Escape...

Buddy, this is what I need to tell you,

You cannot make someone happy by compromising your happiness.

You would be dissatisfied and disappointed in first place and what do you think about the one to whom you thought you made a ‘sacrifice’?

They would be expecting more ‘sacrifices’, dissatisfied and discontented.  

And today I choose I would do better with a bit of selfishness rather than being a prey of exploitation.

I choose to be indifferent and irresponsible than trying futile attempts to make people understand.

Nobody hears for others except for themselves.

The tales of protagonists are of interest only in drama and movies, not in real life.

People see and understand only that they want to, and not what is true.

If grief is one’s personal property, why can’t happiness be?

We have the right to choose when and how to be happy and sad.

For the first time I give myself the right to be happy and selfish.

Do not compromise your happiness in the name of family, friends, emotional blackmails, threats and tears.

Because at the end, you will pay for it.

Moral for stupids like me: try hard to make people happy, besides being exploited; you may earn a good name. Nothing More, Nothing Less, Nothing Else.

What I Felt - Part Two

For the next three days, by mere coincidence, we were drawn at the same table, together. This repetition made us suspicious, both of us, of each other. People started noticing us too. What started as a very harmless coincidence now got its own dimensions. I had asked him name and batch, so did he and that made the start of our very unusual, coincidental, harmless acquaintance.

Though we saw each other next day too, we had seated different. In the next few days, we saw and had exchanged a couple of words. Slowly we had come to know of each other. I found that this guy was a single child, like me, and had indifference as much as I had, except that I was a bit more optimistic than he was. This gave me an upper hand during conversations where I made hour long speeches on personality development. Day by day, I had given an impression that almost ninety percent of the talks I made up were just for the sake of conversation or a smile. I had bluffed.

For all those days I was glad no one noticed us together, glad because there was nothing as much noticeable. We were beyond anyone’s notice, surely by the fact that we never saw or spoke outside our beloved canteen. Day by day, it occurred to me that the guy was far too much a pessimist and introvert than I expected. Whenever we spoke, I made the best of talks; the guy silently accepted all I said. It was as much irritating to me that he had nothing to say on what I said. I made my trials starting from the most practical to most emotional topics. He never spoke. Sometimes he smiled. Sometimes he pretended he heard. Sometimes he didn’t. In any case I was feeling odd. On one side, there was a rising curiosity to intrude into his thoughts, on the other side confusion on whether to let him go or not.

Day by day, it became a tedious task to conclude that he was still a stranger for me and I had no business with him. Perhaps it was some sort of sympathy on the lonely boy. I was seeing another me in him. In every picture of loneliness I had visualized, I have had two other weak faces called mother and father. But somehow the picture he had given me, there was a void. Nothing but void. For some reason I believed I was luckier than him, for there was an eye of protection that most girls do get. In his case he was made to live a life of freedom, freedom that can be easily misused, freedom in the sense misunderstood and freedom to decide whether to love or hate oneself.

In our next encounters, I was a bit more careful about what I said. Perhaps he had a sadder story to narrate, for this simple humble reason of mine, I had prevented myself from narrating my cooked up instant sad stories. I was careful not to bluff too much on “how-happy-can-single-children-be”. I felt that the boy might not take it. Perhaps he would consider me as a good friend cum advisor thereafter, but I knew it was a serious crime I would be doing to his parents and to people who love him. I had reflected that I had always felt bad on my parents, when my friends spoke of their siblings. It was short lived for me, but I couldn’t guarantee that on this guy, my friend.

A month passed on as such. I had misused my intelligence to steal this guy’s secrets. At a point I had even inquired if he had a girl friend- a matter I would not have any use or business to do with. He was becoming more and more comfortable with my talks and once in a while he had made his own opinions. We had shifted onto casual talks. We had open thoughts, for the first time. We were not best friends. We hadn’t any other too. Yet we were together, sharing some taste and trait in common. Perhaps it was just for the sake of being together. Or may be because we were incapable of handling “best-friends”.

We never complained to each other. Some days we never saw. Sometimes we saw, we never talked. There was no element of duty or responsibility. We were comfortable with the fact that we were never a priority to each other. Comfortable and safe fact, it was...

What I Felt - Part One

After spending fourteen years of eventful and quite disturbing period in the place I called my school, I had to ultimately join some college, and for god's grace, I was let in a carefree campus, where I got more freedom than what I could ever gain from eighteen years of life. For instance, You could try a walk alone, you could go to cafe alone ,you could go to canteen alone and altogether when you are alone no one complains,no one bothers. And the best part of it, any time you can have any number and any sort of friends. Perhaps this condition was quite a very dangerous a trial for a girl like me. I had changed tremendously after I left school, perhaps more

rational thi s time, more diplomatic. There was a fall in spirits. Yet I was happy with all. You dont expect, You are happy.

Whatever change that came upon me after my school days, the best thing was that I started having cold responses on the most popular subjects of girl-girl conversations. On this, I was too much afraid of myself, as if something had seriously gone wrong with me. I didnt make much 'best friends' or friend circles, drifted away from people, no matter boy or girl. I befriend them, I like them, I enjoy with them and whenever so happens someone shows some attachment I would escape from the scene.

I didnt know why made it all up, and people naturally thought I was insincere in my relations. Perhaps I was. perhaps people took me as a joker. Perhaps they would mark me down. In any case, I cant help.

Everything went smooth until one day I had spotted a slim,short boy with a weighed down head, pacing into our canteen. No one watches him, I had found. Perhaps because he is a boy. perhaps no one bothers if a boy walks alone. perhaps no one befriend him. Or perhaps he is not friendly. Or perhaps he had a fight with his friend saying that they had not accompanied each other while moving in and out of college. Suddenly it stroke me that boys might not take "accompanying to

store" and "accompanying in class" and "accompanying to canteen" as prime objectives of

"best-friend-ship". Girls do. Perhaps with boys, it was sharing that mattered.Mine.Yours. Ours. These matters left me at the first smell of food. No thoughts remain in me for more than fifteen minutes.

In the heavily crowded and congested canteen, I had managed to find a seat. It noticed that even in canteen there are no single-seat-single-table for lonely food seekers. It was four seat-one table and eight seat-one table arrangements. No one goes to canteen alone. In an unnoticed corner four seater table was vacant and I had taken a seat for mine.The very same boy whom I had alloted ten minutes of my thoughts, at last had to satisfy with the seat opposite to this stranger girl. There are thousands of students like me in this campus, no one insists that you behave well with strangers, so for the safer part, we didnt talk to each other, nor gave any

dramatic glances. No one occupied our side seats. There were inspecting eyes from all four corners. I had decided that next time I would bring a friend from class along. I tried. Tired of trials, I decided to come alone. He too. We came alone........

Ami........Part 1

It had been one year since I have started to lock my bedroom. Every two weeks I visited it, as if it sheltered some relic, cleaned it, washed all stingy clothes and the attached bathroom that became home to a couple of lizards and spiders.

As I opened the lock of my bedroom, that old smell of dust came back. This I called “the carbon dioxide smell” to describe that it is difficult to breathe. But now it is not. I have become dangerously attached to it. Memories flew back into me as I stepped into my old bedroom whitewashed years ago and cleaned weeks ago. The spiders have found their shelter in most corners of the room. My so called study table was messed up with nursery rhyme books and baby powder tins. I remembered that I never bothered to clean it up since that dark Friday evening. I have left it there. They have survived. Just like me.

I let the windows go open. Light came inside with such excitement that resembled the pilgrims who waited for the temple doors to open. Suddenly my room smelled and looked different. For the first time in twelve months I smiled looking at my room. It was here I spent my childhood between books. It was here that I saw dreams. It was here that slept laughing slept crying. It was here that I made “make-ups”, long speeches, self-explanations for whatever I messed up each day. It was here I acted smart, acted wise. It was here that I hid myself. It was here I knew myself. It was here that I became daughter, student, mother. It was here I made myself.

Though I slept here and it was in all sense “my room”, actually it gave me no pleasure. It was a dark room with small windows with translucent blue glass. But as the years passed I felt more affinity towards it. I started loving that place. You know, you get separated from something after a very long time, good or bad, you would have a tendency to get back to it. I explained it with the case of addiction to smoking. In my case too, it was something like that.

You have spent your early years in a place; it is natural that you get attached to it. But here there was an additional reason. Behind this locked door I had left much of my frustrations...

In the locked cupboard of my locked room, I had left some relics of a cute fairy who visited me last year. I had brought my baby “Ami” home, despite all soured faces around me. My parents revolted, shouted. But it did not stop their daughter from bringing them an adopted grandchild. Ami soon made her way into our hearts. We started accepting her as ours, only ours. For the first time in last ten years of my life, someone other than me slept in my bed. Ami had gained her right to sleep with her mother. Every night I told her stories. I pulled her towards me. She clinked on to me reminding me of my early school days. I remembered my mother’s heat, how her love radiated, and the kitchen smell of onions and garlic...

One Life, Two Strangers, Three Meets...

The root of that unusual friendship started on a rainy Friday when Sagar Srivastava stood on the footsteps of the office of the Principal eagerly waiting for permission to enter the busy room. Feeling that it might take him another half an hour to settle all his business at the college, he had restlessly taken a seat in an old bench nearby. At the other end of his bench sat a girl, seemingly five years younger than him. She had a file with her, and he supposed that she had come for some attestation.

He was wondered at her when the silent serious girl had impulsively raised her voice and asked, “Are you a first year student?” Sagar smiled and looking to him smiling again, spoke, “Passed out this year” He realized that her question was just formalty, just a token of manner, consideration. More important, she had given him strength to speak back.

Sagar asked, “Your name?”
“Zia; Zia Malhotra...and yours?”
“Sagar Srivastava”

The talk forwarded to his past college life and her expectations about the course and college she had just joined in. But everything they spoke hovered on lessons, exams and all “junk”. Somewhere in between he had asked about her favorite TV show and she had replied “Tom and Jerry” He was suddenly reminded of his late sister whom death and disease had separated. It was a sudden assumption of his that this girl, a complete stranger, minutes ago, was his own sister sitting beside him. Therefore he smiled when they finished the talk after half an hour, when it was time for them to leave...

***********

The state transport bus is more crowded and has crossed all permissible levels. Zia was pushed here and there and as a man stood up from his seat she grabbed it. She was least bothered that she was surrounded by foul smelling drunkards. At a cross turn, she was squashed on the man sitting beside her, who happened to be the same one whom she had met years ago in front of the principal’s cabin. He seemed older than his age suggested.
“Are you Sagar?”
He was open mouthed at the girl, suddenly reminding him of his last days at college. More coincidently, he was recounting the memories of his sister when this girl had appeared. This time too the talk did not exceed half an hour. They had talked, but only on office and job, and more than mere names they did not know anything about each other, as it was never felt as necessary.

***********

Mrs. Zia Malhotra, now Mrs. Zia George Mathew points at the board which reads ‘Solace’. To the old couple who sits disappointed and desperate in her office room, she makes an introduction.
“ My name is Zia George. My husband had been in Air force and died last year. My only daughter is married and is settled abroad. This institution is set as per my late husband’s wishes. This is a old age home, but you can demand all freedom as at home”

She leads them to a room and returns to her office where she removes the dust that had fallen on her late husband’s framed photograph with hand. A car halts in front of her house and two people got down from it- an old man, pale and skinny, and his son, strong and emotionless. The old man is left at the office at the sympathy of some strangers at the old age home and the son walks away without a word. Mrs. George makes a lot of inquisition on the man’s face and finally both of them realizes that they have been brought together by fate a third time in life.
Days later we see them sitting on a concrete slab in her garden- sitting closer to each other- as if being forced into closer acquaintance by fate. They have enough time for all told and untold chronicles of life, all pleasantries they had forgotten in those previous encounters, and there is no more hurry or noise this day and time too, more than half an hour. The right time has come for their friendship and there is no more separation. Not until death...

Mirage ends its journey....

As I was requested by my mother and friends I decide to suspend my blog here and wait till I have gained enough of maturity.
My mom had complained that I have gone too much immature and silly than she ever felt, she wants it be dismissed until she is sure that I have fully developed my brains!!!

I thank all my friends for their co-operation throughout the blog and is very sorry if something has hurt them.

Aparna

Amma must not cry

Amma took a glance at my identity card.
‘Issued on 01 March 2017’
She goes past to the time when a baby-her baby-lay peacefully in her hands. Realizing that she has grown up, realizing that the ‘so-called-spring’ that had visited the mother has not arrived and if arrived, then repelled by a rebellious and spirited daughter.

Amma took a clean white sheet of paper on which she wrote our home addresses, landline numbers, all the known and unknown cell numbers, ‘whom-to-contact-list’, emergency numbers- everything-and stuffed inside that bag. Did she find out that I lied? You are right Amma-It is not a conference. But I do not mean to elope too. It is a different crazy idea. It is an idea that comes only in later life, at the end of life or at the worst part of life.

Taking a glance at the paper, I saw old ‘nostalgic’ mobile phone numbers-a call from the past. My old friends reminding all friendships which actually lay hidden. But she knew everything and she was brilliant enough to collect and preserve them in a small diary, which I myself had not much bothered about. She valued my friends now. She is overlooking her ‘self-sustenance’ and ‘self-reliance’ factors. A poor mother does not want her daughter of live of her own.

She realizes that her daughter has just started to feel at ease at the taste of freedom. Hers is not a strong heart after all and a ‘24x7 traveler daughter’ is the last thing she wanted, of what she expected.

Tonight I would cling on to Amma just how we were years ago. Papa had already gone to sleep in his room, imagining his daughter at the so-called-conference, thinking if she has confirmed her tickets, planning tomorrow’s early wake up, breakfast....Everything is planned and it must be.

I did say a big lie: A conference at Kanpur papa .But to convince Amma with such a big lie is not so easy. She figured it out. After all it was she who brought me out, brought me up. I did not know when life took a religious spiritual turn. It seemed to be the fate of all day dreamers and the depressed.
Dear papa-everything, all lies, to add colors to my life or that’s what I mean.
******
In bed Amma held me as tightly as never before. She asked,” what is your plan?”

“Amma...do not ask-two weeks...please...”
“I hate those ‘what-why-where-how-when-where’...just believe that I would be safe.

Amma did not speak. She knew it would not help.
While running my fingers on her face, I felt her eyes that were wet, from which two hot drops popped out. It was indeed painful. My thoughts were muddled. Perhaps Amma has started to think like others-to complain-to pass that irritating remark. Amma might have joined that group of people who ask, “Don’t you value others’ emotions?” Yes I do. But, alas, I cannot prove. I did not learn to soothe the wounds and I would not.

I will bring you pills; do not tell me to treat you,
I will give you care, do not tell me to love you,
I will give you money; do not tell me to save it for you,
I will sympathize with you; do not tell me to show it off.

Amma, have you fallen asleep?
You wanted to add colors to my life, didn’t you? You won in adding all colors that book could ever provide, that success could provide, that dress and jewelry could provide, that TVs and play stations could provide. Loneliness, too, had a color Amma-It was the most dreadful colors you always say-black. It colored my heart, Amma. Did you not realize that the red patch on forehead is not the only color that a woman has in life?

Amma-please if you can, do not say I was unjust. No one would blame you for anything. Don’t you know how much it hurts to see you with tear filled eyes?
Amma- Just believe that your girl is always different-which you always wanted.

It is not an escape-just to draw a difference-to capture, absorb, a different atmosphere. Believe me...I do not go for a Tapas- Just a journey. You would not find me returning as a nun. Just that I would breathe some holy air, find if that would end my entire inquest and give me peace for life.
******

Papa gave me a cheerful ‘bye’. Amma kissed me on my left cheek, but this time there was no impression. It had been my most cherished memory that when we kissed each other, we always left a liplike patch of wetness on each others cheeks and laughed. No patch, no laugh this time. It became a hateful ‘simply-a-mother-and-daughter’ business. I smiled at papa and relaxed-tried to relax. Amma was still looking me top to toe. From the car I popped my head out and gave her a flying kiss. She forced a laugh then waved her hand. Did a tear fall?
*********