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...”