The Auto-man Empire

Life in any city can never be complete without a travel story; one of epic proportions or of incidents that stay indelibly in one's mind. And no such story can ever disregard that one vehicle of all that is not reasonable or relatively fast: the humble auto-rickshaw. Many have travelled by this princely pauper of a vehicle but few have ridden to tell tales worth knowing. Now me, being fresh out of my cast but still chained with a brace, I had to take one everyday back from college for an entire month. Exorbitant fare non-withstanding, I found out that my affinity for strangeness follows me even here. Also, taking an auto instantly classifies you as a 'rich bastard' (though I prefer the more unheard of term 'Chutney Bastard', courtesy a certain son of an English teacher). But more than anything, my auto rides helped me find out more about the their drivers than any newspaper article or assignment ever could.
Let's begin from Day 1. Me being the bargain-challenged kid that I am, I waited for hours for an auto-driver who would agree to my reasonable price without argument. Suffice to say, I got enough dirty looks from the auto-drivers to last me the week. Now, in my desperate state of mind, I began to walk towards a parked auto a little distance from where I was standing. As I reached the man, I saw him quickly draw his hand away from his nose and as he did so, I notice a white streak on his palm. Of course, I thought nothing of it...till he started weaving through traffic like he was playing Roadrash. To add to this, he began talking about how he would disfigure the campaign posters of candidates for the Karnataka elections, while also laughing maniacally. I presume the white mark had something to do with this. Fortunately, I got home safely, though I wasn't sure about two other people crossing the road at the time.
A few days went by without incident. My next encounter was with another one of them, sporting brilliant white sneakers and speaking perfect English, though he had an affected Rajnikanth accent. Along with the ride, he also gave me a bunch of stickers with a cartoonised version of Rajni on them. But the most shocking part of this journey was that I found out he was Bihari....as a friend of mine would say, "Tamil has no boundaries, though it tends to weird you out sometimes".
But more than all of this, I also saw the other side of their lives. Three of the drivers all began to pour out their life-stories to me, of their problems with educating their children, old men being thrown out of homes and even deeper understandings of politics than any journalism student would envy. Some of them were even top rankers during school and college but couldn't continue, either due to a lack of funds or bureaucracy.
Angry old men as auto-drivers are never a welcoming sight. But I'd just like to say that maybe, just maybe, people will be considerate enough to know that they have something to be angry about...

Çiao!

Mature....ish

A few days ago, my cousin asked me something that sort of struck a nerve. “You’ve become more… human now, more subdued. How did you go from being that spunky kid who wouldn’t shut up to somebody….mature-ish?” (She finds it hard to give compliments)

Honestly, I don’t know. It just happened one day I guess. Like someone flipped a switch in my head. Last year, my friend said I’d become cynical about life. This was about the same time almost everyone I know started telling me I had become quiet…or at least quieter that before. Things happened. I got into college. Found out how hurtful back-biting could be. Found out how cruel the world can be to someone as naive as me who believed the best in everyone. I guess me becoming quiet and subdued was a defense mechanism to all that happened. There are other reasons that I know are part of this but those are things I keep to myself. Things in my past that will stay there.

One of my seniors, my classmate’s boyfriend, asked on the last day of the exams, “How’s your new life?” He was referring to life post my best friend’s relationship. Honestly (again), I don’t know. Things are almost the same and there’s still a void that has to be filled. I can only do so much to fill it, even if my heart aches when I think about my friend.

But life moves on. We face new challenges everyday and we struggle against them, trying to make a place where we can be happy. I’m just one of the many people in the crowd doing that. There are worse things people have to deal with on a daily basis so I just put my head down and thank my life for being what it is. But somewhere, I’m sure I’ll find that spunky kid again. Somewhere, I’ll find a place to be happy…

Cast-Away

Life dictates that everything must be experienced at least once. You must get hurt once, you must eat amazing food once, you must get into a fight once and so on. Now, most people would want to bungee jump or sky dive or visit exotic places as their choice of a 'once-in-a-lifetime' experience. But me being me, my childhood fantasies were to experience a flood, have a fracture, know what it's like to slide a blade across your finger and eat sand (or Dettol, whichever was closer). The fun of most these experiences is partly from the fact that you don't have to tell people you're about to do them, you just do them. Impulsiveness, as I've articulated to myself a few weeks ago, defines what your world will be like. Saying so, my world would tend to be quite a topsy-turvy place.
The thrill you get when you break into an abandoned art gallery, the cool pain when the shaving razor cuts your thumb and the look on people's faces when you bend down to pick up something absolutely random in the middle of the road; these are the sort of experiences that I think are truly 'once in a lifetime'. But then, Dettol does tend to burn as it goes down your throat so I guess there has to be a certain amount of pain involved. I learnt this fact the hard way when I forgot the law of inertia for a few moments during my recent bus adventure, leading to a tiny fracture on my wrist. Despite the size of the fracture, my arm is to remain in a cast for the next 3 months. Now, the pain is almost non-existent but the many inconveniences that the cast creates more than makes up for such a profound loss. My driving lessons have been suspended till the start of another set of vacations and eating a roll has become a task akin to climbing Mt. Everest. But the loss that bothers me the most is that it has become almost impossible for me to hold a book straight and turn the page without resorting to a complex set of manoeuvres, none of them graceful enough to qualify as ballet. The ability to do a double thumbs-up is just another fact of life I must deal with now.
But there have been a few upsides to the whole situation. The isolation of my left thumb has taught me the power of a fore-finger and middle finger combined, which is pretty much what I've had to substitute the thumb with. Also, the inability to hold more than one object at a time has caused my canine tendencies to come to the fore, dictated by my practice of holding my answer paper in my mouth as I pack up to leave the exam hall. I expect that's the reason all the invigilators give me quizzical looks, along with the fact that I randomly smile during the exam while looking right at them. And most of all, I've learnt exactly how much it means to have both hands in working condition, opening my eyes to the travails of the handicapped. It's a hard life indeed...
Two out of the three fantasies I mentioned before have materialised. I wonder if a flood is due sometime soon...

Çiao! 

The Actor

White. Swirling white mixed with water.

A little bit of blue, then a little bit of red. A shadow passes over the water as the white fibres of the towel absorb the droplets. A mass of shapes rises behind the fogged up mirror and a line opens to reveal tired eyes slowly turning white again.

Faheem was used to this. He hated the fact that he had to put on make-up and paint his face just to please his directors, but that’s what one did in theatre. He knew that no matter what he looked like, it was his performance that mattered. Of all the things in the world, Faheem knew he could act. It was just one of those things people instinctively recognised the moment they met him. With eyes constantly twinkling with mischief being planned, an aura of madness that earned him the title ‘Joker’ and a smile that never seemed to diminish, he charmed everyone he met with his simplicity and had quite a following wherever he went. The ever increasing number of acquaintances came with its share of back-biting, but it never bothered him since his life and soul were devoted to his one true love: theatre.

Today’s exhaustion was the result of a grand performance at one of Delhi’s greatest amphitheatres of a play he had written himself. His role had been a central one and the exhilaration still made his heart pound as he emerged out of the washroom; bright flashes of it revisited his mind every few minutes. The usual subtle nagging voice in his head reiterated that it could have been better but he was at peace with it. Behind him, he could hear the heavy footsteps of his friends rushing backstage to congratulate him. He took a few moments to compose himself and, with a comically tired expression, turned to greet them.

“Breath-taking Faheem bhai!”

“It was so you. I couldn’t stop clapping!”

“What a guy! Fahi, I have never seen anyone like you!”

To each of these praises , Faheem joked around, but his eyes searched for the one person whose opinion mattered to him. And there, at the very end of the empty theatre, he locked eyes with her. Priya...

They had met just 8 months ago, but he felt like he had known her for years. Every time he saw her, his hand unconsciously moved to the tiny locket around his neck; a gift from his ex-girlfriend. She too had been a large part of his life, till she broke his heart and left him a year ago. Priya looked so much like her that Faheem could never supress a gasp, his heart could never stop skipping a beat every time he saw her. She was pretty, kind and the wisest person he had ever met. Neither of them knew exactly when they knew they wanted to be together; it had just happened one day. It had been a month but the sight of her still sent a tingle of joy down his spine. She had come to every one of his performances, been a true critic, consoled him when he felt inadequate and taught him so much about life. But today, he had asked her to look out for more than just his performance. For today was the first time his father had agreed to come watch his performance.

Faheem’s parents had never been very supportive of his passion; typical of a generation that saw theatre artists as a bunch of worthless tarts and cads, Priya was the only one who knew about the battles he fought every day to follow his dreams and the pain he felt at not being able to have a conversation with them. She was also the only one who knew exactly how much it would mean to Faheem to be appreciated by them. It was that light that shone in his eyes tonight as he looked at Priya. He walked up to her and hugged her tight as he heard her whisper in his ear, “No one took their eyes off of you. You were absolutely amazing”. He let her go and looked at her, his eyes asking the question his voice couldn’t articulate. “He came” she said, with a smile, “I sat right behind him and saw how his eyes followed you everywhere. In fact, he was so spellbound that he dropped his phone! I kept it, thinking I would give it back to him at the end of the play but he left as soon as it finished. Here, give it to him, alright?” Faheem took the phone, pocketed it and said, “Let’s go grab some dinner and celebrate! I’ll walk you home after that”.

All through dinner, they chatted about inconsequential things but Priya could see that Faheem’s mind was pre-occupied with something. As they made their way home, Faheem asked her, in a quiet voice, “What do you think Baba thought of it?” “I’m not sure. But I’m guessing he enjoyed it. He stayed till the end so....” Before she could finish, his phone rang. It was another friend calling to congratulate him on the performance. Faheem spoke for a while and ended the call. But before he could put away the phone, he saw something that made him stop in his tracks. “Pri...”, he said,  his voice tentative, “look here. A message from Baba”. Gingerly, he tapped the phone to open it. Inside, it read:  

Faheem, I’m sorry. I know how harsh I’ve been about

your theatre work but what I saw today left me speechless.

You have a gift, beta, and I never noticed it. Great

job today, you made me very proud.

 

Tears blurred his vision as he looked at the phone. He could hardly believe what he had seen. It had taken years of struggling but finally, his father had seen him for what he truly was. Now, he knew, he could take on anything in the world, simply because he knew he had his family’s support. Priya could see the joy blooming on his face and, moving closer, put an arm through his and guided him on the path home. A few moments later, Faheem put his arm around her and together, they disappeared around the corner, a couple truly in love.

Meanwhile, two other men, the last to leave the amphitheatre, walked down another road while talking about the play.

“What a play it was! Pity that it didn’t go on for longer”, said one.

“True. But I guess that man in front didn’t like it much. He got up halfway through and walked out. I’m not sure, but I thought I heard him say ‘such a disgrace’ before he walked out”, said the other.

“I know. I saw his phone drop too. Some girl picked it up. I wonder who he was...”

Here's the third instalment of my attempt at a short story series...

Taste 3: Bitter

“All students are requested to get into their classes. Prayer is about to begin.” As clichéd and boring as this may sound, that’s how college always began....every single day for the years that I was there. And as an extension of the cliché, students who were otherwise as high spirited as wild horses would simmer down to sniggers and inside jokes while the speaker blurted out the pre-recorded tones of our ‘dear’ principal, a bob cut bearing woman of the name Mrs Jebaraj. I slowly walked in and sat down at the first bench, a place that I had staked simply because no one else was willing to do so. As I was trying to wipe the sleep out of my eyes, I turned back as I did every day to see the sparkle dance in her eyes. My Avi’s eyes.....

Avi and I had been best friends for the last 5 years, ever since I moved to the city after my parents’ bitter divorce. She was always the cheerful sort, never short of a smile and always ready to counter anything I said with a cutting remark, initiating arguments that became the norm every day. Everyone around us always thought there was more to us than met the eye; and they were right, just not in the way they thought they were. Avi and I loved each other like siblings and our greatest regret was that we weren’t actually so. Those eyes that lit up my day and that twinkle meant only for me were what I lived for and what got me through everything life could throw at me. We were so happy....till ‘she’ joined.

Alaina came to our class in our second last year as an exchange student, but never left after experiencing life around here. She was actually a very sweet girl, smart, pretty, affectionate and most of all, helpful. Avi and I instantly gravitated towards her and the three of us began to spend a lot of time together. But I knew I was losing my hold over Avi when she started paying more attention to Alaina, leaving me in the dark many a time. It started with little things: a coffee after college, partners for a quiz competition and jokes. But things slowly got worse, with them going off on trips without me, having their own inside conversations and most of all, being very secretive around me. I was starting to disappear from both their lives and become a non-entity to the rest. Life became constant agony as I could neither tear myself away from them, nor bear to watch as they got closer and closer. The day we graduated, Avi was asked to give the valedictory speech and in it, she spoke the words that haunt me to this day,” Life has so many twists and turns, but when you have friends to help you on your way, it becomes the greatest journey you can ever make. Here’s to Alaina, my one and only true friend. May the world be our oyster!”

 I’ve never stayed back in college before, but that day I felt like it was the only thing I could do to clear my head. After everyone had left, I decided to take a walk around college. Nostalgia dogged my footsteps, not of classes and experiences, but of Avi and the things we had done together. There was a wall where we had convinced everyone to write what they wished about any teacher they hated and then showed it to the teacher concerned at the end of the year. Here was the canteen where Avi and I mock fought about what to get for lunch and who was on a diet. A bench there, a small step there....everywhere I looked, I saw me and Avi. Before I went home, I decided to go back to the stage one last time, just to take in the fact that it was all over. When I got there, I saw the both of them under the lamplight holding hands and talking as if they’d never see each other again. I stayed in the shadows where they couldn’t see me and watched them embrace, kiss each other and walk out of college hand in hand. And just like that, it was all over. My Avi was gone...

It’s been 20 years since that cold day when we graduated. And today, as I sit on a park bench in the frosty morning air, I look back on everything that happened. I heard the both of them got married a few years ago and now have a little family of their own somewhere. They never contacted me and I didn’t try to find them either. Sometimes, I wonder why things had to turn out the way they did. But then it strikes me; maybe it was because I loved Alaina too...

 

Temple Run

Being from an extremely orthodox Brahmin family, temple visits are as unavoidable as the rolls of fat that overflow from the not-so-young mamis in their saris. And my palace of constancy is the Guruvayoor temple in Kerala.
Now, I have no problem with coming here since somewhere deep down, I love the atmosphere around it. But it's hard to get excited about the atmosphere when you have to get up at 3am to beat the rush and get a glimpse of the idol. But then, no one ever said God sleeps (though I'm sure he does wink or two in an attempt to deal with what is expected of him). But, as with every trip I go on my family with, it always seems like there's an appointment to attend at every temple so all it boils down to is a sort of 'temple run' as we move from one temple to the other in an attempt to cover as many of them as possible, to have an insurance policy of sorts; if one of them doesn't hear us, the other 20 definitely would have. To my knowledge, it's been a very long time since I ever went on a proper vacation with my family; no temples, no prayers and definitely no relatives whose names and relationships I can never seem to memorise. This inability to have a virtual family tree spanning at least 2 generations at the tip of my fingers gives my mother another weapon to tease me: "How many times do I have to explain who Jaya akka is? She's Ammaji's cousin's daughter-in-law and Rammohan mama's sister. Don't you remember how she got you cashew nuts when you were 5 years old? How can you forget these things?..." and so on and so forth.
Food seems to be the only solace I gain on these trips, seeing how I get a full breakfast, lunch and dinner to make up for the constant energy drain of standing in lines, travelling several kilometres and appealing to a dozen Gods to provide happiness and a good future. I gave up questioning these constant temple trips long ago and just follow my parents wherever I must go in order to maintain a façade of family time. "We're doing this for you only! Stop sulking so much and pray properly. Otherwise God will not take care of you", a constant refrain of my mother's. With the recent demise of my MP3 player, I've also lost my only source of release from the boredom of the trip, both during the journey to and from the temples. Staring out the window during a train journey has replaced this pastime of mine, but with the person beside you trying to engage you in a treatise on morality and Tamil literature, even that has begun to lose its charm.
And so, I do my best to survive these trips of torturous boredom with my camera as and when I can, but it remains to be seen if I shall ever be rid of them. I can almost smell camphor burning again...

Çiao!

Here's the not-so-long awaited sequel to that clichéd short story I put up a while ago. I wonder if this one is any better...

 Taste 2: Spicy

 

It was another lazy afternoon. The beach seemed crisp and powdery, a shade of bronzed yellow almost, mimicking the voluptuous blondes that were sun-bathing themselves. While the tourists seemed all eyes for the pristine beauty, both natural and otherwise, no one noticed him slip into a wicker chair outside the cabana, overlooking the sea. As the sweet ocean spray wafted in the breeze, Juan España sipped a Cuba Libré, enjoying the breeze. A thin scar ran down his temple, a reminder of his past….

Sao Paolo had always been a discovery for him. The back streets filled with the gaiety of life and the scent of paprika blending in with the maracas, celebrating the vitality of life. And Mardi Gras was just the culmination of the city’s entire energy. She had fallen from heaven, literally, as he had caught her when she fell off her float. One look and he had fallen too, fallen into the passion that seems to run within the very veins of Latin men. She apologised and leapt out of his arms to join the float once again. But he had made his mark and when he lay in bed, he heard the door open and felt her slither in beside him, a smell of paprika and roses melding into him. All night, as the city made merry, they did the same, their passion blazing like the Brazilian sun. The morning brought reality back to them but the bond had been made. He had continued to meet her and their romance blossomed amongst the shaded cafés and streets. She was free-spirited, lively and a woman of impulse and passion, a complete contrast to Juan, who was a quiet, soulful man. Yet they found bliss in their dichotomy as they frolicked all throughout Sao Paolo. The entire world seemed to pale before their love as Juan could not help but dream of their future together. But his dream was shattered one evening when, as they walked back, a hustler stuck a knife in his back and demanded his belongings. Quick as a flash, Juan tried to grasp the man’s wrist and incapacitate him when the hustler swung wildly, scraping his temple. Blinded by his blood for an instant, he did not see him stab her and make off. The world seemed to slow down as he saw the blood gushing from her heart. That night was a blur of activity as he somehow found help to get her to a hospital and rushed her to the Operating Room. He could hear his heart drumming against his chest, blotting out the whole world. All of a sudden, he heard the doors open. All he could make out was the doctor’s silhouette, blood-spattered and ethereal, the light blocking his face…

Juan suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder and a whiff of paprika and roses swept his senses. “You always did love that perfume, didn’t you?” he said, with a hint of smile, looking into the same eyes that had ignited his passion 30 years ago.