Chapter XIII: The Day I Flew Back Home For Diwali

With the Navratas culminating in the immense pleasure derived from conflagration of Ravana along with his diabolical brothers, the festivities have only begun. Diwali is less than a dozen days away. The paeans no longer fill the air like they once must have when Lord Rama returned from his exile, and the earthen lamps have replaced blinding lights and deafening fireworks, we still celebrate it grander every year welcoming the virtues Lord Rama exemplifies. The Ravana inside us takes a day off and we revel in what is the country’s most favorite festival.

It’s that time of the year again when families unite. Those stacked delicacies make those prying eyes crossing the sweets-shop fall in a diabetic coma and set those tongues wagging. Nothing intrigues kids more than crackers and unwrapping gifts that fill up the entire living room. All colleges run empty for everyone is cajoling their professors into cancelling lectures. The hardcore non-vegetarians go through meat-detox. Even the most hen-pecking wives pray for their husbands’ longevity, thank the ludicrous practice of Karva Chauth. Proclivity for neatness exponentially increases to welcome Goddess Luxmi in our cribs. Yes, it’s that time again that deserves a much-needed break from pell-mell of the busy lives we’ve lost our true selves in. A break for which I concocted a colorful story to convince my manager to grant me leave, oh what utterly laughable excuses! Yes, I lie for love. Love is my Achilles heel, and I’m sure that one fine day it'll absolve all the sins I live in.

Flashback: November 2

Sleep plays games with me whenever I have to travel. It evades me, I then end up checking my phone every twenty minutes and wonder why time never understands my state. It would crawl when I want it to gallop like a stallion and would run faster than an incontinent passenger stranded on a railway station looking for a lavatory when all I want is for it to be smooth like Michael's moon-walk. I gave up on counting sheep at 3AM and saw my flat-mate occupied packing his stuff. They leave by train a little later than I do. I go up to say Hi and I sniff some pleasure in his tone when he asked me about my flight's status. It had been raining cats and dogs.

Missing a call from the cab driver an hour before he was supposed to report didn't quite throw me in a panic fit. His not answering my call six times when I am only thirty minutes from leaving the village for Rajeev Gandhi Airport did. I thanked my photographic memory for having remembered the contact details of this other cab-service I caught a glimpse of the other day! Made a call and had luck waving its wand in my favour. One cab was available in thirty minutes. I chose for it. What option did I have at 3:30AM anyway?
 
The cab arrived and I said goodbye to my flat-mate with an awkward hug saying stuff that people usually say when they know they will never meet again. Mercy! Being socially awkward is one bitter sting in my crown of thorns. Anyway, crooning Winehouse's 'You Know I'm No Good', I hurried to the elevator and hopped in the cab. It was still raining heavy and the highway to Uppal did not have any streetlights. Well that's Pocharam for you! I stayed on the edge of my seat that reeked of damp unfresh socks until Uppal, after which I found it safe to take my eyes off the road and plant them on my phone. And it rang! The other cab driver was now calling me and I really felt bad for that bloke. Usually I am the sole victim of my panic attacks and myopic indecisive disposition! This time a classic case of bad synchronization had taken its toll on him. I felt sorry. So taking off amidst torrential rainfall and dark clouds was the least of my worries. I felt like witnessing that Quidditch match sitting by my window seat where a Dementor plants a kiss on Harry as water trickled down my window making indecipherable patterns. The flight, to my relief, was on time.

The delicious meal I was served also blew life in my listless self. The mint leaf resting atop the fruit salad, the scrumptious omelette-foldover served with a rich flavored curry and a corn-potato stuffed fried side-on, the lilliputian bun that I adorned with butter and strawberry jam and a much-needed cup of tea. The meal stole the few winks of sleep I was left with and the little difficulty my eyes had in staying open was instantly eradicated. And I lay all awake and gay. It is the 2nd of November, and I'm on my flight back to my hometown. The feeling was sinking in. Buds of excitement were blossoming one more time.

We descended 34,000 feet to Delhi cutting through the dense clouds that now resembled a colossal cotton candy, and the reminisces of the mild association I’ve had with the city flooded my mind. I hurried towards the gate from where my flight to Chandigarh(IXC) had to depart. Now as I find myself 45 minutes away from home, my flat-mates' state crosses my mind. A train from Secunderabad to Delhi is not as rosy as they made it sound. An hour to the railway station, 23 by train to Delhi and at least 6 to their respective hometowns.

 
At T3 while I waited at Gate 28B, in front of me was an old couple made up of a sad, sickly and nagging wife and his balding man wearing trousers so loose that it could perhaps clothe an entire fleet of Bollywood Item-song backup dancers altogether. The lady's expression was as cold and contemptuous as is Bellatrix Lestrange’s on a killing spree. She maintained it while she kept playing Temple Run on her Apple device. The minute the husband asked for his turn, her answer brimming with spite was ''Let me finish first.'' Then she disappeared, just like her husband's fleeting smile, towards the washroom and didn't return till I was there. And I realized that I have been kept away too long from experiencing the charm of being with someone you can probably crib and complain about forever! Ah, married couples, old or not, make such a sweet journey-free-time fillers.
 
Beside me was another couple in their prime. Their newborn was being taken care of. I was eschewing the ongoings because I know it could have led me to barfing. Why? Because nothing is pleasing about eating out of your kid's jar of 'something that looks disgusting' or baby-talking with him and making yourself look like morons in a lounge crowded with people so full of themselves. I almost thought, "I have had it. No more observations that can drive you crazy, Rishi." But at the final check-in, I see this preened and primped crew-member seated at her desk, a treat for the eyes. You know how we've all met a good-looking girl whose atrocious English makes you forget how good-looking she really is. The second she spoke 'Ladies with childrens come ahead in the queue', the Grammar Nazi inside stirred a storm bigger than Cyclone Nilam that was currently hovering over Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh.

And I boarded the plane full of old Sari-clad air-hostesses welcoming me with Namaste and tired smiles. On my short flight to Chandigarh, I had Ice Age 3 to give me company. This is how I spent my least boring 45 minutes of the day. When I landed, I had my father waiting for me. What I'd never forget is that phone call he made around two weeks ago when he told me in the most Karan-Johar-directed-way ever to "Jaldi Aaja Bas". It made me realize the soft interior that resides underneath his stern look and that expletive-filled tongue. And there we were meeting after four months that seemed more like eight centuries and as I hugged him I felt this heaviness in my head. I knew what was to come, we'd soon be here at the airport together again but only parting for an undefined period of time. You know what they say about "good things", they don't last forever. I returned from Pocharam as a blank page that only family time could draw a smile on. Love indeed is my Achilles heel.

Chapter XII: My Hyderabad Tale

The flight of freedom

Roughly 1800 kilometers away, what dawned on me was a sense of newness. A new city, new faces, a new language (read lofty barrier), new type of food, new job (insert laughter) and a new campus (insert laughter multiple decibels higher). I was soaked in this novelty, but this newness was as ephemeral as joys of childhood. What my myopic-self had failed to realize was how a self-proclaimed non-conformist always wanting to stay independent and take charge had grown so homesick. Believe me you, there was nothing, yes nothing, newer than THIS sinking feeling.

You know how some people eloquently express the high they feel living in the heart of the city! Pocharam Village is where I have to spend at least two years now and following suit, it perhaps lies somewhere around the genitals of Hyderabad. A place it takes two hours of ordeal to reach from the main city; two hours that include changing at least 3 buses or auto-rickshaws (can be more if you are new and clueless). The strongest argument to content my weary heart for finding an abode here is that my office is a 10 minute walk. Less pollution is another bonus, allows my eyes to absorb the greenery from my 8th floor room window.

Talking about room, finding a decent house without having a tiny heart attack each time after hearing the rent was a big deal. Somehow we managed to get a fully furnished spacious duplex at a moderate price on Day 1 itself. Now realizing how expensive apartments in the 'heart' of Hyderabad are, I am happier.

Settling-in included haggling with shopkeepers and housemaids like sickening skinflints. It made me realize how easy life was, how facile it was made by parents and how I'll now have to stand tall against it all. Thankfully, I have my first-cousin living in the city too, so the first weekend was delightful, a far cry from what the impending days were going to bring about. But it takes only one hundred and twenty minutes to reach him, a feat that seems never-ending when your only Apple earphones have been wrecked by your flat-mate a night before you leave for your cousin's. Shed a tear here!

The city feels alive. Uncountable vehicles plying on the road, smoke up in the air and deafening horns only worsening my migraine. It all a sharp contrast to the calmness of my village. Eating outlets are what my village is devoid of and as I crossed every Subway or KFC, I re-ran in my mind the ‘Serenity Prayer’. I was dodging the thoughts of tonsuring the chap who christened our township “Singapore Township”. There's nobody who even delivers anything here. All we have are two below-mediocre canteens that are minting money off the crowd's sad situation. 

Hussainsagar Lake

Other tiny observations: 
a) The much vaunted Hyderabad Biryani (from Paradise) didn't quite please my taste buds. I prefer my mother’s Pulaav anyday. 
b) After loitering at the super-busy Uppal Crossroads like lost lambs, when we finally hopped in the APSTRC bus I saw a female conductor equally gruff as the ones I remember from PRTC. Oh I had a vision of the agility with which I would catch PRTC buses to college every morning without fail. 
c) And once I found myself in an auto whose driver was hell bent on spreading Islam (he asked me to do Namaaz five times and find all the answers to Life in The Quran), who was convinced with Osama's contrivance for blowing up WTC. His logic was as inane as Bipasha's necromancy attempts in the ludicrous Raaz3. All I remember doing (as told) was not to disagree to anything he had got to say until the ride is over! To never cut hair off my chin, to never wear gold and to not revere Churches and Temples- I acceded to everything.


On the job front, our anchor's dumbfounded-look on seeing a good 200 of us crowding the tiny hall he summoned us all in for induction gave away how deep in hot water we were, on the first day itself! Can you blame him? The campus is as big as a rodent's burrow that only has five already jam-packed buildings with no more space to accommodate! I begin to appreciate the infrastructure the Mysore DC had, that being the only thing I miss about that place honestly!

Being on bench and knowing that each passing day is adding a giant naught to your work experience never begins to get daunting. Not for one moment! Because 1) the hope for work to magically crop up remains alive even after your corpulent manager has shaken all the responsibility off his shoulder in a speech filled with candor 2) the bliss you feel on the payday when you know your brain's fluids have not been churned at all.
I know the ups and do realize the downs. I’m losing out on the real work experience. I know, give it a rest! To forget about the downs, I extracted the most advantage out of Gandhi Jayanti. A short trip to Mumbai refilled the energy that had drained out in the first month I spent in the village. Only a 12 hour bus ride to the closest heaven to unwind me. The urge to have home-cooked food was assuaged by my sister's delicacies. My wish to catch Barfi! again with the kids was also granted. Barfi was just as fun as it was the first time with friends. Priyanka's act is unassailable. She brightened up the screen each time. She just stole the show, so much so that we were in fits of mirth trying to enact the “Susu” scene more than once in an over-crowded mall.

Barfi!'s charm makes you fall in love, its subtlety allures you, its exuberance imbues you with reminiscences, it just swallows you whole. It's impossible for it to not unsettle someone, for its music to not cause unrest. I wonder how some music can be so ruthless. And why do some songs first enlivening the clinical heart with feelings then maim it so bad? What pleasure to leave someone like fish out of water?
This heart that had assuaged itself by calling it all a wicked scheme of destiny, had taken being ridiculed for its marred state in its stride and had forcibly forged a seal of completion on those incomplete distanced stories awakes to rekindle that flame. Such is a good composition's power. There's no way you can not let your heart talk in its own way to that song. So much it can bring about, who would have thought?
The only thing I disliked was how Barfi! was so eulogized until it was sent for Oscars. The janus-faced janta forgets the sweetness Barfi! had infused in the hearts of a crowd used to monstrosities like Housefull2 and Joker!

Solitude is a gift, loneliness a curse. I revel in my solitude, I play with words, they assist me in concocting another world, they act transcendental camouflaging me from negativities. I sometimes am a maudlin writer; other times a mean opinionated middle-finger. But I find an inexplicable pleasure in vomiting out words, untrammeled thoughts, my hybrid reflections! I feel like giving it my all, body and soul. My flat-mates seem to understand my forlorn ways well. They do say some exceptionally funny things sometimes and cook amazing food. They sometimes say things that just engulfs me in hilarity. They are extremely fun loving.

They are really nice blokes barring some habits that throw me in fits of petulance! I blame myself. For I've never lived in a hostel so I'm a noob at learning the disgusting ways boys usually live in. Turning a blind eye to cleanliness perhaps is a trait too macho nowadays. The messier, the merrier seems to be the new mantra.
It's not the fickleness that controls his attempts to be a teetotaler, or his locking horns with the maid when she does as good a job as Kim Kardashian does in containing her curves in skimpy dresses. It's not the other's indecisiveness about the course of career, his being so naked to influence, or being so very derivative and a bigtime pervert. Because anyone can put up with that!  What I can't stomach is the pride with which some men disrespect the opposite sex. I ascribe its cause to their lack of female siblings or female friends. But often they get too deep in the vortex to change that or befriend someone! I wonder why they do it; it hardly makes them any cooler or any more virile. But there's not always an answer to something so ingrained in one's psyche. It's like love- blind, mindless and hard to phase out.

I may learn well to vegetate in the village someday, but the yen to fly back home with every phone call I make pulls me stronger. The very thought of them and violins begin to play! Each morning I sink deeper in my rotten futon missing that warmth. But it's worth the wait. My transports of joy are long overdue, and won't be snatched away. Soon all that has kept me from them will get lost somewhere and I'll witness those aging smiles again, that sparkle I bring in those tired eyes will twinkle again. Then all my trifling brooding will cease, my worries will evaporate, those clouds of feeling homesick will dissolve by just that one warm embrace that they'll extend as they welcome me home this Diwali.
PS:  Crooning 'Fly me to the moon' envisioning the wee hours of November 2 that will transport me to heaven.

Chapter XI: A Star I Own

 
There's a star I own of a light so bright

it burns all alone and fires up my nights.

Engulfed in flame, it shines in my eyes.

To rest it ain't the same, its beauty they don't prize.

Like an over-beaten story I knew what was to come.

Recalled it in all its glory, in a million it was the one.

As it shoots from the sky dissolving in the dark,

I close both of my eyes battling an ache very stark.

For all the time it shone till it fell from its peak

towards a fate unknown, nights never were this bleak.

A wish of mine it granted in dark as it drowned.

Got all what I ever wanted but forever having it around.

The star I once owned no longer can be seen.

Now I'm left all alone, it's darker than has ever been.

Chapter X: The Lemonade I Made

Often he gathers wool when it pours, and so drowns in her thoughts and that overwhelming calmness. Those screams inside stand silenced in the deafening thunder. Why doesn't he let them out and lighten his load instead?

Alone she too braves the downpour tonight and struggles staying composed. But the raindrops don't give her away. They become her tears so nobody knows. They conceal her little secret.

Gut wrenching, isn't it? Doesn't rain imbue us with the blues too? Why this everlasting blemish, its never-ending association with gloom? Shouldn't it be a celebration? What those lovelorn hearts have forgotten was when rain cooled their scorched selves and the romance it induced to remedy their souls.

For me, rain is that fearless run to the backyard as her mother chased her for a wipe. It is the utter neglect his heart's arteries put up with because it would get criminal to not join in for fried delicacies. It is ringing your neighbours' doorbells and then flitting like a fly to the nearest hiding place. It is a bicycle ride on flooded roads and a muddy splash in the puddles. It is a football match in the playground that now has everyone in their balconies engrossed. It is the harbinger of romance in those weary hearts on the verge of collapse. It is like love in its nascent stage. It is what makes those free spirits chart on their cloud number nine. It is the sigh you let out that only coffee beans can evoke. It is this fleeting sense of tranquility that takes you over. It is that song you would never want to end. That engaging euphony! Spellbinding.

But rain is a just metaphor I use to depict how we are gifted at finding what we don't like even in the good things in life. Ponder. Just give it one fresh look. Rain is no stranger to stealing away sadness.

Remember there's good in everything not going your way. You are destiny's child.Think. Well don't think, thinking too much has done no one good. Just surrender to life's spell. Delve in the surreality of it all.

Life's pulling way too much out from you, way too fast. There's work, relationships and responsibilities. Stress is lurking right around the corner. Life's handed you lemons, so lemonade you make.

Don't contain yourself, for it is what you'll have enough time for in your coffin. Crave for latitude, to surmount those fetters and flee. Ah! That flight of inordinate joy, wings slapping those winds of change. Consider the change.

Have your spirit rise above the mundane making love with the magical. Rejoice in nature's colourful kaleidoscope. For the fun inhabits in these infinitesimal things. Lull your inhibitions and worries to sleep. Dive in that sparkling stream of rejuvenation and rediscovery. Get a perspective.

There are no joys like the small ones. Let go of the rain-shade and get drenched. Be a part of it, etch good-times and make them last forever. Make them indelible.

Chapter IX: The Inevitable

The alarm tone kills your REM sleep, you wake up and head-dive into monotony. Everything seems same. Stagnant. It’s a new old-day. But has nothing really changed? Do you really sense no difference? Think harder. Don’t you realize that there are no new mornings for him, or he won’t see the sun rising and flooding the Earth with light again? The sun of his life has set forever. There’s never going to be another time you hear that voice. He’s been snatched. No more of his gifts, and no more blessings.

Death is that untamed lion. Nobody can control it, no whips work. It takes lives away. In a fraction of a second. Life, that we relentlessly work towards making better every passing day, seems so fragile. One blow from death and there’s nothing that you have earned in your lifetime that can save you.

Given the number of Cancer cases in my family, losing another life to it does not make it any easier. It is just as grisly as earlier was. It’s not just the end of an existence, the death knells serve as a reminder of responsibility the next generation has got dumped with, it’s the slaughter of those iridescent visions that have now gone monochrome, an adieu to memories that now stand marred.

Death strips you off all your laurels, of all your prized possessions. These distinctions plague only the living. You may have duped a million but there’s no escaping death, not a mortal clever enough. It sees no good or bad. You may be a prince or a pauper, a scholar or a libertine, an epitome of nobility or an ignoble quack. Nobody escapes it. It’s like a black-hole that swallows light. When your time is up, your time is up. It doesn’t come knocking or seeking approval. It just hits, then devastates. It leaves us lamenting. Such is its rage. Leonine. It leaves us with questions, with tears. Parting peacefully is what we have not been conditioned for, have we?

We read books about death, about people on borrowed time embracing their remaining life. Reading those poignant words we feel enlightened; like we know the meaning of life, like we now guard a secret. Tell that to someone who plays the lead in real life. Tell it to someone who has spent his years upping his game, who has been through the crests and troughs of his folks, walked that extra mile for his children and been somebody’s better-half through thick and thin. Don’t these bonds make it harder? Yes. They pull you back and you want to hold on. You yearn for the unusual to occur. You challenge His prowess.

When death corners us mortals, we get down on our knees with folded hands hoping for a miracle. But miracles work mysteriously, don’t they? What is not arcane about the functioning of nature? It’s one tortuous track and miracles are such marvels that keep us hung up on them till  the very last, till that jaded sliver of hope decides to give in, till those bated breaths finally run out.

Death arrives with a gamut of reasons, reasons to take us away; reasons that cut the umbilical cord off for a rebirth into another world for a new life. All because your time here has elapsed and another place in this cosmos awaits your presence.

So is there life after death? Do you believe in afterlife? I certainly don’t. There’s only one life. One life either to live in fear of that unconquerable force or to make the most out of. Only one life to learn from all follies and only one life to thoroughly relish in. One life is sufficient for the bad karma to reciprocate and all your good virtues to repay. Sooner or later. Perhaps sooner than later. There’s always hope.

Chapter VIII: Song for a Stolen Gem

All my musings, they converge to you.

And your ache, it resonates with mine.

Who would fill the void you left?

For not all scars just heal in time.

Shot to fame, and over the moon

got them stars up in your lap.

your tender years were unaware

the price for fame you would have to tap.

For who would lose their own self

In finding what’s not fine?

You strayed from right, you clung to love

Now damage’s done, why whine?

Had ‘What We Have’ And ‘What We Want’

Been not two but one.

You’d known you had your hands full of

For what you’d always yearned.

Torched inside you carried on

that losing game, head high.

Love unusual got your best

Earned you demons, turned you Blind.

They cornered you, curbed your escape.

They silenced all your cries of help.

When you couldn’t contain more pain

Life freed you of all afflictions instead.

If you are a star I’d stay home waiting

For the night you’d shoot from the sky.

I’d wish for you, I’d wish you back

I’d wish you stay all by my side

Now you fly unfettered, free and high

Soaring like those October birds.

Like lullabies to tormented souls

Who’d now voice your poignant words?