Dubious Moves

"Well, we were born a few months apart, classmates, her mother died as she was born, and my father was dead by the time I was born. I was always the one getting things done, but she had the ideas".

"My mother, she only remembered the jamun episode.

So she convinced the boys in our Class 1B that if they were real men, they would climb up the forbidden jamun tree behind the school and fill up our metal lunch box with the berries. I was convinced they just picked up fallen fruit, but she said we could wash the mud off. 

So I hid the box, and sometime when it was dark, I snuck out. The entire street was related anyway, an agraharam. So I went to her place and she was waiting. She was always afraid of going alone. We slid out the door and sat on the low wall of the well at the end of the street. We ate the overripe jamuns, and rejoiced in our adventure. But then she didn't want to go back alone into the house. So I snuck in again with her. And then she clutched at me. It was dark and she didn't want to be alone.  So I leaned against a pillar, and she lay down, burrowing into my pavadai, the long skirt. I combed her hair with my fingers and held one of her hands and soothed her ... and we both slept. 

So my mother wakes up in the morning, and notices me missing. More puzzled than alarmed, she looks about the house, and comes out - to see my slippers at their doorstep. She came in, and saw me sitting and dozing, and the other drooling all over my clothes. She came and gave both of us a shake. Just dozing, I said. And she said yes, we woke early to study. My mother just nodded . Wash the juice off your faces and hands, she said. And is that your lunch tin ? See that you wash it in time for school."

" For me, I keep remembering the eighth grade, when we both would discuss about the people we would marry. We knew we would be married soon, at 16 if we were lucky or sooner. 

We both decided we would marry out, not in the network of extended family and friends that extended in the agraharam here and in the half a dozen other places, or even as far as Hyderabad and other places. She said she'd grown up listening to how babies had their father's eyes and grandfather's nose and looks and stuff. She liked none of the people she saw, she said. She didn't want her babies looking that way. She was always vain.

We decided that our kids, if daughters, would be named after each other. So we would always love them. If  I had a boy, he was to be named after her husband, she said. So that she could call out the name, and pinch the kid and hit  him when she felt like it. What ? We were thirteen then. 

You ? No, you were not the first kid. And you were properly named according to the stars, not given her husband's name. What was he called  ? Why would you bother ? I tell you you weren't named after him. 

OK fine, your nickname was .... but she always treated you well. Poor chap had died by the time she came to visit, you see."

 "What did she remember most ? Well, it was essentially me showing off.  We would write to each other in secret, see ? So she told her people she had to go to Tirupati. A promise to the god. With only her kid. I convinced your dad to fund her ticket. Madras to Bangalore, seven and a half rupees one way in the bus. 

She visited me in Bangalore. To see how I had set up an independent house, not in a joint family. I showed off how I was cooking and cleaning and washing and the total mistress of my own, independent place. 

The last time we spoke, she was still describing her awe on that visit. To see me run a household! She spoke of her fear that she'd never be able to be that organised, that... grown up!"

"Of course we haven't spoken for years. You don't stop loving though. You just love differently. 

My mother always saw her as a 5 year old kid with juice smeared over her face.

I always remember her dancing eyes. Describing how she'd call my kid by her husband's name, add cuss words, and pinch. Get her vengeance on the as yet unknown husband for crimes to be determined.

And she remembered my grown up face as I showed her my kitchen.

See ? We all loved different people. And they stayed with us, though their originals moved out of our lives.

I only felt sad she was alone at the end though. She was always afraid of being alone.I would have held her hand and combed her hair and let her sleep on my lap. She shouldn't have been alone. 

No, I'm not crying. Why would I ? At this age, we are all waiting for an excuse to die. This new thing as good a reason as any. And I told you. She is still talking about her future husband to me, whenever I think of her. And her babies, her plans for them.  All I say is, she shouldn't have been alone, and she probably wasn't. She just had to think of me. And so I am not crying."

And so it goes, all you lovely people. The ones who have moved on, the ones who have moved out. You're all still here. And I talk to you often. And in these times, I remember the affection and the laughter and the sheer joy that comes when there is a connection. The songs and the stories, the jokes and the poems.

And then I'm never alone. 

The screech of tyres, the growing knot of people in the middle of the road, drew his attention away from the dappled gold in the green tapestry of trees lining the road. His colleague, till then gabbling inanities about the weekend, went slack-jawed and pasty in shock. He told the driver to carry on to the office and return, and got down in the middle of the slowing traffic.

             It was a young man. Somebody had removed the helmet that was now superfluous, and his face had nothing but a faint surprise in the arch of his brows. The eyes were closed, the breath shallow. Around the knot, the Monday morning traffic eddied and then continued. The 2-3 people who'd stopped were trying to lift him, somebody opening a waterbottle, looking for somebody to take action.

             He flagged a rick down by the expedient of catching a bar as it slowed, and refusing to let go. He flashed a couple of hundreds at the driver, who kept looking terrified and mumbling refusals. He lifted the young man : surprisingly light. He did not know if he still breathed, and didn't care to check. He awkwardly entered the rick, and told him to head for the hospital at the end of the road. The auto weaved nervously in and out of traffic, the driver touching the framed goddess on the dash every now and then. Five minutes, and they were at the hospital.

             He lifted the man gently, walked in, with a sense of relief, laid him on a stretcher in the hallway. People rushed, and thankfully, they began to wheel him without any delay. He fished in the jeans and brought out the usual flotsam of existence : a plastic comb, a licence, a balled up kerchief, a wallet and thankfully, a mobile. New message, it said, and he pressed the button. A smutty SMS opened up, inane jokes meant to cheer up a Monday. He dialled the number, and a voice asked him if he was late. Listen, he said. Main hospital se bol rahaa hoon. Your friend is hurt, badly. Come here immediately, and tell his family. Even to himself, his voice sounded unfeeling. I'm his brother, the voice on the other side quavered. Whatever, get here, he said and cut the connection before realising he hadn't said where. He handed over the phone to the receptionist as it rang again, and she started explaining addresses and locations. She looked at him questioningly, and he pointed to where the stretcher had been. I brought him, he said, give the phone to whoever comes. And he handed over the remainder items. She pulled a pad and began writing down the details. He gave name, showed ID, wrote his address, and came out.

             The rick was still there, and the driver shambled over mumbling. "Bura na manna bhaisaab, subah ka waqt hai, problem mein nahiin phas sakta tha". He nodded, weary in soul. "Bach jaayega ? " He shrugged. He sat in the rick, and the driver, sensing his mood, silently retraced their path. His car awaited him, and he went back to change the dress now specked with blood.

             That evening was one of their companionable silences punctuated by his occasional monologues and her rare replies. He was reflecting on his last translation of Faiz and the one commencing. He startled himself when he suddenly said " Don't say goodbye, OK ? Just leave when you decide to".

"Mmmmm ?"

He sighed. "No goodbyes", he said. Then realized that she didn't get the context. He started to explain, and trailed off, knowing the futility. "Just this. No goodbyes. Just say going, if you can, and go. Or just go."

"So you have been thinking about my leaving".

He smiled then; it suddenly struck him as amusing in a way. "Since the day I first spoke to you", he said.

 "Why? “

“Too short a date”, he murmured, but to himself. He felt suddenly tired. I’m sorry, he said. It’s been a long day.

“And what will you do when I go?”

He shrugged. Hope is the blanket one pulls over tighter in the far reaches of the night, while the heart knows the silence masks the pain that creeps in soft-footed.

“Inko sholon ke rajaz apna pataa toh denge 

Khair, hum tak woh na pahunchein bhi, sadaa toh denge

Duur kitni hai subah, bataa toh denge”

“Mmmm. Translate.”

I shall remain unFaized, he was about to say, but checked himself. She was liable to explode at his puns when angry.

“We shall send burning verse to tell them of us

Even if they never come, at least they will call out to us.

At least they’ll tell us how far the morning is”.

Much later, when revisited this favourite of Faiz’s, he realized the problem, the reason that he was unable to let go. He was seeking a defining moment, a goodbye.

 Relationships, unlike rambling poems, do not necessarily end in killer lines.

(From the archives, or rather, a temporarily loaned USB drive : )).

I had a momentary qualm, pausing outside the door. Then I shrugged and went in. The room’s cheery décor, more suited to a bright summer morning than the slate grey winter sky that was framed by the enamel windows, did little to quell the twinges inside. She was solicitous, speaking easily, while I was slightly awkward. It had been a while, after all.

She gestured vaguely. I loosened my tie and went to lie down while she adjusted herself. I looked up at her sitting by me, into those eyes, and she smiled a bit sadly. “You could have come earlier, even last year”, she said, cupping my chin in her hands. I didn’t reply. She ran a loose hand over my forehead, asking me when I’d shifted jobs, and I realized she was trying to put me at ease. I consciously relaxed then, willing away the tension, feeling the tightness in the back give way as the muscles uncoiled. She bent her face to me, and I could see the thin spots of red on her cheeks. The cold, I thought, or perhaps just that touch of rouge. She was almost tender as she lifted my face toward her. As I shut my eyes, I could smell the citrus on her breath, and thought that I much preferred the carbolic acid smell of disinfectant that was more common in clinics.

  One has none of the usual fears of dentistry. In my experience, they are the people one goes to on a yearly basis and talk politely of how long it has been and don’t you wish we’d meet oftener. Some talk of parietal cavities and whatnots may cause an eyebrow to rise considering the mixed company, but these are modern times after all. This particular visit, however, coming after a while and in the thick of the winter, has left me shaken. The first week after the procedure was blinding pain, and it was after the second sitting that I realized she had been lying when she said that things were going to get better. The alternative, of course, was to pop a painkiller or two. Painkillers have the effect of dropping me down dead until woken up by pain a couple of hours later. Since they expect me to be awake, if not contribute, at the job, one rather avoids the drooping gently bit. Which means 10 hours of pure agony the whole long day. In addition to idiot colleagues asking me if I’ve brushed up on a file or two. Hahaha, in case I didn’t get it, brush, file, hahaha. Even the boss, asking me if I was able to work through and telling me to take it easy. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew, hehehehheh”, he says, exploding in his own mirth like a demented Sidhu.

In other news, have been speaking in tongues. Not really, in other voices, in an attempt to find my own. The success of the originals has been mostly in their inimitable style. But one tries. Thank you, originals, for the inspiration. Here are the results (1,2,3).  (I recommend saving the links before viewing them so you can zoom and scroll easily).

(Update : Added below as some issue@links).