Picture this. it’s valentine’s. the entire city is immersed in gifts, romantic dinners, and stolen (or bought) moments of privacy. And I am on my way to the vile parle police station to get details about some two idiots who fired a gun into the door of a congress corporator.
I don’t know why, but for some reason, it gave me a big kick to be thinking about a shootout rather than what I would have given my girlfriend, if I had one.
So I go to the police station, speak to the police, to the corporator who’s come there to give a statement, and to her political opponent, who she has named as a suspect. And while me and some other reporters are joking about outside the police station, in comes a tip off that the senior inspector, santacruz has beaten up a woman officer so bad that she is in the hospital.
Instant chaos.
We all rush to the santacruz police station, while frantically trying to get some confirmation, dialing every number we know. We finally get to the police station, only to be told that there is no woman officer there. The senior inspector’s orderly tells us the saheb is out for patrolling. I suspect he was sleeping inside his cabin.
We then meet some other cops there, then come back to office.
The end? Don’t bet on it.
It was a crazy day, really. Tip off after tip off came coming through, and I had to scramble to file a story on every one of them.
Some guy killed himself outside the MMRDA office in BKC, and blamed an offical in the suicide note.
A wall collapsed in navi Mumbai, and killed two people.
A bride turned all “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” after her would-be in-laws tried to stall the marriage for dowry and went to the police.
Some idiot stabbed a woman, and rumours flew that it was the moral police punishing her for celebrating V Day.
Some college girl ran off with her Romeo, and her father filed a kidnapping complaint against him.
And after I leave the office, I learn that an airlines employee hung herself in her andheri residence.
Tiring? Well, yeah. But you know what? It was fun. Every minute of it. In spite of the headache, hunger, exhaustaion, I was enjoying my work.
Which is when I realised, my work is my Valentine, and I had one heck of a Valentine’s Day.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
I'll Ruin You! Ruin You!!
Last night, I saw her again.
My downfall began the day she entered my life, and she has been haunting me ever since. The whole thing is so crazy I have stopped trying to make sense of it. and she still won’t leave me alone.
I first saw her years ago, perched atop the cupboard in my bedroom. This was long ago, when I was yet to reach the stage where I could afford a mahogany wardrobe. I had two cupboards in my bedroom back then. She was sitting on the one on the left.
I was reading the newspaper, having come home early. My parents and wife were in the living room. I wouldn’t even have noticed her, had she not spoken.
“What’re you doing, relaxing like that?” she asked me sternly, as if it was against the law.
I looked up, and there she was, sitting corss legged, wearing a grey saree of coarse material.
“You’re reading?” she said again?
“So what do I do?” I retorted sharply, not knowing what I was doing. It didn’t cross my mind to think how she got in the house, and how she managed to climb atop the cupboard without anyone knowing,
“Where’s my child?” she demanded.
“What the hell do I know where your child is?” I asked hotly.
My wife and parents came running into the bedroom and asked me what happened.
“This woman’s pestering me about her child. What do I know?” I said to them.
They turned to look where I pointed. I turned too.
She was gone.
*************************
“Do you have nightmares?” my wife asked me out of the blue.
I looked up from the novel I was reading.
“No, why?” I didn’t even dream that often.
“You push me away in your sleep,” she said accusingly.
“I … what?” I had to make sure she really said that.
“You push me away. Viciously. You did it last night as well,” she was on the verge of tears.
I didn’t know what to say.
*************************
It was past 2:00. my friend had dropped me off at the railway crossing some 10 minutes from home. We’d gone out for dinner, and the party ran till late.
Lately, I had fallen into the habit of dragging my friends along. Listening to them griping was better then running into her.
The railway crossing was closed for vehicles due to some maintenance work. So I left the taxi and set off on foot. My friend took the same taxi back home.
I crossed the tracks and was walking homwards when she stopped me. I was lost in thought and didn’t see her till she called out.
“Excuse me,” she said. “can you tell me where the railway crossing is?”
“Straight ahead,” I said, pointing behind me, not really looking at her.
“Could you walk with me till there?”
Like hell I was going to walk with her anywhere in the middle of the night. I had to go to work the next day.
“It’s really close, ma’m. I have to get home. I’m sorry,” I told her.
“No, please. Come with me,” she insisted.
“I can’t ma’m. I’m sorry,” I said, as politely as I could.
“Didn’t I say come with me?” she said raising her voice.
“And didn’t I say I can not?” I said, losing it myself. Women! I thought.
“Do you know why I’m telling you to come?”
“Why?” I couldn’t care less.
“Because I can’t see.”
I looked at her closely. Her face was covered with the ghoonghat of her saree. As I leaned forward, she raised her head slowly, till I could see her face under the saree.
Only there was no face.
Honest. There was just a wide, gaping chasm where the face should have been.
I stumbled backwards. She took a step towards me.
“Walk me till there,” she repeated. I said nothing, concentrating on getting the hell out of there.
“Come with me, or I’ll ruin you,” she said, louder now.
I turned and ran.
“I’ll ruin you! Ruin you!” she shouted after me.
I ran as hard as I could. Her screams followed me all the way home.
*************************
“Do you still see her?”
There was no reason why a total stranger should have asked me this question while I was on a pleasure trip with my wife miles away from home.
He had stopped me in the middle of the street and spoken to me. That alone was reason enough for my wife to get suspicious. That question did nothing to help the situation.
“see who?”
He only smiled.
“You know who I am talking about.”
It suddenly hit me like a shoe thrown in the face of a bad orator by a bored audience.
“Her?” I asked, praying that wasn’t who he was talking about. I hadn’t seen her in a long time.
No such luck.
“Her,” he said, with a fatalistic smile.
“No, not lately,” I said defiantly, as if it made everything all right.
He shook his head.
“She’s not going to leave you,” he said and walked away.
*************************
Two freak accidents have rendered one of my legs useless.
Five men I trusted have cheated me out of every penny I had. I have sold the three offices I owned, and my three cars, to clear my debts.
My wife has left me after the same men falsely implicated me in a scandal involving a small time model.
I have even tried killing myself, twice.
I am struggling every day just so that I can eat two meals every day.
And last night, as I was dropping off to sleep, I saw her again. She was standing near the bed, this time wearing a black chiffon saree, face covered as usual.
I immediately turned on the light. She was gone.
I sat up in bed the whole night, wondering what more she could want from me.
My downfall began the day she entered my life, and she has been haunting me ever since. The whole thing is so crazy I have stopped trying to make sense of it. and she still won’t leave me alone.
I first saw her years ago, perched atop the cupboard in my bedroom. This was long ago, when I was yet to reach the stage where I could afford a mahogany wardrobe. I had two cupboards in my bedroom back then. She was sitting on the one on the left.
I was reading the newspaper, having come home early. My parents and wife were in the living room. I wouldn’t even have noticed her, had she not spoken.
“What’re you doing, relaxing like that?” she asked me sternly, as if it was against the law.
I looked up, and there she was, sitting corss legged, wearing a grey saree of coarse material.
“You’re reading?” she said again?
“So what do I do?” I retorted sharply, not knowing what I was doing. It didn’t cross my mind to think how she got in the house, and how she managed to climb atop the cupboard without anyone knowing,
“Where’s my child?” she demanded.
“What the hell do I know where your child is?” I asked hotly.
My wife and parents came running into the bedroom and asked me what happened.
“This woman’s pestering me about her child. What do I know?” I said to them.
They turned to look where I pointed. I turned too.
She was gone.
*************************
“Do you have nightmares?” my wife asked me out of the blue.
I looked up from the novel I was reading.
“No, why?” I didn’t even dream that often.
“You push me away in your sleep,” she said accusingly.
“I … what?” I had to make sure she really said that.
“You push me away. Viciously. You did it last night as well,” she was on the verge of tears.
I didn’t know what to say.
*************************
It was past 2:00. my friend had dropped me off at the railway crossing some 10 minutes from home. We’d gone out for dinner, and the party ran till late.
Lately, I had fallen into the habit of dragging my friends along. Listening to them griping was better then running into her.
The railway crossing was closed for vehicles due to some maintenance work. So I left the taxi and set off on foot. My friend took the same taxi back home.
I crossed the tracks and was walking homwards when she stopped me. I was lost in thought and didn’t see her till she called out.
“Excuse me,” she said. “can you tell me where the railway crossing is?”
“Straight ahead,” I said, pointing behind me, not really looking at her.
“Could you walk with me till there?”
Like hell I was going to walk with her anywhere in the middle of the night. I had to go to work the next day.
“It’s really close, ma’m. I have to get home. I’m sorry,” I told her.
“No, please. Come with me,” she insisted.
“I can’t ma’m. I’m sorry,” I said, as politely as I could.
“Didn’t I say come with me?” she said raising her voice.
“And didn’t I say I can not?” I said, losing it myself. Women! I thought.
“Do you know why I’m telling you to come?”
“Why?” I couldn’t care less.
“Because I can’t see.”
I looked at her closely. Her face was covered with the ghoonghat of her saree. As I leaned forward, she raised her head slowly, till I could see her face under the saree.
Only there was no face.
Honest. There was just a wide, gaping chasm where the face should have been.
I stumbled backwards. She took a step towards me.
“Walk me till there,” she repeated. I said nothing, concentrating on getting the hell out of there.
“Come with me, or I’ll ruin you,” she said, louder now.
I turned and ran.
“I’ll ruin you! Ruin you!” she shouted after me.
I ran as hard as I could. Her screams followed me all the way home.
*************************
“Do you still see her?”
There was no reason why a total stranger should have asked me this question while I was on a pleasure trip with my wife miles away from home.
He had stopped me in the middle of the street and spoken to me. That alone was reason enough for my wife to get suspicious. That question did nothing to help the situation.
“see who?”
He only smiled.
“You know who I am talking about.”
It suddenly hit me like a shoe thrown in the face of a bad orator by a bored audience.
“Her?” I asked, praying that wasn’t who he was talking about. I hadn’t seen her in a long time.
No such luck.
“Her,” he said, with a fatalistic smile.
“No, not lately,” I said defiantly, as if it made everything all right.
He shook his head.
“She’s not going to leave you,” he said and walked away.
*************************
Two freak accidents have rendered one of my legs useless.
Five men I trusted have cheated me out of every penny I had. I have sold the three offices I owned, and my three cars, to clear my debts.
My wife has left me after the same men falsely implicated me in a scandal involving a small time model.
I have even tried killing myself, twice.
I am struggling every day just so that I can eat two meals every day.
And last night, as I was dropping off to sleep, I saw her again. She was standing near the bed, this time wearing a black chiffon saree, face covered as usual.
I immediately turned on the light. She was gone.
I sat up in bed the whole night, wondering what more she could want from me.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Secret Life of Gautam Mengle
It is funny how one can feel the strangest of urges in the unlikeliest of situations. Crouched behind a pillar to avoid getting shot, palms closed over the butt of his Glock 9mm pistol, the urge suddenly hit Gautam ‘Loco’ Mengle like a bullet in the head.
It had nothing to do with his current situation. Indeed, Loco had no idea why that particular urge should come to him while he was engaged in a firefight with an out-of-control junkie inside a subway. However, there it was, bursting within him, begging for fulfillment.
Loco didn’t even flinch as the junkie sent another steam of automatic fire his way, taking chunks of plaster out of the pillar he had taken cover behind.
“How the fuck did this guy manage to get hold of an M16?” he wondered as he risked a quick peek. The junkie was slapping a fresh clip in the gun.
“Great, he’s got ammo too,” Loco thought, as he took advantage of the lull to dive behind another pillar, this one a little farther ahead. The move brought him closer to the junkie, and also elicited another stream of gunfire. More plaster fell, but the bullets got nowhere near Loco.
The urge was growing stronger now, and he knew something had to be done about it. Suppressing it was not an option. He did not believe in resisting temptation. Like Lord Henry Wotton in Oscar Wilde’s The Picture Of Dorian Gray, Loco believed that the only way to get rid of a temptation was to yield to it.
However, there was no way he could yield to this particular temptation without sending ripples of concern among his fellow gendarmes, who could hear every sound he made through their earpieces.
“Die, motherfucker, die!” the junkie screamed as he emptied the clip and crouched behind his own pillar.
Crouched behind the pillar, Loco heard the distinct click of an empty gun followed by another lull in the gunfire. Making another effort to stifle the urge, he swung into action.
Abandoning all cover, he sprang out from behind the pillar and ran straight toward the junkie, who, he could see, was just discarding the empty clip with one hand.
Race against time, Loco thought, focusing on the junkie’s left elbow, which was jutting out from behind the pillar. The way it was moving told Loco that he was fishing for another clip. He ran harder. The urge grew stronger.
The elbow stopped moving, and then disappeared behind the pillar. The junkie had found the clip and was now sliding it into place. He cocked and loaded the automatic rifle and swung around to his right, just as Loco dove to his left, rolled ahead and came to a stop on his knees right beside him.
“So clichéd,” Loco said. The junkie spun around, straight into the barrel of Loco’s Glock.
“So dead,” Loco added and fired two shots into the side of the junkie’s head, who went down like a log of wood.
“He’s down,” Loco said into the tiny microphone mounted on his wrist.
“Yeah, we heard,” a gendarme replied. “Nice finish.”
“Nice line, too,” said another.
His job done, Loco pressed a button to stop transmitting from the microphone. Then, he sat down near the dead body. He could resist no longer.
Throwing his head back, he started laughing. Funny how you can get the strangest of urges at the most unlikeliest of times.
It had nothing to do with his current situation. Indeed, Loco had no idea why that particular urge should come to him while he was engaged in a firefight with an out-of-control junkie inside a subway. However, there it was, bursting within him, begging for fulfillment.
Loco didn’t even flinch as the junkie sent another steam of automatic fire his way, taking chunks of plaster out of the pillar he had taken cover behind.
“How the fuck did this guy manage to get hold of an M16?” he wondered as he risked a quick peek. The junkie was slapping a fresh clip in the gun.
“Great, he’s got ammo too,” Loco thought, as he took advantage of the lull to dive behind another pillar, this one a little farther ahead. The move brought him closer to the junkie, and also elicited another stream of gunfire. More plaster fell, but the bullets got nowhere near Loco.
The urge was growing stronger now, and he knew something had to be done about it. Suppressing it was not an option. He did not believe in resisting temptation. Like Lord Henry Wotton in Oscar Wilde’s The Picture Of Dorian Gray, Loco believed that the only way to get rid of a temptation was to yield to it.
However, there was no way he could yield to this particular temptation without sending ripples of concern among his fellow gendarmes, who could hear every sound he made through their earpieces.
“Die, motherfucker, die!” the junkie screamed as he emptied the clip and crouched behind his own pillar.
Crouched behind the pillar, Loco heard the distinct click of an empty gun followed by another lull in the gunfire. Making another effort to stifle the urge, he swung into action.
Abandoning all cover, he sprang out from behind the pillar and ran straight toward the junkie, who, he could see, was just discarding the empty clip with one hand.
Race against time, Loco thought, focusing on the junkie’s left elbow, which was jutting out from behind the pillar. The way it was moving told Loco that he was fishing for another clip. He ran harder. The urge grew stronger.
The elbow stopped moving, and then disappeared behind the pillar. The junkie had found the clip and was now sliding it into place. He cocked and loaded the automatic rifle and swung around to his right, just as Loco dove to his left, rolled ahead and came to a stop on his knees right beside him.
“So clichéd,” Loco said. The junkie spun around, straight into the barrel of Loco’s Glock.
“So dead,” Loco added and fired two shots into the side of the junkie’s head, who went down like a log of wood.
“He’s down,” Loco said into the tiny microphone mounted on his wrist.
“Yeah, we heard,” a gendarme replied. “Nice finish.”
“Nice line, too,” said another.
His job done, Loco pressed a button to stop transmitting from the microphone. Then, he sat down near the dead body. He could resist no longer.
Throwing his head back, he started laughing. Funny how you can get the strangest of urges at the most unlikeliest of times.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Nothing Like The Real Thing
I’m sure it didn’t hurt, did it? When you so casually kicked me out of your life, I bet you didn’t feel the slightest amount of pain, remorse or sadness.
I stuck with you for 22 years, and never once complained about anything. In spite of your neglect, even your indifference, I was happy to do your dirty work for you, and trust me, it was indeed dirty work. If you think it wasn’t, try taking my place for a day.
Yet, I was there, always, whenever you needed me, without a thought for myself. Think back and tell me, when was I ever not there for you?
How was I to know that you would one day discard me like an old shoe, my only fault being imperfection? You, with all your faults and fallacies, have the damn gall to separate me from yourself because I’m not flawless?
And whose fault is it, pray tell me, that I’m not perfect today? Mine? Certainly not. It was you who always took me for granted. If you had been a little more considerate back when all the trouble between us began, I wouldn’t be lying here today, broken and lonely.
Believe me, it was never my intention to be a bother. But what happened all those years ago was beyond my control. It was your responsibility to set it right, and you know that as well as I do. But you chose instead to turn a blind eye, and were content to think that our problems would go away if you didn’t look at them.
And look where it has led. A beautiful association of 22 years has culminated in such a brutal separation. And all because you thought you were too good for me.
How could you? That is what really I want to ask. Not whether it hurt, not if it was bothersome, but how on earth could you do this to me?
But you won’t forget me, I’m telling you. Even though I’m gone, we both know that I’ve left behind a chasm, rather a gaping wound which you won’t forget. Oh, maybe it’ll heal, but what I’m talking about is the memories I’ll leave behind.
Even if you do find someone who might eventually take my place, you will never forget me. Because I, Mr. Perfectionist, am the original; and anyone else you get to do my job will be little more than a replacement, a substitute, a cheap imitation.
So go on. May you always be happy and successful in your life. I want you to know that I only wish the best for you, even though I feel a deep resentment towards you for the way you have betrayed me. I’m prepared to part ways sensibly, if not lovingly, even as I lie here in five pieces. Yes, five.
I can still visualize you, sitting back in that comfortable chair, feeling no pain whatsoever, while I was being yanked away from you, disconnected from the man who was my purpose, the very reason for my existence. I was being torn apart, and you were blissfully unaware of it, under the influence of that hated drug.
But always remember, a real tooth is a real tooth. It was me who helped you crunch all those nuts and chew all those bones with great relish, and no fake tooth, however superior in quality, is going to be quite like me. Because, and who better to know this but a perfectionist like you, there is nothing like the real thing.
-- Dedicated to my Dentist, as it was on her Dental Chair, getting my tooth pulled out, that I got the inspiration for this one, while she was tussling with a particularly stubborn root.
I stuck with you for 22 years, and never once complained about anything. In spite of your neglect, even your indifference, I was happy to do your dirty work for you, and trust me, it was indeed dirty work. If you think it wasn’t, try taking my place for a day.
Yet, I was there, always, whenever you needed me, without a thought for myself. Think back and tell me, when was I ever not there for you?
How was I to know that you would one day discard me like an old shoe, my only fault being imperfection? You, with all your faults and fallacies, have the damn gall to separate me from yourself because I’m not flawless?
And whose fault is it, pray tell me, that I’m not perfect today? Mine? Certainly not. It was you who always took me for granted. If you had been a little more considerate back when all the trouble between us began, I wouldn’t be lying here today, broken and lonely.
Believe me, it was never my intention to be a bother. But what happened all those years ago was beyond my control. It was your responsibility to set it right, and you know that as well as I do. But you chose instead to turn a blind eye, and were content to think that our problems would go away if you didn’t look at them.
And look where it has led. A beautiful association of 22 years has culminated in such a brutal separation. And all because you thought you were too good for me.
How could you? That is what really I want to ask. Not whether it hurt, not if it was bothersome, but how on earth could you do this to me?
But you won’t forget me, I’m telling you. Even though I’m gone, we both know that I’ve left behind a chasm, rather a gaping wound which you won’t forget. Oh, maybe it’ll heal, but what I’m talking about is the memories I’ll leave behind.
Even if you do find someone who might eventually take my place, you will never forget me. Because I, Mr. Perfectionist, am the original; and anyone else you get to do my job will be little more than a replacement, a substitute, a cheap imitation.
So go on. May you always be happy and successful in your life. I want you to know that I only wish the best for you, even though I feel a deep resentment towards you for the way you have betrayed me. I’m prepared to part ways sensibly, if not lovingly, even as I lie here in five pieces. Yes, five.
I can still visualize you, sitting back in that comfortable chair, feeling no pain whatsoever, while I was being yanked away from you, disconnected from the man who was my purpose, the very reason for my existence. I was being torn apart, and you were blissfully unaware of it, under the influence of that hated drug.
But always remember, a real tooth is a real tooth. It was me who helped you crunch all those nuts and chew all those bones with great relish, and no fake tooth, however superior in quality, is going to be quite like me. Because, and who better to know this but a perfectionist like you, there is nothing like the real thing.
-- Dedicated to my Dentist, as it was on her Dental Chair, getting my tooth pulled out, that I got the inspiration for this one, while she was tussling with a particularly stubborn root.
Friday, July 4, 2008
You can't battle bad weather and personal demons
Somebody once said that the past never leaves you. Take it from me, guys and gals; somebody wasn’t lying through his teeth. You might bury the shit in your past as deep as you possibly can, and place a tombstone on top to ensure the completion of the burial, but one way or the other, it’s gonna slide its filthy tentacles outta the grave to enclose you in its slimy grip.
When my parents separated, I clung to a vague belief that it was only temporary, and that one day things would be fine again. That belief was shattered when I learnt they were legally divorced. But I was…what, five?...at that time, and grew up promising myself I’d one day unite them, which was a beautiful dream until we, that is my mom and me, learnt that my father had remarried and had a kid from his second marriage.
I had a sister!
Half-sister, my mom never failed to remind me. Step-sister.
The separation was complete when mom married my step-dad in ’96. Game over, case closed, zip up your fly.
Or not.
Dad, who used to visit us occasionally, stopped doing that after mom married step-dad. Understandable. But I couldn’t let go. I kept missing him, wrote and called him at times, without my step-dad’s knowledge, of course.
That stopped gradually, as I tried to subtract from my life the memories, the ever-present influence of the man who had given me life, and then done his best to ruin it. I couldn’t. Maybe I was weak. Maybe I’m still weak.
Life was hell. I was trying to burn the bridges between dad and me on one hand, and trying to bridge the gap between step-dad and me on the other, who I desperately wanted to accept so that my life could be complete again. I was a fool.
I saw dad next when, after a disagreement, I ran away from the place I still continue to call my home. After spending one of the loneliest nights of my life on the streets, I went to dad. I knew he would understand. And he did. Sometimes, I think he was the only one who really understood me. I spent a week with him before coming back.
The past reared its ugly head once again last week, when after my exams, my mom and I went on a long overdue vacation. A mother-and-son thing. She told me some more things about him. Things I hadn’t known before, and which I could have done without knowing.
She also told me he was dead.
My father died four years ago after a short illness, which was the last time i saw him, sick and feeble on the hospital bed. How and when exactly, I don’t know. But he’s been gone the last four years, and nobody thought I deserved to know. And now he’s no more, leaving so many questions unanswered, so many things unsaid.
And I don’t really know how to react.
The past week offered little opportunity to sit and think. But now that I have the time on my hands to think about it, it’s slowly sinking in. He’s gone. He’s no more. He’s dead.
I feel an irrational sense of betrayal. I feel immense grief. I feel so lonely. And so angry at the way I was kept in the dark about this for four years.
And I realize that I’d never really succeeded in forgetting him.
Now that he’s gone, I wonder if I’ll finally be able to free myself. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever be free of his memories, his influence.
When my parents separated, I clung to a vague belief that it was only temporary, and that one day things would be fine again. That belief was shattered when I learnt they were legally divorced. But I was…what, five?...at that time, and grew up promising myself I’d one day unite them, which was a beautiful dream until we, that is my mom and me, learnt that my father had remarried and had a kid from his second marriage.
I had a sister!
Half-sister, my mom never failed to remind me. Step-sister.
The separation was complete when mom married my step-dad in ’96. Game over, case closed, zip up your fly.
Or not.
Dad, who used to visit us occasionally, stopped doing that after mom married step-dad. Understandable. But I couldn’t let go. I kept missing him, wrote and called him at times, without my step-dad’s knowledge, of course.
That stopped gradually, as I tried to subtract from my life the memories, the ever-present influence of the man who had given me life, and then done his best to ruin it. I couldn’t. Maybe I was weak. Maybe I’m still weak.
Life was hell. I was trying to burn the bridges between dad and me on one hand, and trying to bridge the gap between step-dad and me on the other, who I desperately wanted to accept so that my life could be complete again. I was a fool.
I saw dad next when, after a disagreement, I ran away from the place I still continue to call my home. After spending one of the loneliest nights of my life on the streets, I went to dad. I knew he would understand. And he did. Sometimes, I think he was the only one who really understood me. I spent a week with him before coming back.
The past reared its ugly head once again last week, when after my exams, my mom and I went on a long overdue vacation. A mother-and-son thing. She told me some more things about him. Things I hadn’t known before, and which I could have done without knowing.
She also told me he was dead.
My father died four years ago after a short illness, which was the last time i saw him, sick and feeble on the hospital bed. How and when exactly, I don’t know. But he’s been gone the last four years, and nobody thought I deserved to know. And now he’s no more, leaving so many questions unanswered, so many things unsaid.
And I don’t really know how to react.
The past week offered little opportunity to sit and think. But now that I have the time on my hands to think about it, it’s slowly sinking in. He’s gone. He’s no more. He’s dead.
I feel an irrational sense of betrayal. I feel immense grief. I feel so lonely. And so angry at the way I was kept in the dark about this for four years.
And I realize that I’d never really succeeded in forgetting him.
Now that he’s gone, I wonder if I’ll finally be able to free myself. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever be free of his memories, his influence.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
More like me and less like you
i'm tired of being what you want me to be;
feeling so faithless, lost under the surface......
let me first tell you how i stumbled upon this song. i was watching Miami vice trailer on youtube, (You might have noticed my latest look is suspiciously similar to Colin Farell's in Miami Vice) and Numb, (Linkin Park ft JayZ) was the soundtrack. i kind of liked it and looked around for the original. and i've been hooked to it ever since.
dont know what you're expectin' of me;
but under the pressure of walking in your shoes.........
parents, in their quest for the perfect child, often forget that their child is a human being as well. he might have his own dreams, desires, beliefs and opinions. these opinions are shaped by the way of life of that particular generation. consequently, a child grows up with beliefs different from those of his parents, because he belongs to a different generation.
the trouble begins when the beliefs start clashing.
every step that i take is another mistake to you...............
i cant say i know how a parent feels, coz i've never been a parent. but i can guess.
i'd suppose they feel betrayed, let down by their own flesh and blood, who dared turn out to be different than them. some are furious at the knowledge that they havent been able to control their child's thoughts as well as they controlled his actions. some are broken at what they take to be their child's way of taking a step away from them, of becoming distant. and like the proverbial silver lining, there are some who understand. unfortunately, i have yet to come across such a parent.
to all the parents who cant learn to live with the fact that their child thinks and believes differently than them, i'd like to say, it isnt any easier for the child either. get over yourselves for two seconds and try to think about that.
the child goes through a constant tug-of-war, day after day after day. on one hand, his mind is shaping up based on what he sees around him. on the other hand, his parents want to shape his mind based on what THEY saw around them 50 years ago. itz ok if the world works differently today; being old timers, they can just sit back and say "whatz the world coming to?"
but it aint so simple for the child, who's afraid his parents might be furious or hurt with him. bcoz, and this is what makes it so hard, the child loves his parents too.
parents sometimes dont even realise when they become control freaks, in an attempt to mold their child's life they way they want it. they want to know everything he does, and thinks about. they want him to have the same beliefs in every matter, religious, political or social. a hindu fundamentalist hates his son for having muslim friends. a pious mother is scandalised when her daughter tells her she doesnt think it's necessary to abstain from meat on saturdays in order to please God. Parents hug each other and weep when they learn their son isnt interested in getting married. (okay, maybe that last one was a hyperbole).
cant you see that you're smothering me
holding too tightly, afraid to lose control.
'coz everything that you thought i would be
is falling apart right in front of you............
this, i think, is a major reason for the gap between parents and children. there are so many things children dont tell their parents, simply bcoz we know our parents wouldn't understand. and parents think their children dont trust them enough!
every step that i take is another mistake to you;
and every second i waste is more than i can take........
what we need is freedom. the freedom to think the way we want to, act the way we want to. let us make our own decisions, and our own mistakes too. let us learn from our mistakes, rather than trying to program your beliefs into our heads. we're human beings too, you know. not computers.
and i know,
i may end up failing too
but i know,
you were just like me with someone disappointed in you.....
i love you, but i just cannot be a personification of your beliefs. i can no longer be a robot, take in your input and give you the desired output. i'm sorry.
i've become so numb, i can't feel you there
become so tired, so much more aware
i'm becoming this, all i want to do
is be more like me and be less like you
More like me, and less like you..................
feeling so faithless, lost under the surface......
let me first tell you how i stumbled upon this song. i was watching Miami vice trailer on youtube, (You might have noticed my latest look is suspiciously similar to Colin Farell's in Miami Vice) and Numb, (Linkin Park ft JayZ) was the soundtrack. i kind of liked it and looked around for the original. and i've been hooked to it ever since.
dont know what you're expectin' of me;
but under the pressure of walking in your shoes.........
parents, in their quest for the perfect child, often forget that their child is a human being as well. he might have his own dreams, desires, beliefs and opinions. these opinions are shaped by the way of life of that particular generation. consequently, a child grows up with beliefs different from those of his parents, because he belongs to a different generation.
the trouble begins when the beliefs start clashing.
every step that i take is another mistake to you...............
i cant say i know how a parent feels, coz i've never been a parent. but i can guess.
i'd suppose they feel betrayed, let down by their own flesh and blood, who dared turn out to be different than them. some are furious at the knowledge that they havent been able to control their child's thoughts as well as they controlled his actions. some are broken at what they take to be their child's way of taking a step away from them, of becoming distant. and like the proverbial silver lining, there are some who understand. unfortunately, i have yet to come across such a parent.
to all the parents who cant learn to live with the fact that their child thinks and believes differently than them, i'd like to say, it isnt any easier for the child either. get over yourselves for two seconds and try to think about that.
the child goes through a constant tug-of-war, day after day after day. on one hand, his mind is shaping up based on what he sees around him. on the other hand, his parents want to shape his mind based on what THEY saw around them 50 years ago. itz ok if the world works differently today; being old timers, they can just sit back and say "whatz the world coming to?"
but it aint so simple for the child, who's afraid his parents might be furious or hurt with him. bcoz, and this is what makes it so hard, the child loves his parents too.
parents sometimes dont even realise when they become control freaks, in an attempt to mold their child's life they way they want it. they want to know everything he does, and thinks about. they want him to have the same beliefs in every matter, religious, political or social. a hindu fundamentalist hates his son for having muslim friends. a pious mother is scandalised when her daughter tells her she doesnt think it's necessary to abstain from meat on saturdays in order to please God. Parents hug each other and weep when they learn their son isnt interested in getting married. (okay, maybe that last one was a hyperbole).
cant you see that you're smothering me
holding too tightly, afraid to lose control.
'coz everything that you thought i would be
is falling apart right in front of you............
this, i think, is a major reason for the gap between parents and children. there are so many things children dont tell their parents, simply bcoz we know our parents wouldn't understand. and parents think their children dont trust them enough!
every step that i take is another mistake to you;
and every second i waste is more than i can take........
what we need is freedom. the freedom to think the way we want to, act the way we want to. let us make our own decisions, and our own mistakes too. let us learn from our mistakes, rather than trying to program your beliefs into our heads. we're human beings too, you know. not computers.
and i know,
i may end up failing too
but i know,
you were just like me with someone disappointed in you.....
i love you, but i just cannot be a personification of your beliefs. i can no longer be a robot, take in your input and give you the desired output. i'm sorry.
i've become so numb, i can't feel you there
become so tired, so much more aware
i'm becoming this, all i want to do
is be more like me and be less like you
More like me, and less like you..................
Monday, April 14, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Ghost Writing
Just finished reading Ghost Writing, a compilation of ghost by different authors, including John Updike and T C Boyle.
it's not only a great book, for me it was an eye opener. it told me a lot about writing ghost stories.
it told me writing ghost stories isn't only about scaring the shit out of the reader so that he starts hearing voices every time he wakes up in the middle of the night to take a piss.
it told me about the different ways different people might look at the whole concept of ghosts.
it told me how beautiful stories can be written, with even ghosts that can be delightful and endearing.
above all else, it inspired me to try my hand at writing a ghost story.
i'm toying with an idea, and with luck, should begin as soon as i have a concrete storyline to work on.
wish me luck, people
it's not only a great book, for me it was an eye opener. it told me a lot about writing ghost stories.
it told me writing ghost stories isn't only about scaring the shit out of the reader so that he starts hearing voices every time he wakes up in the middle of the night to take a piss.
it told me about the different ways different people might look at the whole concept of ghosts.
it told me how beautiful stories can be written, with even ghosts that can be delightful and endearing.
above all else, it inspired me to try my hand at writing a ghost story.
i'm toying with an idea, and with luck, should begin as soon as i have a concrete storyline to work on.
wish me luck, people
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Could have done without this
i'm reading a novel called Silent Joe right now. while i'll be posting a review later, coz it's a wonderful book. but right now, we're dealing with something else.
when he's six months old, the central character Joe gets acid thrown in his face by his own father, he's later operated, and placed in a Home, with a permanently scarred face, and mind. the father is arrested.
Joe's adoptive father is murdered, Joe's trying to find out who did it, and bang in the middle of this, Joe's real father writes to him, saying he wants to meet and ask for forgiveness. something about how he cant get into heaven unless his kid forgives him.
i won't narrate the meeting between the father and son, i'll just type out the part. it's a first person narrative. here goes:
he came into the waiting area with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. i stepped away from the tree.
Thor stopped and looked at me. his blue eyes caught the light. he shifted the duffel. he nodded.
"Joe"
"Thor"
"you didnt call the cops on me"
"i am the cops"
"yup. dont bust me. i cant do the lock up again. it'd kill me"
his voice was high and clear. his teeth showed when he talked, but you couldn't say it was a smile.
a family came up behind him and split into two parts as they went past. the dad had a kid on his shoulders and the boy towered over Thor. i'd never realised how short he was, though i remembered hid height from the intake records i'd gotten from Corcoran: 5'6".
"you going to let me stay at your place?"
"no"
"i already know where it is."
"dont show up without an invite"
he sighed like he was disappointed. "you sure?"
"extremely."
"yeah, well, i really dont blame you. i'd be pressed out of shape too."
some of the people were watching us now. Thor looked at them and seemed to be smiling. a girl in a pink dress and shiny shoes stopped and looked up at me, then made a face and backed away. her mother gathered her up and i heard the muffled words, but i hardly pad attention to them.
i watched Thor. i had no memory of seeing him. i was ready to feel like i was in the presence of something evil and eternal. but with all his stage time in my nightmares, in the flesh he seemed mortal and matter-of-fact.
"you've been on the TV and the papers a lot, Joe. all the way up in seattle, even. they find that girl and her brother yet?"
"no"
"crazy world"
"you'd know"
"yeah" he took two steps toward me and lowered his duffel to the ground. "shake my hand."
i shook it. my scar flared hot and my bones felt frozen. i could barely grip his hard, rough hand. it seemed like every bad emotion was roaring inside of me, every single bad feeling a person could have, all at once. no order or logic to them at all.
i saw his blue eyes studying me from the light of the station. "it dont really look that bad, Joe. Hurt?"
"sometimes"
"you look good in the hat and suit. expensive, i can tell"
"i shop sales."
he eyed me. "well, look now, i'm sorry for what i did and i need you to forgive me. i've checked out a bunch of religions. and any one that's got any kindof hell, a guy like me goes right to it."
"you should have picked a religion without one."
"no. i wanted a God with some teeth in him. these touchy-feely ones dont get through to me. the bible says i ought to square things with you. eye for an eye, and all that. i got some acid in a peanut butter jar, right here in my duffel. you can pour it on me if that will get you to forgive. it's more than got poured on you. then you could tell me it's okay, what happened. you could see there's more to your old man than the worst thing that happened in his life."
"i forgive you," i said. it surprised me. "but if i ever see you again, i'm going to empty my gun in your heart. from this second on, you dont exist"
with shaking hands i got out my wallet and found three hundreds. i handed them to him.
"good luck, old man. that ought to be enough to get you home."
"thank you, son. great to see you. good luck to you, too"
when he's six months old, the central character Joe gets acid thrown in his face by his own father, he's later operated, and placed in a Home, with a permanently scarred face, and mind. the father is arrested.
Joe's adoptive father is murdered, Joe's trying to find out who did it, and bang in the middle of this, Joe's real father writes to him, saying he wants to meet and ask for forgiveness. something about how he cant get into heaven unless his kid forgives him.
i won't narrate the meeting between the father and son, i'll just type out the part. it's a first person narrative. here goes:
______________________________
i saw him once, through the window, when he got off the train. then again as he walked into the station. same as the pictures, same as the dreams: downy, white hair and beard, potbelly; big head low on his shoulders like he'd been assembled without a neck.he came into the waiting area with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. i stepped away from the tree.
Thor stopped and looked at me. his blue eyes caught the light. he shifted the duffel. he nodded.
"Joe"
"Thor"
"you didnt call the cops on me"
"i am the cops"
"yup. dont bust me. i cant do the lock up again. it'd kill me"
his voice was high and clear. his teeth showed when he talked, but you couldn't say it was a smile.
a family came up behind him and split into two parts as they went past. the dad had a kid on his shoulders and the boy towered over Thor. i'd never realised how short he was, though i remembered hid height from the intake records i'd gotten from Corcoran: 5'6".
"you going to let me stay at your place?"
"no"
"i already know where it is."
"dont show up without an invite"
he sighed like he was disappointed. "you sure?"
"extremely."
"yeah, well, i really dont blame you. i'd be pressed out of shape too."
some of the people were watching us now. Thor looked at them and seemed to be smiling. a girl in a pink dress and shiny shoes stopped and looked up at me, then made a face and backed away. her mother gathered her up and i heard the muffled words, but i hardly pad attention to them.
i watched Thor. i had no memory of seeing him. i was ready to feel like i was in the presence of something evil and eternal. but with all his stage time in my nightmares, in the flesh he seemed mortal and matter-of-fact.
"you've been on the TV and the papers a lot, Joe. all the way up in seattle, even. they find that girl and her brother yet?"
"no"
"crazy world"
"you'd know"
"yeah" he took two steps toward me and lowered his duffel to the ground. "shake my hand."
i shook it. my scar flared hot and my bones felt frozen. i could barely grip his hard, rough hand. it seemed like every bad emotion was roaring inside of me, every single bad feeling a person could have, all at once. no order or logic to them at all.
i saw his blue eyes studying me from the light of the station. "it dont really look that bad, Joe. Hurt?"
"sometimes"
"you look good in the hat and suit. expensive, i can tell"
"i shop sales."
he eyed me. "well, look now, i'm sorry for what i did and i need you to forgive me. i've checked out a bunch of religions. and any one that's got any kindof hell, a guy like me goes right to it."
"you should have picked a religion without one."
"no. i wanted a God with some teeth in him. these touchy-feely ones dont get through to me. the bible says i ought to square things with you. eye for an eye, and all that. i got some acid in a peanut butter jar, right here in my duffel. you can pour it on me if that will get you to forgive. it's more than got poured on you. then you could tell me it's okay, what happened. you could see there's more to your old man than the worst thing that happened in his life."
"i forgive you," i said. it surprised me. "but if i ever see you again, i'm going to empty my gun in your heart. from this second on, you dont exist"
with shaking hands i got out my wallet and found three hundreds. i handed them to him.
"good luck, old man. that ought to be enough to get you home."
"thank you, son. great to see you. good luck to you, too"
______________________________
well, the reason that part keeps rewinding and playing itself in my minds is that my parents were divorced when i was a kid, and i grew up seeing my mother struggling to raise me.
i never managed to hate my father, in the true sense of the word, but i never did manage to forgive him either.
i was kind of surprised at the way Joe manages to forgive his father. i can very well imagine the effort that must have gone into uttering those three words, "i forgive you." even if it's just a story, it struck me hard.
things are fine now. i'm tons more comfortable with my step-dad than i was before, and vice versa. real dad is almost like a memory from another life.
but every now and then, i keep remembering the time when i was torn between love for my mom, who hated, and still hates my dad, and love for my dad, who coolly went ahead and married another woman, and we didnt even know about it till their daughter was about a year old. i have trouble believing that only dad was at fault for the whole thing, but at least mom was there for me all these years. fucking past never leaves you, however hard you try.
the question is, if today my real dad suddenly comes along and asks me to forgive him, will i be able to?
honest answer: i dont know.
damn it, i could have done without this shit. why do i ever let these things come into my head at all?
well, the reason that part keeps rewinding and playing itself in my minds is that my parents were divorced when i was a kid, and i grew up seeing my mother struggling to raise me.
i never managed to hate my father, in the true sense of the word, but i never did manage to forgive him either.
i was kind of surprised at the way Joe manages to forgive his father. i can very well imagine the effort that must have gone into uttering those three words, "i forgive you." even if it's just a story, it struck me hard.
things are fine now. i'm tons more comfortable with my step-dad than i was before, and vice versa. real dad is almost like a memory from another life.
but every now and then, i keep remembering the time when i was torn between love for my mom, who hated, and still hates my dad, and love for my dad, who coolly went ahead and married another woman, and we didnt even know about it till their daughter was about a year old. i have trouble believing that only dad was at fault for the whole thing, but at least mom was there for me all these years. fucking past never leaves you, however hard you try.
the question is, if today my real dad suddenly comes along and asks me to forgive him, will i be able to?
honest answer: i dont know.
damn it, i could have done without this shit. why do i ever let these things come into my head at all?
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
i know some of you are jealous
i know some of you are jealous. i can feel your jealousy polluting the air of my world everytime i get a compliment from a lecturer or give a right answer. i felt it back when i topped in three subjects. i know it makes you burn when i show the initiative and drive and get extracts from books and external references to support the theoretical stuff taught in the class, whereas you're happy to just sit on your ass and mug up all the notes you can get.
maybe you were toppers back in school, junior college or graduation, when it was more about ramming pages and pages of books down your gullets, and less of thinking. it's not my fault if i cared two hoots for such knowledge, if that's what it can be called. i was more interested in putting shit to practice. i flunked three subjects, two in my second year and one in my final year. i have suffered the taunts and the looks that came with failure to pass shit exams i didnt care about. i have been through hell because my B.Com mother couldnt stand the idea of her son flunking, and because my father made me feel like shit just by looking at me, or stonewalled me as if i didnt exist. and this, when i didn't even understand why it was such a big deal to flunk an exam.
it's not my fault if i believed journalism requires more practical know-how. it's not my fault that i was lucky enough to get an internship which only intensified my contempt for the concept of trying to make journalists in classrooms, and deepened my faith in the belief that you learn journalism best when you are out in the field. i have nothing but disgust for academics.
i was even reluctant to do this PG. i didn't want to waste one more year of my life in a classroom of all places. but to my delight, it turned out to be wonderful. i can proudly say i have no regrets.
pride goes before a fall, you say? maybe. but after being a misfit and an outcast half my life, i deserve to be proud. fuck anyone who says otherwise. i've earned the right.
and now, when this post-grad course is finally giving me the chance to put my practical knowledge to test, you envy me? you want me to do worse, so that i can be called one of you. fuck you. i'm not one of you. i'm different from all those who think learning by-heart is studying. i do well because the course is not entirely based on theoretical shit. i do well because here, the lecturers are genuinely interested in making us journalists, and not mass comm post-graduates. and just a post-grad is all you want to be. you still think you can succeed just by the spoonfeed the lecturers dish out.
and when i manage to top in spite of the fact that there're few notes to mug, your ass burns.
go back home, gaze at your school/college certificates where you did so well, and cry. but spare me your unwarranted envy.
i refuse to join you in your mugging up of notes. yes, i will read grisham and archer and christie till one day before the exams. and if i still find the exams easy to write, it's not my fucking fault. you have no idea how hard it has been to be where i am.
i dont give a shit about model students and teacher's pets who're finding it hard to survive in the real world.
go screw yourself.
maybe you were toppers back in school, junior college or graduation, when it was more about ramming pages and pages of books down your gullets, and less of thinking. it's not my fault if i cared two hoots for such knowledge, if that's what it can be called. i was more interested in putting shit to practice. i flunked three subjects, two in my second year and one in my final year. i have suffered the taunts and the looks that came with failure to pass shit exams i didnt care about. i have been through hell because my B.Com mother couldnt stand the idea of her son flunking, and because my father made me feel like shit just by looking at me, or stonewalled me as if i didnt exist. and this, when i didn't even understand why it was such a big deal to flunk an exam.
it's not my fault if i believed journalism requires more practical know-how. it's not my fault that i was lucky enough to get an internship which only intensified my contempt for the concept of trying to make journalists in classrooms, and deepened my faith in the belief that you learn journalism best when you are out in the field. i have nothing but disgust for academics.
i was even reluctant to do this PG. i didn't want to waste one more year of my life in a classroom of all places. but to my delight, it turned out to be wonderful. i can proudly say i have no regrets.
pride goes before a fall, you say? maybe. but after being a misfit and an outcast half my life, i deserve to be proud. fuck anyone who says otherwise. i've earned the right.
and now, when this post-grad course is finally giving me the chance to put my practical knowledge to test, you envy me? you want me to do worse, so that i can be called one of you. fuck you. i'm not one of you. i'm different from all those who think learning by-heart is studying. i do well because the course is not entirely based on theoretical shit. i do well because here, the lecturers are genuinely interested in making us journalists, and not mass comm post-graduates. and just a post-grad is all you want to be. you still think you can succeed just by the spoonfeed the lecturers dish out.
and when i manage to top in spite of the fact that there're few notes to mug, your ass burns.
go back home, gaze at your school/college certificates where you did so well, and cry. but spare me your unwarranted envy.
i refuse to join you in your mugging up of notes. yes, i will read grisham and archer and christie till one day before the exams. and if i still find the exams easy to write, it's not my fucking fault. you have no idea how hard it has been to be where i am.
i dont give a shit about model students and teacher's pets who're finding it hard to survive in the real world.
go screw yourself.
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