Rendezvous with The Other

What's your story?

I don't have a story. If you look at my life, you'd find incidents, a variety of them. It is tough to find a common thread because there really isn't one. You could try making sense of them, arguing, justifying, despising. But does that make my story?

Does that mean it is a collection of stories?

Maybe. You'd rather ask the author!

Are you not the one writing them?

I live them, I don't take the trouble to conceive stories.

Do you conceive ideas then?

Ideas? They are funny things..migratory birds that perch on the branches of your little mind for a short while. If you make too much noise around them, they fly away. If you're a skilled hunter, you can shoot them down or cage them perhaps. You can also watch them nest on your offshoots and do nothing about it if you're selfless or generous or..incurious?

So how do you react when a bird perches on one of your offshoots?

I've done all of them voluntarily or involuntarily. Sometimes in the excitement of finding a blue-tailed rarity, I end up scaring it away. There are times when I think I've spotted a singular piece, but all I have is an elusive shadow. There are those prized moments when I manage to tame the thought and make peace with it.  And when I'm tired of keeping vigil, hunting and domesticating those mysterious creatures, I just let them be.

Won't they feel unwelcome if you don't pursue them?

I don't think they come to me to be pursued. They arrive out of instinct and they go for natural habitats, not concrete buildings constructed meticulously to the tiniest detail. So if you cut out all that wilderness in the recesses of your mind, they might just stop coming.

How wild is your sanctuary?

I've not touched the core yet. I'd like to believe that there are vast stretches of unexplored forests beyond where I've been. Like it's just the tip of an iceberg that I can see.

Where all have you been?

Where the sun is beaming and the grass is green

Where the moon is tender and the green is shy

Where the sun goes down and the moon draws nigh

And the leaves are phantoms tripping neath the sky

2. The Balloon Man

Ramu, fondly addressed as Ramuji, turned seventy that year. There were creases on his forehead but his skin shone in glee. The colour in his eyeballs had faded but the twinkle in them hadn't. His nose had become crooked yet it seemed to pull a quick one at itself. His pink cheeks were sagging but the curve of his smile held them up. Naked jaws hid behind his pencil-thin lips but a yellow tooth still stuck out in all its boldness. The flimsy stubble on his chin was as white as snow but not the little hair that peered out from the sides of his head. Age tried to tamper with his body, but the happiness in his soul was visibly overpowering. Clad in a clean checkered shirt and dark cotton pants, he still exuded the vibe of a dandy he used to be in his prime. Everyone who knew him unanimously declared, "If life appoints an ambassador, it has to be Ramuji!"

Ramuji was awakened in the mornings by the first rays of the sun coming into the interiors of his chamber through a half-opened window. The daily rituals of the old man began with an intent communion with his late wife, whose picture adorned the wall opposite to his kingsize bed.

"And here I am, taking leave from you

to breathe in the newness of another day

But don't you worry darling, I'm not afar

dusk shall fall upon us, mortals and

I shall return to you with untold tales", he prayed.

A few verses from the holy scripture which he had memorised as a child, completed the supplication. After a hot bath, he rode down to the neighbourhood park. He was healthier than most people of his age thanks to the active lifestyle he maintained. His bicycle was painted bright red with lemon yellow on the crossbars. Though largely discoloured, it looked like a miniature jungle gym with wheels. To the few early risers who caught a glimpse of the merry old man biking in the wee hours of the morning, it was almost like a herald of good tidings.

Ramuji sat on the parapet outside the park, watching countless number of pigeons alight on the minaret that stood across the street. Sometimes he managed to strike a conversation about the weather or politics with one of the joggers. On his way back, he stopped at a coffee shop to have breakfast. He was a regular there and the shop-owner, Danny was the son of an old friend. A wholesome meal comprising of a plate of boiled eggs, a few slices of brown bread and black coffee was laid out on the front table as the ringing of the bicycle bell reached Danny's ears. "Thank you Danny boy!", Ramuji exclaimed as he relished every morsel of it. He always did. The sight of a sumptuous meal brought back memories of the days when he was a teenager riding around town with a beaming face and a growling stomach, looking for little children tugging at their father's trousers to buy them a pair of variegated balloons tied to his bicycle handle.

At around eleven, Ramuji got to his desk making diary notes about the many different things that consumed his old brain. He always wrote in black ink, using a fountain pen with a golden nib that made writing seem like a regal experience. It was cathartic and the parchment absorbed every drop of the ink. If you scoured through his wooden cupboard, you'd find a record of every single day of his journey from a dewy-eyed balloon-vendor to an astute businessman. When his son Hari took over the bike manufacturing business twenty years ago, he retired to the comfort of his two-storeyed villa, far from the hubbub of the city. It was built when the business began to thrive and the wheel of fortune turned in his favour. Hari lived in the city close to the factory and visited his father every weekend. He brought his kids most of the time and they loved to spend their vacations with him. They were fascinated by the multi-coloured balloons their grandfather got them. Lately, Ramuji had been writing a lot of letters to his dead wife, telling her how adorably naughty their grandchildren had become and how fast they were growing and how much he missed them when they went back after every visit.

The serenely silent mornings were interrupted when twenty-year-old Meenu rang the doorbell. She fixed lunch for Ramuji, which consisted of a small portion of rice, roti, dal and sabzi. Meenu was a good cook for she cooked with love. Meenu's father, Pappu used to work in the factory when it was looked after by Ramuji. She was a kid then. Ramuji used to give her chocolates whenever she came to the factory holding onto her mother's little finger. When he crossed fifty, Pappu left the job at the factory and became a watchman at the villa. He came around at dusk and left when the sun came up. But he was always a call away since he lived less than hundred metres from the villa.

After lunch, Ramuji reclined to his chamber. During those short naps, he often dreamt of his younger days when he and his friends used to go fishing in the lake behind his house. These dreams took weird twists when a wild lion appeared by his side, brushing its mane against his shriveling body. Sometimes he saw a herd of sharks darting towards him as he stood by the seashore or a giant eagle swooping down on his partially bald head. He did not remember being too scared when he woke up. But the beads of sweat on his forehead gave him the aftertaste of an excruciating struggle for survival. Sometimes it was so intense that he felt someday he wouldn't be able to free himself.

In the evenings, he went over to the country club for a game of cards with his buddies. All of them were in their late 60s or early 70s, leading peacefully retired lives. They laughed over old jokes and teased each other with stories from the past. By the time he returned home, Pappu would be slouched up in the portico, smoking a beedi and staring into infinity. Meenu packed dinner for the two of them. As they ate together, Ramuji rambled on about the frogs croaking in the garden and the rocking chair that screeched too much. Pappu delved into his own world of thoughts, contributing an opportune nod or an empathetic smile to the conversation. There were visitors on festive occasions. Ordinary days were mostly drab and Pappu's presence mattered. They knew the end was not far and any disparity felt trivial then.

Ramuji went to bed early. He often lay awake for hours reminiscing about that wintry morning he met his wife for the first time. In the comfort of darkness, he relived the love that withstood many a trial, unknowingly slipping into an esoteric realm to which he would eventually lose his soul. The stillness amazed him. The experience was so mesmerizing that he turned into an embodiment of sublime affection. There was no sense of separation. Relieved from the preoccupations of a wakeful spirit, he felt one with a higher reality.

Ramuji was growing old, giving in to life yet never giving up. One of those days he surrendered his all. It was a silent death. It was late afternoon and he was sleeping when he started breathing hard. A gasp or two and he was gone. Like a balloon blown out of sight by a wind passing by, he was forgotten and rendered insignificant with time.

Story 1: Lampposts

Scented skins, fiery breaths and sprightly steps

Marked her trail where none paid heed to yelps

It was nine-ish when Nisha got out of office. Mumbai being the city that heartily welcomes all strugglers and dreamers, she soon got lost in the crowd that was hurrying to head back home after a long day. Now that she was a twenty-four year old go-getter, what had been a waking dream in her teenage years had transformed into a challenging reality. She was one among the many youngsters who fantasized of seizing the pinnacles of fame and success in the thriving media industry that breathed life into the city of dreams.

Nisha was an unusually pretty girl with deep brown eyes set against clear creamy skin, thick dark curls that extended to her waist and an hour-glass figure with no extra pounds. The blackness of her kohl was in stark contrast to her diamond-studded nose ring, lending her the aura of an ethnic diva. She could easily slip into any piece of clothing, be it an edgy denim shorts or a custom-tailored salwar suit. Confidence exuded from every part of her body that sizzled in tastefully sexy clothes. Being irresistibly attractive, Nisha was used to all kinds of stares - the perfected dirty looks of oglers, the sheepish smiles of gawky boys, the wishful gaze of aspiring girls, the 'who's that bitch?' glance of envious peers - all of them. It hardly shook her self-assured gait, if anything it only added to her belief that she was born to stand apart from the crowd. 

That Saturday night, she was visibly disturbed. The sweet and spicy paani puris to which she treated herself every evening didn't seem to do the trick. Her life was spicier and it tasted aweful, unlike the paani puris passing through the deft fingers of the man who confirmed beforehand whether his customer liked it theekha or medium. Maybe the dal-chawal cooked by her mother more with love than measured quantities of spice, would have helped. But that seemed very far now. She had come a long way ahead.

Ten minutes later, Nisha was opening the door of apartment D-404 inside Sun Valley residential complex in Lokhandwala, a posh neighbourhood in Andheri West. The people in the society were cautious while letting out the place to young girls, especially if they worked in the media. "You know the kind of life they lead, these girls drink and smoke and come back at odd hours" they said.

The sparsely furnished two-bedroom-hall-kitchen was inhabited by three other girls brought to the city by similar aspirations. Mahima aka Maahi, who shared the room with Nisha, worked with a production house whereas Janvi and Pooja, worked in the creative department of a bustling ad agency.

It was destiny that brought them together. Janvi and Pooja who were friends from college found a partially furnished apartment through a broker. They had to pay a rent of thirty grands apart from a brokerage fee which constituted a month's rent. To reduce the financial burden, they decided to sublet the apartment and began looking for two other roommates through popular sites like sulekha.com and Facebook. At the time, Nisha was put up as a paying guest with an old Punjabi lady who had recently lost her husband. Despite the lady's tantrums and unwarranted interference, they did strike a rapport in the initial days but as work hours turned haphazard and weekend bashes became regular, their relationship hit rock bottom. On seeing the ad posted by Janvi and Pooja, Nisha along with her best buddy Maahi, got in touch with the two and moved in soon afterwards.

Though they belonged to different parts of the country, the four understood and supported each other in ways those alien to their world could never comprehend. Blood was indeed thicker than water and as they grew older, they realized this was true. But it was water that proved accessible, not blood; be it in times of distress or rapture.

Maahi was quick to read Nisha's face as she threw the bag on her bed.

"Nisha, what's wrong?" Maahi inquired.

"Same shit Maahi! I'm getting screwed day by day. I can't take it anymore.." Nisha blurted out as she slumped into the bean-bag and lit a cigarette.

"Oh your boss again? Fuck it man. It's high time. You'll easily find another job." Maahi tried to soothe her friend's nerves.

After graduating from a premiere media institute, Nisha began working for HTV as an assistant to Miss. Sonali Sapra, one of the leading creative directors in the television industry. Incredibly talented, Sonali was a self-made woman in her early thirties. She had made it to the top through her unflinching determination even when the odds were against uncouth small-towners who grappled with the predicament of conforming to a bohemian world. Some believed that her arrogance was justified given her tumultuous journey while many others despised even the sight of her. Like all creative geniuses, Sonali was a bundle of eccentricities and Nisha was tired of puppet-dancing to the tunes of her capricious boss. Her nightmare began just a week into the job and she had successfully survived six months of torture before her fighting spirit began to dwindle away.

"Comeon its a weekend. Go out n' have some fun!" Maahi suggested.

"Yes babes, I need a drink. Wait, let me call Sid" mumbled Nisha.

Siddhant aka Sid was Nisha's boyfriend. He came into her life when she was dabbling in a frivolous rebound soon after her first breakup. Sid and Nisha took an instant liking to each other when they met for the first time four months ago at Maahi's birthday party. He didn't really have to pursue her because deep down she had been yearning for someone like him. In his late twenties, Sid was a writer and film-maker who ran his own production house. With neatly trimmed hair and toned abs, he looked more like a banker than a creative junkie. He studied filmmaking at the London Film school and  thereafter moved to Mumbai, for a part of him always felt stranded in a land that didn't recognize his roots. Sid was a manifestation of all that Nisha aspired for and knowing him gave her the vicarious thrill of touching the summit of her life. He was attracted to her in the first go. Everyone was. And they got talking over a pint of chilled beer. The intoxication was potent enough to tease the guard of lesser mortals, but not so much as to lay them threadbare. Needless to say, they exchanged BB Pins and much more in the days that followed. Through the endless conversations, their souls met and their bodies had no choice but to give way.

When Sid arrived half an hour later, it was the tantalising fragrance of toiletries that greeted him. He always loved this welcoming. If you could take a sneak-peek at the workings of his highly graphical mind, you'd know why. Nisha donned a sea-green floral tunic paired with matching stillettos, her chic elegance in sync with the breezy monsoon night. As she hustled around perfecting the greenish streak in her eyes, Sid made himself comfortable on the bed, eyeing Nisha from a corner like a little boy admiring the colours of a soap bubble he just blew.

D-Lounge was crowded as usual. In the dimly lit room buzzing with the sounds of chatter and high-energy music, the bartenders hastened through the orders in an adept manner. The tables were all occupied leaving them with no choice but to squeeze their way amidst the dedicated drinkers stationed near the counter. Several minutes later, they found a table. As Nisha sipped at her glass of vodka, lost in thoughts, Sid looked at her questioningly.

"I don't know where I'm headed..seriously! I can't take this shit anymore. And I've just begun. Wonder how that bitch got to where she is today. Maybe that's what you need to be to make it big here..a bitch.." Nisha maundered.

Sid smiled.

"Bitch or not, talent talks baby.. and that's what you have. You just need to be patient till you get the chance to prove it", he said.

"If this is the way it's going to be, I'll never get that chance"

"It's been six months now, eh? Why don't you try some place else?"

The thought had occurred to Nisha not once, but several times. But everytime she felt the urge to walk out the gates of HTV Studios, she feared it might be the most foolish decision of her career. And everytime, she convinced herself to stick around because not everyone gets the opportunity to assist the all-important Sonali Sapra. But if that meant throwing herself into the abyss of self-doubt, was it worth it?

Nisha looked deep into Sid's eyes.

"Do you think I should?"

"The show doesn't stop with one Sonali Sapra. Get your act together sweets" Sid paused for a while and gently held her hand. That was the first time that night she felt the warmth of his skin. It felt as good as it always did.

"Do you want to join me? And don't worry.. I can't be the quintessential bitch. That's not my area of expertise :D" Sid quipped.

Nisha looked demure as she giggled regardless of the jitters.

After getting out of D-Lounge, they drove down to Versova jetty. The midnight air was laden with the reminiscences of the rain that washed the city a few hours ago. It wasn't silent even at that hour. Mumbai is never silent. Someone somewhere is forever up and running, chasing an elusive epiphany. They gazed at the zestful waves lapping against each other as the stars shone down on

two wayfarers seated on a salt-kissed rock by the shores of an infinite ocean. It was past 2am when they finally got home. Maahi was not back yet. Probably she'd stay back at a friend's place. Afterall, it was a Sunday and you could afford to skip the daylight. As Nisha opened the door, Sid held her from behind, his hands wound like a creeper around her waist. He softly kissed her neck and shoulders, shutting the door after him with one foot.

Foreword 

Slice of Life

I thought about all the different things I might want to write about - the world through the innocent eyes of a child, the challenging journeys of young men and women who set out to conquer their dreams or the wisdom that dawns upon a man through many years of living. But I have outgrown the innocence I had as a child and I've not yet conquered my dream. I can write best about what I have seen and heard and experienced - people and circumstances that are real to me. Hence, I decided to dedicate this book to some of the most striking characters I've known and interacted with as I struggled to find meaning and excitement in every waking moment. This book is about people and their truths - some, I've fashioned according to my whims, some I've known from a distance, and some, very much a part of my life.