Friday, October 30, 2009
1. This note is solely dedicated to a motley group of good-for-nothing’s who call themselves as The MOMO’S. They reside on the Fifth Floor washroom of Usha Pravin Gandhi College of Management, and do nothing which can boast of being useful.
2. This is; as is obvious, fiction inspired from reality. All allusions are true to the fullest, but the inferences are not.
3. Special Thanks to one Mr Sahil khamosh and his line; “…But then, Vinay could probably do many other interesting things than painting…”
4. Lastly, for all the girls reading this note, please excuse the callousness of the thing. I May not be serious about it.
Go ahead, enjoy the note.
“Love, my friend exists on one basic principle. I’ll explain. See, consider love as an Apple. Ok. So first, you get an Apple. Then, you get an Orange. Then it becomes a Peach. After that it turns into a Banana. And then…”
Amit trailed off from that point.
Actually Vrushali passed our table. And Amit’s attention wavered from his fruit salad theory about love to this chick who sat opposite to us.
Did I mention to you that Vrushali was the fresh entrant in my long list of Crushes. Probably not. That’s Fine. Yes, I fancied Vrushali. But…
Looking into the wolfish expression on Amit’s face, I could feel a sinking feeling. A feeling when you know you gonna know a thing which you may never have wanted to know.
“Fuck! Dude that chick is hot man!”
And in my mind I ticked off another girl from my list.
You may wonder why I did not resist. Why I did not ‘fight over that girl, on the battlefield of love.’ Well, the answer is, I did not want to. Besides Vrushali was not that good looking after all. I’d prefer a good friend over a confused bimbo anytime.
But its one thing to give up on a girl. Its another to give up on hopes. Its difficult to see them dashed again the wall, with their congealed blood sliding down slowly, chiding you for being such a loser. But Kamal made it easy for me.
Kamal was the most famous dude of the class. It’s funny that a bloke named Kamal can be the most popular person anywhere, forget your college or class, but then, sometimes fact is stranger than fiction.
I was just idling out on Facebook when a new feed appeared the News Feed. It said that Anisha was committed. Again.
Anisha was my childhood crush’s best friend who I accessed through my old friend’s current girl-friend’s brother’s account. Don’t ask me how I managed to accomplish this wonderful feat. Facebook seems to be a wonder more fantastic than Google.
While all that is not important to you, the important thing is that I had recently developed good feelings for Anisha.
Which again got crashed…
Seems tough does it?
I still haven’t come to the worst part.
Next day, while we guys were as usual fathoming the depths of psycho-sensual unrealities of a girl’s mind, Kamal announced the news of his latest catch. Which was Anisha. Whom he found on Facebook. Much before me.
But I shouldn’t complain much actually. His chances were after all anytime greater than mine. When you have close to a thousand friends in your friend list, the odd’s are heavily tilted I guess…
Anyways who say hopes die? Like a phoenix rising from ashes, they soar high in the skies time and again. Only you have to be lucky to make those dreams into reality. And I couldn’t stand losing.
If all did not go well, I decided I should turn green. I don’t mean I was going to puke. I mean environmental. After all, there’s always scope to recycle.
So I turned attention to matters of past.
Sheena was my ex-girlfriend. Ok, one of my ex-girlfriends. And since I was biting dust everywhere, my love-hungry heart set its sight on experience rather than expectations. In short, I again started to set fielding for my ex-girlfriend.
I didn’t knew I would again be surprised.
Things were going on quite well when I had set up that date. Well, I call it a date. She was just ‘meeting’ me. And so, decided to bring along with her new boyfriend; Badri. Who was one of my good friends and classmates.
Don’t ask me how they met. Internet and Mobile technologies are far too developed to make sense to me. I don’t even know what she liked in him. He makes a gorilla look small and cuddly, he is as funny as singing hyena (which might actually be funny), and he was a rich-spoiled-opportunistic brat. But then Badri could do a thousand more interesting things other than looking good and cracking funny jokes (both of which I do not claim to be accomplished at) He could, for example, drive maniac machines at maniacal speeds. He could easily pick out a fight with any bloke on the street and manage to win it. And not to forget the fact that his ripped body makes ‘Ghajini’ seem meek and timid.
Sigh! I wish I would have been more punctual at the gym!
I must admit, I was sorely tempted to bitch about Sheena to Badri. But I desisted. Don’t count too much on my goodness though. I was just too coward to do it.
It must be tiring to go through all these accounts of failures isn’t it?
I must say, you are in for more trouble.
Or rather I was.
Vishakha seemed to be a girl made in heavens for me. She was smart, witty, intelligent, creative, funny and famous- all that I was not.
And loved reading books and to boss around- all that I knew to do.
So yes, finally I could claim I was in love.
Or so I thought.
I’d like to make it a little melodramatic for you guys though.
Imagine this scene straight from the cinema hall’s screening Bhojpuri films.
The Heroine shouts and starts running in slo-mo towards the Hero. The Hero turns around and smiles flamboyantly. The Heroine keeps on running endlessly. The Hero too acts as if he is Mona Lisa personified. The Heroine runs, the Hero smiles. And Heroine runs more, and the Hero stops smiling. Because the Heroine has crossed the Hero, and gone to... his best friend.
Ok, nothing like this happened with me, but yet another friend of my small group managed to clinch yet another girl from right under my nose.
Yes, Suresh was a better match for her. After all, he was also smart, witty, intelligent, creative, funny and famous, and to add to that he made fantastic movies and wrote touching poems. Hark, I can even imagine them on a lonely hill, on an even lonely twilight, reciting poems to each other about… Loneliness… How romantic! Touché!
I must admit. I was tired of all this chasing and running behind the girls. So when Suresh brought Vishakha to the party, where everyone came with their respective girlfriends (who were all freshly stolen away from me) I couldn’t help but smile derisively.
Yes I give up.
After experiencing all this, I positively envy the entire Gay brethren. At least their partners don’t bamboozle them like bumblebee. How peaceful and stress free their lives must be! Sigh!
But hey, that Chick is cute. Seems my type, eh? Think I should try my hand? Ah, I guess an attempt never does any harm…
But... Crap! Is that Nishant with her! Holy Shite!
I guess this whole business of love is not meant for me. And more so, is chasing and tackling of girls. I’d rather stick to chasing and tackling a football (which is much easier, and less temperamental, and losing which to your friend does not give you a major heart ache.)
Well, I’d just go along and run a few errands. You guys make sure you leave a comment before you go.
See ya around folks.
Friday, October 23, 2009
“She turned to say it once again: ‘Naaley’.
A Tomorrow which never comes, but passes off every time in the hide of dirty, murky Today.
It was their birthday. Of all of them. Thirty years ago, they all had taken birth. Together. At the same time. Same second of the same hour. They all opened their eyes to the marvels and evils of world together. Under the guiding auspices of Capricorn, they all uttered their first cry together. And entered this daily war with pain and happiness.
~ Quote: Sir Salman Rushdie: Shalimar the Clown (2005):
“There is earth and there are planets. Earth is not a planet. It’s a grabee. All the other planets grab it and mould its destiny.”
They too were the grabee’s of this world. Only they didn’t knew how all of them shared each others lives…
Mohan spat with all his might. He spat at the world, which had denied him and made him struggle at each point of his life. A world which took his father with happiness and happiness from his mother. A world which was rich and left him poor. A world which made his wife barren. A world which shirked away from him, considered him an outsider, a migrant. This city, which regarded many foreigners as their own, but refused to give shelter, one small cramped space on its map to a helpless, poor North-Indian.
He was a liftman of a skyscraper. And presently was on its terrace.
Mohan spat to celebrate his destiny, to see himself avenged, to see the world shamed with the filth of his spit, just as they made him feel ashamed each moment for his poverty.
And this way, at the hour of his birth, he celebrated his misery.
Saifee boarded the 12.42 local from platform number two of Dadar station. He was carrying with him a big black bag.
When he took his seat, he accidentally stepped on the foot of the man sitting in front. The man yelped and looked up at him. And saw his black bag.
The man eyed Saifee suspiciously thereafter. Time and again he looked up at the bag and then looked at him, as if to ask him what he was carrying.
After a few stations, he casually remarked to his friend;
“This city is so unsafe these days, I tell you. You never know what happens here. For all you know, somebody might just come and leave a bag here, and let us be blasted to pieces! And then they pray to the great Allah, for peace to be upon him! And we useless humans deserve only bombs… This country is going to dog’s I say…”
Saifee remained silent. He could not have done anything except for remaining silent. What could he have said? He was himself out of answers… For why things happen, and what people think. He was just living… With the daily reminder of the sin of his birth.
And that’s how he celebrated his birthday… Repenting his very existence.
Girish was half blind.
No he wasn’t born blind. He didn’t even meet an accident. When you say he didn’t meet an accident, it is to say that his whole life itself was a big accident. A series of crises and problems without any denouement. An endless chain of disappointments. So he was blind, not by chance or luck. He was blind, because that was the only thing he knew to be.
From past twenty years he had been working in a three foot high, five foot wide loft in a tiny hovel in the Dharavi slums. And all these twenty years he had been working day in and day out on one single object.
The gold embroidery on clothes.
For twenty years on all types of clothes using all types of decorative strings and materials, for all types of customers, Girish had done embroidery of gold. And now, in the dim light of a two watt bulb in his loft, with an impaired vision, he still was doing embroidery.
Because that’s what was left to him.
You see, his wings were crippled.
Someone tore away his legs. And god took away his parents.
Only inheritance he had was self-respect. Blind self respect. Sorry, blinding self-respect.
And taking another step into, death, darkness and oblivion, he celebrated his birthday.
Rishi laughed aloud. And threw away the half burnt papers.
They soared in the air for sometime before settling down on the sea.
After sometime they were gone.
Those papers were the thousand page manuscript of his third novel.
And they went to the same place as the first two had gone.
Rishi could just feel an empty, dark comfort in seeing his hard work of three years drown like that…
But why did he burn it out?
Because he could not stand his own mediocrity. Because he was sick of comparing himself with his fellow friends. Because he was sick of failing to satiate his expectations. Because he was tired of trying to create something.
Every word of that manuscript was copied.
It was copied from all the lives and people he had seen, including himself.
And he was frustrated with himself at not being able to ‘create a single paragraph ’ on his own.
Hence, laughing at his own destruction he celebrated his birthday.
And there were many more…
Rashmi; A call center employee who was nearing the period where she no longer was fit to work in a call center…
Megha; A fashion model, well past her beauty and charm…
Ramesh; A computer geek stuck to manual labor of desktop publishing…
Hemant; A good for nothing, rich-spoilt brat, roaming like a rudderless boat…
Nisha; A housewife, bored with the lethargy of her life…
Satish; a middle level manager of an MNC stuck in his job which didn’t seem to move upwards anymore…
Yogender; A chaiwallah, aspiring to own a hotel of his own, while struggling with his two square meals…
Naina; Who was stuck in a wrong marriage into an extra orthodox family…
And then, there is You, and Me…
Who are bound to forget all of this after reading it… Just like sand slips away from the hand…
All of us have one thing in common.
We are all The Gods Of Large Things…
Worrying a fretting each second. While hordes of Gods Of Small Things pass by.
There ain’t no right, There ain’t no wrong…
There is a birth, and there will be death…
And ‘Twixt them are the rituals of Joy and Pain…
For the Gods Of Large Things,
And Of the Small Ones too…
Which one do you prefer?