Shelved Spectacles

I should have shared this long back, at a time when the subject was

actually unfolding or atleast when it had just ended unfolding itself. I couldn't do so because I feared I would sink deeper in the misery which I was already drowned in, pine further away in realization of the innate harshness of life and in the helplessness of being unable to escape it. Nevertheless, I now embark upon the effort to slit my heart and dispense all the suffering which remain contained in it. For the anguish of not doing so is beyond tolerance. It comes to me again and again and again, at times catching me unguarded. Ripping my deepest guts and evoking excruciating agony. It's time I told you.

If one has been supportive enough to follow my blog, he would remember distinctly my post which I wrote about an year ago, where I surrendered to the urge of putting down my pen, shelving my blog and disappearing from this space. I wrote 'Adieu' when my grandmother was on her deathbed. When I lost all purpose and sense of my being. As clichéd as it may sound, the truth of the resultant disillusionment wreaked by the sudden consciousness, that I can do nothing to prevent our parting, was impossible to belie. When someone, in whose lap you have grown to know the world, shows signs of forever deserting you, all the charm and lure of everything else fail to dissuade you from the sorrow it inflicts. Nobody knew yet everyone feared she would die. Nobody ever does know the exact arrival time of death. But it is always obvious. She was old, frail and on decline, sinking ostensibly. The shadow of final separation was imminent.

In bits and pieces, further smoked by indistinctiveness of time, I recalled my early days with her. As she lay motionless, swiftly seized by fatal stillness, I hovered around her, not caring about all the glitter that subsisted outside of that ten by twelve cabin, disconnected from my past and present, irreverent of my future, which subconsciously I knew would be no different in its conclusion. Birds would alight every morning by the cabin window, suggesting that life was perfectly normal in its progress elsewhere. But I remained adamant in my ignorance of it, almost in a strange competition with the stubbornness, which the creeping death displayed. Her fair complexion had begun to wane not noticeable to eyes which were unaccustomed to her God gifted glow. She had been an angel to me. Grannies can be the most unstoppably caring kin. They can fight the world in your defense. She was no different. Unfortunately, there never came a moment when I could reciprocate my obligations. Not even when she was slipping away. For all my fierce concern and love for her, I couldn't extend her stay by a single second. That keeps tearing me apart every day,  over and over again.

Nothing can be more agonizing than the very person who you beg to save your loved ones, saying that cannot be done. The doctors would resort everyday to the routine of piercing her veins with syringes and tubes. Knowing well how unavoidable that was for her survival, I felt angry in my bones, at the fact that she had to undergo that routine. I was somehow glad  that she was no more alive to senses that defined pain and joy. The nurse understood my hurting, probably by virtue of her experience or by reason of her compassion. She always ensured my granny got that slight extra attention from her. Fearing for a good deal of time, that she took such care of her only when I was around, I stayed for long hours. Sitting by her bed, watching her fickle breathe change its demeanor every now and then, making me fidget between numbness and anxiety, never finding certainty about her condition. These moments rob you of your beliefs that keep you at your hopes. I stuck to her side, praying fervently for her to open her eyes, to recognize me and to spread her lips in joyous reassurance of our existences. That never happened. Her eyes opened unpredictably and when they did she looked blankly at the ceiling above her, as if she wanted no more to belong to me, to her family, to this world. As if she had seen her ancestors summoning her to take a place by their side. Each time she fought to breathe, to eat, to cough, to sleep, to do almost everything that we did effortlessly, something inside my broke. Choking on my tears, I watched her suffer, unsure of what to wish for.

I shifted my office temporarily to her cabin. Not wanting to leave her alone for a moment, even though staying with her and watching her condition, devastated my beliefs about life's greatness and beauty. Those turbulent moments of my confrontation with nature’s decree would haunt me forever. Of that I'm sure. Each night I would hope against hope that I would wake up the next morning into a miracle where she would remember me, look at me in her familiar glance and ask me why I was not getting ready for office. That morning never came.

One day the kind nurse sought my attention to her advice. And when I reluctantly gave it, she requested me to take my grandmother home. So her fading body could be made free of those pointless tubes and needles. So that she could be with my grandfather, my father and the rest of her family which pretty much comprised her world. I thought hard. The fact that we would take her home without her being healed would mean that we would embrace the truth about her end. That thought wrecked me. I nevertheless put up a brave face and convinced everyone to agree. She was home the next day. Sleeping on her bed by the window, where the first sunrays ascended on her face. During those last days of her life, her siblings, cousins, and relatives from far and near poured in to see her. I sensed an irreconcilable aggression rising within me. As time ticked away and the unexact fateful moment closed in, I found that reason enough to never forgive life. Underneath all its promises, beauty, hopes and brilliance, life is servile to death, destined to belong to it one day.

In those few days after her homecoming, consumed by agony,  we found it impossible to think and talk about anything other than granny and her life, our talks mostly ending abruptly with one of us breaking into tears.  A week after granny had been brought home, on a Saturday morning, as I was brushing my teeth looking at my empty reflection in the basin mirror I overheard the sob of our maid. I knew what I was walking into as I stepped into my grandmother's room. 'Why isn't she's breathing ?' the maid asked between her sobs. I saw my lifeless grandmother. She had been turned to her right because of the sore on her back which had grown into a huge black patch on her feeble skin. Her immobility had robbed her of her dignity and her splendor, making her a slave to the painful outcome of that motionlessness. In that moment of endless blankness, I for the first time sensed her soul's reprieve on being freed from her broken body. I did not hear the wails and the weeping that our home drowned in the moments that followed. I no more saw her lifeless form. I did not miss her. I saw how the sunrays refused to leave her peaceful face. I saw her smile concealed from mortal confines. I saw her released. My grandfather woke up. Clueless as a child he walked into the bathroom to finish his early bath. He had been granted that rare priceless gift of turning forgetful at the exact period of his beloved wife's everlasting departure. As my father caressed his mother's temple with moist eyes and others buried their heads in her bed, I touched her feet. Life's warmth had indeed forsaken her.

Later that evening as we lay her on the pyre on the holy sands of ‘Swargadwara’, vermillion adorning her temple, bangles cascading on her wrists and a red bordered 'saree' draping her inert beautiful form, I noticed how married women passing by, bowed before her pyre in respect. I shortly learnt that it is considered a great honour and blessed fate for a married woman to die while her husband is alive. My calm resolve which had held me together all this time shattered like the walls of an ancient monument when the first flames began to consume her. I could not watch my loving granny turn into cinders, beyond retrieval, beyond return. But I did. The thoroughfare rose and declined, so did the tired waves of the sea in the visible distance. Many others came and shared the sacred sand to cremate their dear departed ones. Soon the ground was full of smoldering pyres, busy returning the mortal remains to their points of origin. The sun sank at the far horizon of the water and I sank into the ashes concealing my irrepressible tears in the dim of dusk.

Childhood

I miss my childhood

Where no one was shrewd

All played all day

And aside worries lay

I miss my childhood

When everything felt good

Except when the exams came

Leaving play felt so lame

I miss my childhood

When life wasn't so crude

Even when told a thing or two

I forgot 'em as if they weren't true

I miss my childhood

When joy was life's food

Nothing else mattered

Except when friendships shattered

I was told to grow up

And I did what was tough

Bidding adieu to purity

Leaving behind incorruptibility

Many moons have shone since

The day when I dreamt becoming 'Prince'

Now I'm told to join a race

Running a pointless chase

Good were the days when I could cry

For I can't anymore even if I try

All that well up within

Remain under a cloak so clean

I miss my childhood 

When nobody told lie

When to be happy

I didn't have to try.

Gone

Where are the sunny days gone,
Why have the frivolities become unknown,
Why I can't relish my days
Despite the countless ways


Why have the birds stopped singing
Where have they been flying
No flutter of wings I hear
No kissing beaks saying "Love You Dear"


Where is the smell of earth gone
Why can't I feel it being born
When the rain comes lashing
And answers our praying


Where have my mates travelled
The lure of the abstract they no more marvelled
In some distant village they found 
Among strangers the reason for an abode


Where have the waves of the sea gone
In their company why I feel alone
Why can't I feel my heart beating
Nowadays when I see beauty walking


Why today I have to try
To stretch my wings & fly
When I used to be air borne
Since the day I was born


Why no more I dance to music
Why do memories make me weak
Why do I remember futilities
Why am I n't pulled by galore gravities


Where is that thrill gone
That never left my heart alone
Where did it die
That I now live with a lie


What has become of me
Things no more, I can touch or see
If they say they're still there
Why then, do they escape my stare?




                                                                                  - Anupam

Superstitious

The sun had retreated to its western abode and silver lined nimbus were allying up to unleash a quick summer torrent  Harish started the talk. He sighed ‘I had a narrow escape today, ..didn't let it cross my path." His hand was on his chest as he spoke.  Rajiv, Pintu and I exchanged glances away from his notice to agree  that this was going to be another one of Harish’s deliberations on urban legends.  He usually claimed that nature warns and foretells us about events of future through its chosen messengers and that there existed a long, non exhaustive list of such agents. He however confessed that so far the most common of his encounters had been with the neighbourhood cats (occasionally black), mynahs, crows and of course the common household gecko. He had a story to tell about each. One day a lizard fell on his right shoulder and he retrospectively declared it as the cause of his top performance in the surprise class test. Another day when he stood second in the class examination, he asserted that the decline in his rank was caused by the pathetic black cat which crossed his way with that of his when he was about to enter the college premises earlier that day. Never mind the fact that he had written the test long before any cat or other creature ventured to do anything around him. Again there was this pair of mynas which he saw perched, first thing, on his balcony one morning and concluded about the pleasant surprise the day ahead held for him. His belief was endorsed when later that day his father gave in to his long persistent demands to buy a new motorcycle. More often than not, as Harish once informed us, if the household lizard makes a cry or calls... "Wait, " Pintu interrupted "I don't even know how a lizard calls or cries" he exclaimed with utmost pity in his eyes. Harish was aghast. He shot back "Which world do you live in my friend ?" and continued "Mark me I'll show you." He shut his eyes for a moment to recall precisely the sound and went "Tchh Tchh"  with his eyes stretched open, tongue jammed hard into his incisors and teeth flashed fully. It was beyond hilarious, though nobody dared to laugh. He supported his theory by narrating that  how once in the middle of a sultry summer day when Harish guessed to everyone's disagreement that it would rain in a matter of hours, the gecko had gone "Tchh Tchh Tchh Tchh" and it had poured before dusk. Thus Harish had become incorrigible, when it came to being superstitious. His beliefs were unshakable. 

So while we were wondering what story he had to tell us today, he began "The poor cat had no idea that I knew its plan. So even before it began lifting its paw to start moving from one side of the road to the other, I  raced my motorcycle towards the farther opposite direction and gave it no chance to even come close to crossing my way." He spoke in between giggles "So how was the escape narrow ?" I sincerely inquired. He gave me a glance and then to each of us in turn and mumbled "Arre ... nothing bhai..when I was trying to outrun the cat, I almost ran over a pedestrian!" trying to downplay the latter part of the incident. "Of course. that makes sense. You see  - a full accident -if a cat crossed,  but - an 'almost accident' if the cat almost crossed, Right ?" Pintu teased. "True" replied Harish deliberately ignoring Pintu's attempt at sarcarsm. Pintu was the only one among us who was unabashedly cynical about Harish's superstitions. However it had taken several disturbing arguments between the two, for Harish to reconcile to the fact that Pintu was too ignorant for having his eyes opened to the secret communications of nature with humans, the ones which he so clearly fathomed. Pintu continued "Its a good thing that you didn't run over the poor pedestrian. Your lawyer then would have had one tough case to defend and bring the real culprit to book"  Without allowing Harish to respond to such a remark, I interjected "My uncle also believes in these things. He can swear by his belief in the accuracy of these...what you call."signs". I tried to sound as neutral as possible as Pintu was too smart to not detect my disguised attempt at diplomacy. He caught that anyway and immediately snarled "Do You believe in these "signals"?  I had to be truthful. I had given, on earlier occasions, much information about my views on these superstitious rubbish. My friends remembered those for sure. I was about to speak but there was a sudden ruckus at our far left and our heads turned together towards the source of it. It was already dark and we could not properly see what was happening. But from the appalling level of sanctity in their communication, we made out that friends were arguing. It could be discerned from their words that they were squabbling over the question as to who is the most important player in the Indian cricket team. What seemed likely to have started as a stimulating debate had now turned into a heated argument with the gang divided into two prominent groups with opposing views. A few among them appeared to care the least about the riveting deliberations and continued to dwell on more life altering thoughts as they passed on cigarette in turns. I borrowed the issue and introduced it into our gathering and Harish exclaimed that for him it was Sachin, always. A lizard went "Tchh Tchh Tchh Tchh" nearby and Harish shot up his right hand and blurted "See its true !" Pintu yelled "Damn the lizard". No one spoke thereafter about any cats or lizards or shooting stars.

The velvet evening began melting into a somber night. I glanced at my digital watch which read "19.30". I announced the time. Without having been commanded or instructed, we rose up to leave. We had subjected ourselves to that discipline since the first day we had made merry there. We walked up to our motorcycles parked a short walk away and started on our way back. We lived in the same colony roughly six to seven kilometres away from the spot where we hung out every day. We rode through the evening traffic. It was summer and small shop owners were having buckets of water thrown at their entrance to create the much absent cooling effect. More affluent shops were all shut behind transparent glass panes where the air conditioner had been long turned on. "Kabadiwalas' had all kinds of metal junk clustered around them and continued fanning their pot bellies fuming over the unbearable humidity. We too were soaked in sweat but when our ride embarked on the Ring Road alongside the Mahanadi, the cool easterly breeze blew through every pore of our bodies and soon the heat was behind us. There were three of us. Pintu and I rode on my bike and Harish was on his. Pintu murmured something attempting to begin a conversation but even before he could utter a syllable, Harish almost stood on his bike's accelerator and sped away as if for his life. Before Pintu or me could gather the cause of his behaviour we saw his silhouette getting smaller by the second. We noticed that for no visible reason he was steering his vehicle to his right when there was not a soul occupying the left side of the road and finally when he ran out of space we watched him bump his motorbike hard into the road divider.

Soon there was a crowd around him. Not bothering to park my vehicle at an appropriate spot or to even put it on its stand Pintu and I broke through the gathering. Fortunately Harish looked all right. I went down on my knees and started scanning for any fatal wound. Except a bleeding tear on his right ankle I found none. I sought the help of   people around us for lifting him up. As I was slowly letting his body weight onto my hands and lifted his left hand over my head to let it rest on my left shoulder, I caught Harish straining his eyes on something. I looked at his eyes and estimated the point of his vision. It appeared to be at quite some distance from us. After a few tries I finally noticed. A black cat, coated by its maker with glossy fur, with its eyes partially shining from the reflection of the numerous headlamps, stood on the left footpath adjoining the road. He had his right paw lifted, which seemed to have been in that position for a while by now. Its eyes seemed to be eternally locked with those of Harish in a most mystical exchange of thoughts. When the flow of thoughts ended, it used the lifted paw to rub its nose, looked to its right and with the laidbackness of a Nawab crossed the road and passed near Harish's injured leg and blended into the dark behind us in seconds. In a moment, it struck me like an ant bite and the flashback of events ran in my head, only this time I saw what I had missed in realtime. Harish must have seen the cat trying to cross the road as Pintu began to speak to him. This must have led to a characteristic adrenaline rush within Harish, which by the way was normal for him under such circumstances and then ofcourse Harish did what he always did, that is, overtake the unsuspecting cat before it crossed his way.

We left Harish's bike in the care of a friendly tea stall owner. It was decided without any discussion that I would drive and Harish would be sandwiched between me and Pintu behind him.  Not a whisper was made by any of us on the way to the local dispensary. Pintu began humming some idyllic folk song of his native tribal village up in the mountains. No cat or lizard dared to cross path with ours.

Inside the dispensary as the nurse was stitching Harish up, I decided to break my silence. I pleaded making an effort to depict an urgency "Buddy,we have been dealing with your irrational balderdash since we were in the seventh standard. What good is a belief if it causes you such utterly unnecessary pain."  and I went on and on against his theories of interaction between cats, mynahs, lizards and him, trying desperately to convince him into forsaking his superstitions. Pintu walked upto Harish and squeezed his right shoulder in muted support of my plea. After a unusual length of silence, Harish exclaimed "If you honestly ask me, considering the shocking unfolding of today's events; I cannot deny that my beliefs have perhaps been belied." He raised his hands to test the extent of injury suffered by his shoulders. He put them back on his lap at the first taste of pain, and continued, looking blankly at the discolored wall opposite to him "I think I understand the secret message which nature has tried to convey today." He paused. I looked into his eyes and probed, raising my eyebrows, "Which is.....?"  inviting Harish to complete my statement. Waiting for a couple of seconds, he exclaimed, "..well...ummm.. .. that I should ignore cats & lizards."  A lizard went "Tchh Tchh Tchh Tchh" and we instantly raised our heads to the humming tubelight above our heads. There it was, pasted to the lime paint, its eyes seemed perplexed at the unprecedented human attention it had drawn by its cry. We broke into a fit of laughter, including Harish who laughed too, holding his aching shoulder.The nurse came running inside the cabin, wondering what had happened, as we roared together in laughter, again. The lizard slithered away behind the tube clamoring for a more inconspicuous retreat.

("The Superstitious" is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person (alive or dead), place or incident etc. if any, is only coincidental.)