behind her and she turned to face him.
“I haven’t done it because I think it’s silly.” she said simply.
He nodded, “He thinks the same way.”
“Okay. That’s acceptable. Great. A kindred spirit. But that does not mean-”
“I know, I know. Save it for the offender. Come on. You need to get back there and give him a piece of your mind. He can be pretty patronizing at times. Take him down a peg or two sweetheart.”
He led her back to the clearing. The young man was standing now. She stood a little distance away from him. He looked at her and held her gaze. He did not withdraw it as he said, “I had no right to tell you that you don’t love your life. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. And I’m not exactly passionate about living. You were right about that.”
He took a deep breath, “About the spirituality scene-”
She interrupted, “I know. It’s not your cup of tea. It isn’t mine either. I just told your father. I think it’s silly. It doesn’t work. For me. But that’s not to say it’s silly for everyone. Trust me. I know.”
“I’m in agreement. I was- insensitive.”
“Yes, you were. Things are not black or white. Isn’t that what your ‘comprehensive, international channel’ tells us? Two or more sides to every story? And no single, absolute truth?” she was addressing the older man now.
He nodded, but stayed silent. His eyes strayed towards his son, as if waiting for him to say something. His son remained silent. He kept looking at her.
“Aren’t you envious of them?” she exclaimed, “Their quick fix solutions? Meet a guru and restart your life? Rediscover yourself through wearing saffron and swaying to the Gayatri mantra? Place a frog in your drawing room and change your fortune? I wish it was my cup of tea. I wish it did work for me.”
“No,” he said slowly, “I am not envious. I can understand why you are though. The thing is…I don’t think that’s the only way. I love my life. And I don’t need Deepak Chopra or Oprah Winfrey to tell me how great life is. I already know.”
“Then you are one lucky man. Because I don’t. I need someone to tell me. And I guess I’m not listening hard enough because no one has been able to get the message across.” Bitterness had seeped into her voice. She did not care. So she was whining. Big deal. The facades were already down. Might as well let them see her as she really was. Who cared? Who cared about anything really? She stood, careless of the presence of anyone else, and looked down at the pine needles and examined them. Long, sharp and smooth. She wondered what it would feel like to lie down naked on them and let them pierce her smooth skin.
The younger man's voice brought her back from the pleasurable pain that was suffusing her. “You can listen all you want. It doesn’t matter. I don’t think you can really love anything by hearing about it. You need to experience it. Shit, I know it sounds corny and new age, but I really do believe that. You have to live, really live. Laugh, cry, love, hate, be jealous, scream, dance, eat, sleep, fight, pray- whatever. It’s like a symphony. You can’t read it. You need to be involved and hum along and listen to every note and every instrument and gasp with awe at the end,” he stopped and threw his hands up helplessly, “I think I’m babbling now…must be incomprehensible. But let me just say this. I’m not being patronizing. Loving life did not come naturally to me. It doesn’t to most people. One has to work at it. Even the happiest marriages need to be worked at, right? The effortlessly blissful ones are rare. Very, very rare. So, I’m not trying to help you or anything like that. Only, well…I’ve been there. I still visit sometimes. So, I know. I know there is my way too.”
She felt a warm, firm hand clasping hers, and looked up into the older man’s face. And she knew she was looking at one of the rare, effortlessly blissful persons who are natural lovers of existence. They fit into the world and the world loves them. He held her hand and looked beyond her. “Too many walls…” he murmured.
She smiled. “ ‘I am a rock. I am an island.’ Simon and Garfunkel were right you know. ‘And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.’”
He broke into a grin at that, “Same chaps who wrote that song lamenting about people not communicating with one another? How does it go- ‘and the silence like a cancer grows…people talking without speaking…people hearing without listening’? And let’s not forget ‘like a bridge over troubled waters, I will lay me down’. Bridges are hardly conducive to an islandic existence, don’t you think?”
She had to laugh. Outwitted by an obvious Simon and Garfunkel fan. She gripped his hand and looked at the sky. Then she looked the younger man. He was not smiling, just looking at her. “I know,” she said softly, “I know what you’re saying.”
It was enough. The wind swept their faces with its cool fingertips. It swirled at the ends of her long hair and breezed inside her sweater. The first drops of rain fell. The earthy smell of wet mud tangoed with the fragrance of pine trees, and the woods danced with the thunder…
Almost like...the elements playing hide and seek.
Spin me round again and rub my eyes
This can't be happening
This can't be happening
She had told herself that she would stop by their room and converse long enough to confirm their academic professions and then return to her book. When the younger man opened the door, he looked comfortably rumpled. She stared for a few seconds and then tugged her gaze away, embarrassed. It was such an odd unfamiliar sight! A man wearing his nightclothes; she could not recall the last time she had seen a man with his hair like that-sleep tossed!
As it turned out, they were not in the academic field. Neither were they artists or photographers. The father was the CEO of a company that had recently launched a new 24-hour news channel that claimed to be comprehensive and international in the true sense. Bilingual anchors. News from around the world, with an emphasis on Indian events. More than one version of the news.
“Garbled!” an acquaintance had labeled it, “How can they tell us that the Tokyo bomb blast were the work of Islamic fundamentalists, and then the very next minute spout some conspiracy theory bullshit about a local hairstylist being behind it?” She had agreed at the time. Sure, there were two sides to every story. But news coverage could simply not function like that. Why, there would be chaos! No one would know what to believe anymore.
Now however…well, she did not know what to believe anymore! The older man had told her about his work as the two of them sat having tea on the porch outside. The younger man was inside, getting dressed. Five minutes flowed into ten..into fifteen..twenty. And she still did not feel like getting up. The younger man joined them. He was a graphics designer. He freelanced; edited movies sometimes. Mainly parallel cinema projects. Though he had worked on a Shahrukh-Kajol starrer once. “Much better money than Nagesh Kukkunoor could ever pay me!” he chuckled.
“But…isn’t that like compromising your-” she searched for a word and came up with nothing better than “-craft?”
He looked at her searchingly. “Is it?” he asked softly.
She was at a loss for words. He must be offended. Of course he was. Such a personal question. What was she thinking? She had gotten carried away by the camaraderie and blurted out what she was thinking. “I’m sorry. I had no business to ask you that.” She mumbled.
“Why not? Don’t look so apologetic for Christ’s sake. I was just asking you why you thought that. Okay, I don’t see it as a compromise because I enjoy working on both kinds of projects. Certainly, I believe much more in a movie that’s not one big fantasy fiesta. But there’s nothing wrong with an out and out entertainer either. And like I said, it pays. Literally. I need to do a college romance type of movie every now and then, so that I can work on projects that are not lucrative but are definitely interesting.”
She understood what he was saying. He would not work for a movie that endorsed Nazism for sure-because he would be against that. But harmless entertainment was just that-harmless fun. No compromise involved. No clash of principles and all that jazz. Suddenly, she was confused. She had categorized them as pseudo-intellectuals. That did not seem to apply anymore. They were too eclectic to classify. And in that moment she gave up trying to classify them. Forever.
The older man enjoyed photography. Hence the destination with the breathtaking view. “I don’t care much for the view. Everything looks the same after five minutes. I did think a couple of days with Dad away from the city would be nice though. And here we are!” his son told her.
Breakfast. Then a visit to a nearby chapel. A short but steep walk. Beautiful, old stained glass windows. Rows and rows of dark wooden pews. And a priest! In a back of beyond Himalayan settlement! Lunch at the priest’s house. Roast chicken and potatoes. Surreal. A return to the guesthouse.
The three of them were too exhausted to go out anywhere for dinner so the older man requested the caretaker to organize dinner. “Whatever is available. Keep it simple.”
They were on the porch once again. Eating aloo paranthas sizzling with butter. In silence, with their shawls wrapped around them because the night air was chilly. The night melted into dawn, which brightened to noon and faded into twilight. A weekend turned into a few days and she spent most of her time with them…
Now, the whiff of pinecones crept up on her again as she tried to remember what the paranthas had tasted like. She could barely remember what it felt like to be hungry, what food tasted like. She had not eaten since lunch the previous day. Food! As if she would ever be able to think about it again. It seemed so trivial, compared with the fact that she had lost everything she had ever wanted to find…
Her mind took her back to the afternoon under the pine trees, in the woods just behind the guesthouse. The heady smell of pine needles filled the air. It was almost potent.
Amusing stories were being exchanged. She related an incident she had to dig out from the recesses of her hoarder memory. Her brain was like her nana’s trunks of clothes. Everything went in, but nothing was ever taken out to air or share. So it was hard. Her sentences were stilted at first. When she reached the part about getting her head stuck in the window grill, the two men burst out laughing. The rest of the story tumbled out easily- hysterical father, fire engines, electric saws, and an everlasting fear of putting her head through small openings.
Father and son regaled her with stories from the entertainment industry. Like the photographer who had an assignment for a photo-shoot with Amitabh Bacchan and told the superstar, “Now, don’t be nervous. It’ll be over before you know it! And you’ll look just fine, not to worry.” She cracked up at that one.
And about the colony where the son had an apartment, where Art of Living was the latest craze. He mimicked the advertiser who lived upstairs, and had enrolled for a course. He had talked about nothing but ‘the Universal Eye’ and ‘cleansing the soul’ for months afterwards. He had also taken to explaining the ‘Twenty Step Program to Inner Peace’ to anyone who was willing to listen. “An advertising guy through and through!” the older man guffawed. Then there was the couple on the ground floor that felt their children would benefit from the spiritual enrichment the programme offered. The children’s ages were yet to hit double digits…
She grinned, amused, but felt obliged to say something in favour of Sri Sri Ravishankar’s brainchild. “Well yes. It’s funny when people take the whole concept to such extremes. But come on, it has helped a lot of people, hasn’t it? It can’t all be a load of hogwash.”
“Of course it is. ‘Hold your partner’s hand and cry and all your problems will be solved.’ Ha! As if years and years of pent-up pain and sorrow can be released during one sobbing session. It’s temporary relief. Art of Living is no better than a quick fix at the local massage parlour. A transient high.” The younger man said with biting conviction.
Suddenly, she was angry. She had felt like they had been telling her not to make judgements these past few days-by setting an example of sympathetic objectivity. Then what was this? A balanced perspective? They were as hypocritical as anyone else was. Pots calling a kettle black. She retreated into herself and said icily, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Just because you’re irreligious or an atheist or whatever doesn’t mean all spirituality is fake and pretentious. I happen to know people who have discovered life all over again through Art of Living and other courses like that. Sure, once it becomes a fad it’s harder to see it as a holy, moving experience. But it is really stupid of you to run it down completely. It’s a hell of a lot more than a couple of hours with a sex-worker.” and she stopped, breathless.
“Is it?” skeptically.
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t you gone and discovered life again through it? Not exactly passionate about your existence, are you?”
She was stunned into silence. Oh, the impertinence! She stood up and walked off into the forest behind her. More like stomped off actually. How, how, how could he ask her a question like that? Like it was any of his bloody business. Presumptuous man! He though himself so much superior to her. But he was just another cynic. Funny, she had always thought of herself as cynical. He made her seem almost naïve by comparison! She knew she was not being naïve though. Her sister had gotten over her child’s death, largely because she did a ten-day Vipasana programme. Ten days of living in silence in an ashram. The heartbroken woman had found solace in it, and had come to terms with her loss. She did not come back home ready to laugh at sitcoms again- no, it certainly did not work like that. But she was at peace. Ready to pick up the threads again, with some idea of a pattern in mind. And this man had just thrown that beautiful, healing experience into filth.
She had stopped to think just a few minutes away from the clearing where they had been sitting. She stood there now, and thought about his question. Not that he had any right to ask her that. Still…she could answer it to herself. She did not enjoy her life, or leap enthusiastically out of bed to greet a new day each morning. Why then, had she not enrolled herself? It was certainly not due to a lack of encouragement. Her sister had recommended it at least as many times as her relatives had told her to get married- hundreds! She knew the answer of course. It was just not her style. Chanting mantras, practicing asanas, laughing and crying in a group, spilling deep, dark secrets to a room full of people, kundalini lessons-most people found it soothing and uplifting. She found it boring. And pointless.
“Hey.” it was the older man. He was standing behind her and she turned to face him.
“I haven’t done it because I think it’s silly.” she said simply.
He nodded, “He thinks the same way.”
“Okay. That’s acceptable. Great. A kindred spirit. But that does not mean-”
“I know, I know. Save it for the offender. Come on. You need to get back there and give him a piece of your mind. He can be pretty patronizing at times. Take him down a peg or two sweetheart.”
He led her back to the clearing. The young man was standing now. She stood a little distance away from him. He looked at her and held her gaze. He did not withdraw it as he said, “I had no right to tell you that you don’t love your life. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. And I’m not exactly passionate about living. You were right about that.”
He took a deep breath, “About the spirituality scene-”
She interrupted, “I know. It’s not your cup of tea. It isn’t mine either. I just told your father. I think it’s silly. It doesn’t work. For me. But that’s not to say it’s silly for everyone. Trust me. I know.”
“I’m in agreement. I was- insensitive.”
“Yes, you were. Things are not black or white. Isn’t that what your ‘comprehensive, international channel’ tells us? Two or more sides to every story? And no single, absolute truth?” she was addressing the older man now.
He nodded, but stayed silent. His eyes strayed towards his son, as if waiting for him to say something. His son remained silent. He kept looking at her.
“Aren’t you envious of them?” she exclaimed, “Their quick fix solutions? Meet a guru and restart your life? Rediscover yourself through wearing saffron and swaying to the Gayatri mantra? Place a frog in your drawing room and change your fortune? I wish it was my cup of tea. I wish it did work for me.”
“No,” he said slowly, “I am not envious. I can understand why you are though. The thing is…I don’t think that’s the only way. I love my life. And I don’t need Deepak Chopra or Oprah Winfrey to tell me how great life is. I already know.”
“Then you are one lucky man. Because I don’t. I need someone to tell me. And I guess I’m not listening hard enough because no one has been able to get the message across.” Bitterness had seeped into her voice. She did not care. So she was whining. Big deal. The facades were already down. Might as well let them see her as she really was. Who cared? Who cared about anything really? She stood, careless of the presence of anyone else, and looked down at the pine needles and examined them. Long, sharp and smooth. She wondered what it would feel like to lie down naked on them and let them pierce her smooth skin.
The younger man's voice brought her back from the pleasurable pain that was suffusing her. “You can listen all you want. It doesn’t matter. I don’t think you can really love anything by hearing about it. You need to experience it. Shit, I know it sounds corny and new age, but I really do believe that. You have to live, really live. Laugh, cry, love, hate, be jealous, scream, dance, eat, sleep, fight, pray- whatever. It’s like a symphony. You can’t read it. You need to be involved and hum along and listen to every note and every instrument and gasp with awe at the end,” he stopped and threw his hands up helplessly, “I think I’m babbling now…must be incomprehensible. But let me just say this. I’m not being patronizing. Loving life did not come naturally to me. It doesn’t to most people. One has to work at it. Even the happiest marriages need to be worked at, right? The effortlessly blissful ones are rare. Very, very rare. So, I’m not trying to help you or anything like that. Only, well…I’ve been there. I still visit sometimes. So, I know. I know there is my way too.”
She felt a warm, firm hand clasping hers, and looked up into the older man’s face. And she knew she was looking at one of the rare, effortlessly blissful persons who are natural lovers of existence. They fit into the world and the world loves them. He held her hand and looked beyond her. “Too many walls…” he murmured.
She smiled. “ ‘I am a rock. I am an island.’ Simon and Garfunkel were right you know. ‘And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.’”
He broke into a grin at that, “Same chaps who wrote that song lamenting about people not communicating with one another? How does it go- ‘and the silence like a cancer grows…people talking without speaking…people hearing without listening’? And let’s not forget ‘like a bridge over troubled waters, I will lay me down’. Bridges are hardly conducive to an islandic existence, don’t you think?”
She had to laugh. Outwitted by an obvious Simon and Garfunkel fan. She gripped his hand and looked at the sky. Then she looked the younger man. He was not smiling, just looking at her. “I know,” she said softly, “I know what you’re saying.”
It was enough. The wind swept their faces with its cool fingertips. It swirled at the ends of her long hair and breezed inside her sweater. The first drops of rain fell. The earthy smell of wet mud tangoed with the fragrance of pine trees, and the woods danced with the thunder…
Almost like...the elements playing hide and seek.
Spin me round again and rub my eyes
This can't be happening
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