Document of Realization. Check!

I remember my first time on a swing without any assistance at this park in the cantonment where my father was posted. Hisar. I've plenty of memories attached to that place but somehow that feeling of being on the swing all by myself has always been with me and I have thought about the reason behind remembering it,vividly so,on numerous occasions. I haven't been able to convince myself with absolute reasoning but the closest I've come to concluding is that it was perhaps the sheer joy of liberation.

The air felt lighter and crisp above the mundane familiarity of the earthen heat over the ground level. I liked how close I could be to the perfect blue sky and grasp it in all its gigantic glory. The beauty of its vastness,the brightness just overwhelmed me. I drew the sky that day in the evening and all I did was empty the bottle of blue and white paint on a sheet of paper and move my palm across the sheet from one end to the other. And I did the same for many sheets and then asked my mother to pin them all together because that was how big the sky was I informed her diligently. So she told me it was much bigger than what I had imagined and perceived. This led me on to painting a few more sheets and she kept pasting them until the cardboard above my study table was filled with blue sheets and my canvas was set. It made me smile,the canvas I had painted. I had a sky of my own so that when I returned home I would still have the joy of looking at it,all bright unlike the night. I used to have the night lamp facing the canvas so I could see it from my bed and before I slept it gave me things to lookout for the next day. An incentive that just grew manifold in practice. As I grew I wanted to know about how and why was the sky blue,how did the birds fly,how I couldn't stay in air for long like them and hence forth. Those were perhaps the times I learnt the most,because I was learning out of sheer curiosity. That was another liberating moment.That canvas was saved for many years by my parents as I kept adding to it. 

First,the Sun, evidently a big yellow circle at the right-hand corner then birds(simple black extended curved 'v' ) which I eventually replaced with pictures of different birds and their names and two features of the bird that made it different from the rest. Then came in trees which made it even more exciting because I then took to climbing trees(and falling terribly times and over,I then learnt gravity was no good,and how being idle is no child's play but a trend that Sir Isaac Newton set forth with much ado) and getting a pocketful of leaf samples to show to my parents and ask them which tree it belonged to and that led me to learning about the different kind of trees around the place and subsequently giving me an insight into seasons with the yellowing of leaves and the blossoming of flowers. And all this happened because one evening I was left alone to be,and fend for myself without anyone to help/guide or teach me. Something as casual as swinging all by myself when there was no one but myself to observe,ask and answer to my questions. From that moment I have had plenty of opportunities to see,hear,ask,learn,draw and write but seldom have I felt the same as I felt back then. 

And I know why.

It is because I have never been that free,for a second time. I live under the shackles of what I have heard,seen and learnt much before I have allowed myself to observe to understand and believe. I have led myself to believe in the preconceived.

Terrible isn't it?

To not be free and just follow what another said and made me believe. I think I think too much about everything that is and that can be but I want liberation now,like I did a few years back for months and years together until the monotony of the usual spoon-feeding trespassed taking away the single greatest joy of life,of being free. So I document this realization before I can make another trip to a swing that awaits me and ironically yet another preconceived thought comes to my mind to set me free, from what someone else said and I'd like to believe that-

It is never too late.

**My expedition be blessed because I just spent hours together thinking about how to not think and to think to make myself believe that I mustn't think. Dang!**

Hamartia. Check!

“Mazim! Where have you been, dearest?

Mazim?”  She questioned, her voice edging towards a slight hint of anger as she saw the five-year old standing outside the façade of their bungalow.

The little boy looked grief-stricken and tired, almost as tired as one is after a day’s work. He had lovely eyes, big and rather grand in the sunlight that peered upon his face under his thick lashes. The soulful set of hazel eyes were recessively inherited from his paternal grandmother, someone Mazim would only know about but would never have the luxury of knowing. The boy was quite the choicest when it came to genetic lineage. He was an amalgam of the select traits. For instance the eyes, the bourbon silken hair, thin lips, and a brilliant set of teeth. Yet his looks seemed to not move his mother one bit. Maitreyi was furious and he could feel her agitation from where he stood, like most kids he was unknowingly cautious of the wrath. But there was something else that he was doing standing right at the beginning of the façade of his house, he was counting the number of ‘Shehtoot buds’ on the vine near his window. He made a tiny trail of marking in the air with his fingers as his eyes scanned the vine starting from the ground. Delighted to find an increase in the number, he rushed right in front of his mother and touched her feet to seek her blessings. Mind you! Mazim was the most devoted son the entire village had ever witnessed.  Dhumri was proud of Mazim Dhar Vyom. And he never let them down. The Vyom’s gave their word for it.

“Forgive me, Ma. It was the last game of the season today, soon the rains will be here and I wouldn’t be able to enjoy Gulli with my friends until the soil has settled again. You were sleeping; hence I didn’t wake you up.” 

He walked past her into the house, avoiding her glare as he continued talking in her best interests, “You must rest more often Ma, Biji wouldn’t approve of such strain on your health.”

Maitreyi caught hold of his collar the very next moment and lifted him off the ground in rapid motion and started towards the ‘Khana Ghar’.

“You don’t eat Mazim! Look at you! What am I supposed to do with you and your nuisance! Don’t you ever feel hungry? Don’t you like what Ma cooks for you? “Maitreyi’s voice was strained with the obvious concern for his health.

She put him down on the wooden seat on the floor in a haste, with his usual pattal laid out in front of him with a variety of colourful delicacies aligned in a perfect semicircle with rice and chapatti spread over the remaining half. Mazim looked disinterested, yet again.

“You don’t like what Ma cooks? Do you dearest?”

He looked up at her with a warm smile and shook his head as if her words had hurt him.

“Nice, Ma. It is nice.”

To this her face lit up with an instant smile spreading across her face swiftly.

“I’ll get you more chapattis!” She struggled into a quick sprint, and then stopped halfway to kiss her son on the forehead before vanishing into the backyard of the Khana Ghar.

The mischievous fellow quickly grabbed all of his food in the pattal and carried it to the Ghoda Ghar  located at another corner of the house. He was tremendously fast, it took him just a minute to go and drop his food to his favourite amongst the race, Bhairav-the oldest of their horses.  A quick pat on his head and he was on his way to impress his mother.

Maitreyi walked in with more chapattis and to her surprise, Mazim’s pattal was clean with no food left on it.

“You finished eating little one?”

“Hanji”

“Is that it? You must’ve been starving. I knew it! Why don’t you listen to me? Eat some more.”

“No…No. I’m quite full. Can I go to my room? I’m sleepy Ma.”

“Okay go. But don’t waste time playing with those wooden toys the entire afternoon, get some rest or else you’ll be sleepy during the dawat at night.”

“Hanji. Hanji!” He hopped to his feet and quickly ran in the direction of his room, tracing the entire length of the staircase as fast as he could.

Mazim’s impulsiveness was seldom compatible with his physical strength. As he reached his room on the second landing of the bungalow he found himself struggling with the doorknob again. It was almost at his arm’s length, just a little higher maybe. He stood on his toes, stretched to the best of his efforts and finally got into his room.

As he turned to face the large windowpane something unusual caught his eye and at the same moment something curled in his stomach making him anxious. In a few swift strides across his room, he reached the wooden trunk at helped him level himself to the window and the view outside. With his foot perfectly set on the lock holder and palm clenching the top of the trunk he pulled himself on top of the trunk to welcome his eyes to the horror. His father was standing with a group of landscapers in front of the house, at the edge of the façade out of which one was diligently guiding his workman to shred the Shehtoot vines off the length of the building to make away for…well horrible “beautiful’ crawlers. Who wanted those outside a window anyway? They wouldn’t even share tasty Shehtoot with him. He would be left hungry every afternoon, there would be no secrets to keep, no memories of sumptuous delight of the vine bearings, no memories of his summertime spent home. There would be no fun, none at all. Angry tears flowed rapidly down the slope of his cheeks as he sat down on the wooden trunk with arms folded across in chest, fingers wrapped tightly into a fist as he trembled with the urge to confront with his father, lament the loss of the vine or struggle to curb the peaking hunger. And somewhere amongst all contemplation, he drifted into slumber that was the sweetest delight that could ever be.

***

Maybe Mazim could have been the next Nawab, or Shahzaad-e-Hindustan…Alas! If only, they had not taken away the one thing that had kept him working so hard. Or maybe Mazim could have never been what he had been so far,the Shehdoot! 

Nihility. Check!

What do I do when I miss you? 

What do I do when I miss your smile? 

What do I do when I need to share that one joke with you? For I know only you would know what it is all about. What do I do when I want to hear one too? 

What do I do when I miss your laughter? I have lost mine too. 

What do I do when I go silent and I don’t have you to kill it?

What do I do when I hear what I did when I was in your arms? Should I avert the song or, replay it? Should I resolve to mute or sing along? 

What do I do when I think hatred is what you have chosen to present me with? All I know is love.

What do I do when I see you stare out of the picture? I smile, mirroring yours. 

What do I do when I look in your eyes? I can feel them addressing me. I know the power they behold, to capture the ones who dare. I did, to melt away.

What do I do when I lie alone at night and think what might wake me up if not the essence of you? Insomnia is not reined.

What do I do when I fight in my head to make you believe? Believe in me. 

What do I do when I think of things you dislike, things you never told me? All unleashed one night in misery.

What do I do when I wait to hear from you? Silence rings in my ears.

What do I do when I think I must leave? My destination fails me.

What do I do when I want to voice my thoughts and tell you how I feel? Sheer brilliance of thy being.

What do I do when I understand you are gone? Search for things interesting.

What do I do when my presence of mind fails me? I question my intellect, and persevere to be better.

What do I do when I know beautiful is what you will gradually find? To know I never will be.

What do I do when I want to go back in time and make no errors? To think I would still have you.

What do I do when I think of times I deliberated to make an impression it came rambling back at me? To know it wasn't your tasteful retreat.

What do I do when I go back in the past and live there presently? To hold myself against the force of time, like an epiphany for my being

What do I do when I know I will never have it again? Must I simply weep or lament? Must I wait or part away? Or partially pry?

Questions so forth in my mind. I keep them low; tuck them to slumber to put an end to the impulsive play.

Curtains close here, to my dismay. Back to the discounted diversion that was once the self I now seldom call mine. 

Nation's Pride. Check!

Operation Vijay [Kargil-1999]

Kargil. The very mention of it gives one an uneasy feeling. A daunting sense of loss takes over my mind. Loss of countrymen, loss of leaders, loss of resources, but most of all, the absence of peace. I was very young to have known what was going on or to even gauge how terribly twisted ties between two nations were. That war was not only approaching but war is what eventually happened. And the family stood witness to it. All those people I cared about, all those I didn’t know about. All the others who would fight for us, to save us, to protect the country’s integrity. I remember asking an elder what the news flash regarding almost every day, it was getting monotonous to hear similar stories of fear, bombardment and people dying with a lot of bloodshed and gunfire in the background. My persistent query was, ”What for?”.

Elders in the family would simply keep me diverted while once I overheard things regarding an International Border and something about a Line of Control being the cause of the issue. That’s when I started keeping a lookout for the word. LoC. And that was the first instant where I saw my father’s job in a very different light. Inquisitiveness peaked as days passed by, and I realized that patriotism was more than an emotion. It drove thousands of men to sacrifice their lives, there was more to preserving the Kargil district, there was an underlying essence of belonging, a sense of pride for a nation.

Operation Parakram [2001-2002]

The entire bitter winter I used to miss my father, for even though I was naïve I knew the winter was cruel that year and my father wasn't as comforted as I was and that had me concerned. I wasn't very well aware of as to where he was. I just had a vague idea to keep me from being scared out of my wits. Our house wasn't exactly the kind of place one could home. I seldom do remember having a happy memory of the place. On festivals, all of the other estranged families would come over to my place and the ladies would discuss their woes while we were left to play. But play with what? I was tired of living a midst wooden boxes stacked up neatly where my bed should’ve been.  Cropping health issues because of the dampened walls and pollen festivity weren't any mood lifters. I remember school very well though, I loved going to school. I was the Class Head then, I liked to head the morning assembly and sing the National Anthem, with my hands by my side, palm bundled into a fist and back erect. I knew why I liked the routine, waking up early then reporting for a pseudo-responsible position, carefully carrying out every command of being in that position; being dressed properly without a flaw (I loved polishing my shoes every morning, tying the knot of my school tie, setting my pleats to my uniform in perfect alignment and henceforth) in a futile attempt to ape my father. For whatever little time he used to be at home I made it a point to get ready on time and see him complete the uniform, the combat green with brass badges and shoes. I remember prodding him for answers to the many questions I had regarding the different set of uniforms, the shoes and went with each of them, the implication of the number of stars on his shoulder-panel, the different metal badges, medals etc. The best part of his days at home was that sometimes I used to get a ride in one of the Gypsy, and my day used to be made as the guards used to salute in the direction of our passing vehicle. I tried my best to mirror the salute.

Days were slow and harsh, devoid of much news. And the one that came was vague, unknowingly distant. There were no phone calls for weeks together and the newspaper was our only source to what went on at the borders. The night the unnerving news of a probable war with Pakistan was extremely troublesome.  Everyone was talking about a “War”. I was still having trouble interpreting the word while the adults around me were making conversation about it. Hushed, hurried, and dramatic exclamations between the constant murmuring. I remember opening my Dictionary to look up the exact meaning of the word and as I read I found more than one cause of worry. There were the words ‘armed’, ‘conflict’, ‘prolonged’, ‘violence’, ‘disruption’.  Overwhelming. The impact of the little 3-alphabet long word was overwhelming. And disturbing. It meant loss, over different levels.

It again brought to me wonder how so many people were ready to let go of everything for the chaos and mayhem that was taking place. Away from their families, and warmer emotions of care and love. Away from home. That night I couldn't hold myself back, and tried to reason with my mother. I poured all my questions under the umbrella of a ‘Why?’ and to all that she simply told me that before belonging to anything (even Home) we belong to this country, the land of our roots and that’s why thousands are ready to save our land from any means sabotage or slavery. That night she explained Independence to me, story of many sacrifices and of one simple glory, one simpler motive- To safeguard the pride of the Nation.

[It’s a dwindling concept almost 10 years from the day I understood the need for it. It is almost as disturbing as the elements of War because maybe somewhere this situation is just a lesser form of the same. I can’t even begin to count or try sharing statistical data to reinforce the cause of worry; all I know is that if one can’t belong to their own Nation and fight for the lag in its integrity then well India can never be free. ]

Forbidden Foe. Check!

“I’m often difficult to love. I go through dark periods like the moon and I hide from myself. But I promise I will kiss your wounds when they’re hurting. Even if they’re in your soul, I can find them with the light in my fingertips. I will lead you to the river so you can remember how beautiful it feels to be moved by something that is out of your control. And when our dark periods match, we can breathe with the grass and look at the night sky. The stars will remind us of the beauty in our struggles and we won’t feel lost anymore.”

— Emery Allen

 ***

Daemon [3:15am, Friday]

Numbing the pain will only make it worse when you see it. It is a fixture.

He had spoken less that night. He perhaps did not want to scare them. Neither could he lie, he had promised as a kid not to. The strain was that he couldn't get himself to voice the truth. It was plain harsh.

Harsh. He wondered. Was that the word to describe it really? Maybe he conceived it too gravely.

And then the phone rang. For the first time since the last call the previous night.

“Hello?”

“Did you tell them yet?” the voice on the other end inquired.

“No.”  He answered uncomfortably shifting his weight from one foot to another as he did.

“Why not? It’s been long.” the voice demanded.

“I don’t wish to. I need time. What’s the hurry?” he answered twice, once in his head and the other in to mind.

“Hurry? Keeping a track of time, aren't we?” The voice gained a treacherous tone.

“Hmm.”

“I need an answer. When will you do it?” the voice was grave, pressing for an answer.

“Tomorrow. After work.” He answered.

And then he heard no more from the other end but the end call tone.

Kyra [8:40pm, Thursday]

The things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end. It is a fixture.

“One double shot Espresso, please.”  She ordered at the counter and handed over the exact change. Then walked over to her usual corner, a glass wall away from the stark lights and kept her laptop sleeve and bag aside.

Just as she had made herself comfortable in the low seating, the small fellow who served her walked in with her coffee.

“Thanks mate!” she smiled at him and took her cup from him.

She looked out at the street still as crowded as it was every morning when she left for work. People walking past in tearing hurry to get to their destination. Vehicles honking one after the other. It all looked so different from this side of the wall. The glass wall was almost like a barrier, bifurcating the two worlds from each other. She happened to have experienced both.

She took a deep sip as she lounged into her seat. It was therapeutic. This was her usual relaxation process. And it was all good except for the fact that everyone who knew her well were well aware of this routine. It was something she would've preferred to keep hidden. This was her time and she liked to keep it so.

Alas. Not all wishes came true. Neither am can one be sure if all wishes are heard in the first place itself. And she was no exception.

“Ma’am?” The small fellow stood at a distance addressing her.

“Yes, tell me?”

Without answering he simply handed over a note to her. A simple double folded paper.

She took it from him as he hurried out of sight and felt the ridges from pressed handwriting at the back of the paper.

She spread the note on the wooden table next to her and kept the coffee cup next to it as she started reading.

Hi.

I know you’d be here in a couple of hours from now. Go easy on the Espresso; it will keep you awake again. Sleep, Kyra. Everything else can wait. Overhauling is only a form of escaping.

I’ll be out by the time you read this. I’ll be safe. So here, I’ve a few pointers.

Wait. Go figure out them on your own.

Take care. Keep your cool.

She stared at the paper for the next few minutes in a failed attempt to read between the lines and try to figure out something that made sense. But no. She could derive no sense from it and that made her edgy again. Restless. She folded the paper back into half its size, gulped down the rest of the Espresso in a manner to claim her peace again but the action didn’t yield even fleeting mercy so she picked up her bags and walked out of the hideout towards 4^th Avenue in a half agitated sprint.

Daemon [5:50am Friday]

He had been pacing along the periphery of the bed for over two hours now. Sleep was nowhere in sight and neither was the answer to the questions that flooded his mind. And the one that he had addressed couldn't be brought to light. He didn't want to be impulsive. He was ready to pay the fine for being complacent this time. This wasn't a matter to be hasty about.  Sadly, time wasn't on his side.

 Sadly he would never get to be where he wished to be. Sadly this had always been the case.

He walked to the table at the other end of the room where he took a sheet of paper and let himself spill all that he couldn't voice. It seemed a lot easier to him. He wouldn't have to bother about in-person dynamics. Or so he liked to believe. Or so he now conveniently believed.

Kyra [10:02pm, Thursday]

She came out of the elevator at the 11^th storey and hurried across the halfway to the open facade of her apartment. She quickly rummaged into her bags for the keys to the front door and unlocked it hastily. She took her time to dump things in their place only to be welcomed by familiar emptiness of her haven. It made her more restless. Every passing moment felt heavy from a burden that she neither could place nor comprehend. She sat on the stool adjacent to the kitchen shelf and grabbed a bottle of water for herself. In less than a minute, she had drowned a liter of it.

A thought circumferenced her mind then, a fleeting yet one full of provocation. And for now it answered many questions in her mind, solving the little rut of puzzles one at a time, fitting perfectly. And that is when the room went dark and she hurt her elbow against the shelf.

Daemon[6:07am,Friday]

He finished his sentence with a full stop, a punctuation mark he regarded as of great relevance and symbolism alike. He had closed yet another chapter, and this was his one and only.

He sat on the floor with a sudden heaviness in his knees, his conscious mind was awake and aware. It had been days to such an occurrence, today it came with all its wrath. Kyra did not exist. There wasn't one like her(quite so) and then there was no Kyra. His muse, his beloved, his world in four alphabets strung together with abundant meaning not only was non-existent but persistently called a figment of his imagination. Terrible. Terrible. His existence itself could be one, a mere figment of someone else’s mind because in his own it was never ground, only fluid where he could have never found anchorage if it wasn't for her – like gravity she held every bit of him to something concrete where he could walk, run and fly. To know that all that was merely fiction was no less than a dagger to his heart. And his mind. Painful,it was painful to his mind. It lasted only a few minutes, the agony of bitter reality and of real-ness until his head hit the floor and for one last time he heard that familiar voice-calm and comforting like none could ever be. She had him in her arms, stroking his hair in an instant of comfort that was infinite and here, ultimate.

   ***

***Brethen Asylum and Rehabilitation Centre

      Block-A,Sheol  Street-2

      Nemunhan

Patient Name : Daemon Calliagros

Date of Birth : 9 November 1967

Identification mark : Dimple on right cheek

Date of Demise : 1 October 1999

Statement of Demise : Intracerebral hemorrhage

 Diagnosed with Schizophrenia at the age of 19. Rehabilitated at the age of 21,repeated attempts of isolation and derangement.***

The Scientist. Check!

Sometimes I wonder how things could be...
Like a silhouette could speak for the heart, like the mind could dream reality, like I could sing and be heard, like I could believe and behold

Like tides could wash away the sand of sorrow,
Like the ship o’er the horizon deliberates the route further wish I could too, have a cautious emotion

Like happiness could be collected and treasured like the sea shells on the shore, so I could easily wrap one in my palm, dust away the sand of time with my fingers and stroll

Like the sea breeze, I could embrace the taste of nature. Like I could heave and sigh with the rhythm of tides and catch my breath at the marvel called life. Like I could strum the chords (Em7-C-G-D6-Em7-C-G), beat the snare, play the flute and have Mozart write for me every encore in thy name...I could outplay the test of times...

Like I could hum a mellow romance for you, like I could speak of how words fail me when I reach the place where you left me, for it is the same where I found you. It is beyond science and reasoning, it is perhaps like a symphony from the sea, some hear it, and some don’t. I hear it, but darling do you?

Like a midst all quiet there’s a sudden uproar, a pounding beat...a perfect score, do you hear it like I do? It is a melody people seldom do find. It is beyond the horizon, near yet another start.

Like the sunset goes curtains raised on a starlit stage, let me and you waltz through the wings, like the world was our stage. Like we could narrate all science and fiction through a medley of thoughts, voice them this once, and keep silence at bay

And then again, wish I could open my eyes, and tell you what it is like to believe, and think of all that’s unwritten, unspoken and unheard of, and then feel it pulsating in my head. Through every nerve it travels, a voyager of sorts, I need to unnerve to voice it. By then you are gone.

Like the inquisitive mind dares to know what the world knows, curiosity clouds my mind, to think the way you think. Symphony! Symphony! Symphony! I want to create. Like I could sing starting over from where we left last...Sand slips through my fingers, the shell remains, near my ear it whispers a note for me to begin, and that I shall from where you lead,I will accompany...

Tipping Point. Check!

As far as I can see,

For most of it that I hear

I know I'm here,

For there isn't another place where I should be, or maybe there is...

Considering that one believes I am,

But maybe I am not,

I can't be certain, until you observe

I’m not quizzical, that’s just what certain Physics portrays

I feel, I yearn, I crave

There’s a loop after loop, and in one there are many, and many more from there

Skewed in normal geometry,

Like an unfair dimensional play

The agony of loops, in my being, remain astray

They could but perhaps never lend reason,

Conflicts that arise in my pre-frontal cortex and limbic system,alike yet differently

Like open ends of a infinite straight chain,

One yields, the other casually denies

Layers build one after the other,

Structured in parallel and anti-parallel routines,

Almost like a second nature to them

So there is one, where I exist

And then there are many, where I may or may not be

In loops, and layers,in dimensions(one or many)

That you will see only if you observe

And perhaps make me be.