Life of Another

Somewhere between 8.30 and 8.45, in the morning, on every week day I had gotten used to the calls of “where is my blue tie, where is my wallet, where are my blue socks”. Most of the time they were right in front of his eyes. Yet he called for me let me find it for him, give him a glare, shake of my head or just hand it to him and walk out a winner. 

The chaos silenced itself with the click of the front door shutting, when he left. All that remained after that was the memories of a sensation of rubbing against him to reach to the bureau chests for his hanky and looking into his eyes while handing him his cufflinks lying in front of him.

The quick volley of Ding Dong Ding Dong, put an end to my sensations. I kept the half finished tea and walked to the door and looked through the pin hole. Standing was a slim lady wearing a polka dot skirt, a large hand bag dangled from her angled hands and her shades was perched as a tiara. I opened the door and looked at her. She smiled looking straight into my eyes.  

Ruchi told me your address and I thought I should surprise you.  

My poker face stared at her twinkling eyes. She was even more amused at me not recognising her. She cocked her slightly to one side and transformed her bright smile into a naughty smile and I my rising suspicion almost forgot to notice the morphing of the smiles and I narrowed my eyes to a question. She stopped smiling and fluttered her eyes in mock offence and said.   

Remember Sharmilee ? 

Even on an over drive speed my brains came up with what I expected. Nothing! 

She had her eyes wide in mock dismay and said...  

Sharmilee from Gyan Mandal school roll no 48.  

The coin dropped and my pupils jerked themselves to 300%.   

I screamed ....  

Gangly, Potly,  

and Sharmilee joined me  

Rufly  

I jumped and hugged her squeezing the air out of her lungs and she reciprocated.  

It is easy to be a misfit in a chic gathering but Gyan Mandal school was neither elite or chic in our city, hell even in the state. Even in that; Ruchi, Sharmilee and me were social misfits. In class 8 we oiled our hair and our uniform Kameez was large enough for another to get into it and hell even our shoes were polished. 

The janta was merciless on us and teased us to no end, we cried, sulked and even complained to the teachers but nothing helped, until we took the fight to our own hands and outrageously named ourselves Gangly, Potly and Ruffly. The new names breached the extreme that the bullies could go to and hence they backed out. The names stuck and for the rest of the 4 years no one dared to cross us. Couple of years more we may even have made Gangly Potly and Rufly a style statement but then we passed out and went our separate ways.  

Ruchi and I were in touch as much as out home and our respective husband’s social commitments allowed us to. Sharmilee had dropped out of sight for almost 14 years before she turned up in front of my home looking like one hot babe.  

I dragged Gangly inside and dumped her on the sofa and the barrage of question between pure glee, made us both breathless.  

Gangly stopped and asked me for a glass of water. I was ashamed of myself for treating a guest like this and as if to make amendments I pulled out a bottle from the refrigerator and thrust it into her hands. Gangly hesitated for a brief moment and looked at the bottle but then she raised the bottle and drank a few gulps.  

I asked, chai or coffee.  

Gangly replied;  

Coffee if it is not a problem 

Abe kya problem? 

I shouted as I rushed into the kitchen  

The milk had just started boiling when Gangly walked into the kitchen and said  

Wow what a clean kitchen. 

I looked at her and asked  

You have sugar or your hour glass figure does not agree to it.  

Gangly looked at me with an expression which denoted ‘what nonsense’  

1 and a half spoons please 

The coffee was steaming in the mug and Gangly retorted  

Good coffee darling  

I looked at her and asked her  

Now tell me what are you?  

Gangly looked at me her eyes surprised  

I realised the stupid ness of my question  

I mean you now...  Mrs. Sharma or Mrs. Tiwari  

Gangly smiled  

Well I am Mrs. Bose and he is a software engineer, heads a company in Bangalore and I am a Chartered Accountant and have my own practice.  

We filled each other on the 14 years in 4 hours and Gangly had me in splits with her quirky remarks and she surprised me at her ability to laugh at herself.   

Sometime; while Gangly was all praises to the quickie of a lunch I had laid out and; I really cannot pin point the time when my mind drifted from Gangly to Mrs. Bose. The dress she was wearing must have been about ten thousand or more, her sandals did not look to be from India, the metal emblem dangling from her bag seemed unaffordably familiar. The way she held the spoon, the way she spoke with natural restrained, her uncanny ability to laugh at her own self, the way she excused herself to take a call, her mobile phone etiquette and above all the respect she showed me by listening to each and every word I said. Gangly had truly transformed into Mrs. Bose, leaving me far behind.  
 

She was funny, she was a professional, she was rich, she had a class, she was genuine and she was everything I aspired to be but was just not cut out to be. I was sad when she had to leave, not because she was leaving but because she had become everything I ever aspired for.

Post dinner we went into our ritual of, me narrating the incidence of the day and Shrimaan flipping channels with the volume on mute as if waiting for something to come on. It did. I started.  

Three of us were truly Gangly Rufly and Potlly and look what she has transformed into. She is just perfect. Some people have it in them, I don’t.  

He had surfed though all the channels and shut off the TV. I too shut up. He kept on looking at the blank TV for some time and then spoke.  

I forgot to tell you, I met Mrs. Ramakrishnan, she had come to office to pick up Mr. Ramakrishnan.  

I stopped him  

You boss’s wife? 

He nodded and continued.  

She was telling me how all her friends were raving about the shawl you were wearing.  

Which shawl? 

The one you embroidered yourself and had put on for their 25^th  anniversary party.  

My mind was with Gangly and my voice far away.  

Oh that one.  

Shook my head and looked away 

It is not about the richness you know, the style Gangly has is awesome. She is just a perfect lady, you can call her a diva, yes a pure diva.  

I looked back at him to see if he was looking at me. He was still looking at his own reflection on the TV screen but when he spoke his voice was clear.  

A feeling of superiority or inferiority is a stupidity perched on a pedestal, equating different to be superior or inferior.  

He got up and said 

It is late, got to get some sleep. You coming?  

I nodded and went after him, switching off the lights.  

An hour later he was fast asleep and I was wide awake.  

What he said was so apt, I also had the abilities; I was a master cook, my home has been an envy of guests, my embroidery skills was a talking point among my friends and their friends.

But see how eloquently he speaks, using such few words, just simply and beautifully. I wish I could talk like him.

 

Victim's Love

The rains had stopped. I stretched my hand out of the grilled window and it felt damp. Up above the moon was playing packman with stray chunks of clouds lighting them silver from one end, shimmering them from within and reemerging from another corner extinguishing a brief hope, before gleefully passing away leaving the cloud in a state of nonexistence in the dark night. Philosophy gave me some respite to figure out if I was the moon or the clouds. It was certainly the cloud tonight, the victim.

The resolution let out an involuntary deep breath leaving me and brought my attention to the heaviness of the jewelry. Mom had insisted. Irritating as it was the heaviness was least of my concerns. I was bracing to pay a price a heavy price and it would scar me for the rest of my life but then I had resolved to pay it.

I am the victim, I was the one who was going to pay the price, and I am the one who is going to be scared for the rest of the life. The harder I tried to be the victim the more rotten I smelled every attempt at strengthening my logic made me sicker. The inevitable was about to happen any moment now.

Soon he would walk in through the door and present himself to be slaughtered. This was the night when I would, finally be free. My breath felt a little heavy and I could feel the eye muscles hardening and my heart was struggling to beat steady.    

TDH was my childhood love I loved TDH more than he would ever know love, and I was only doing this for TDH. The logic till this step successfully made me a victim but the train of thoughts did not stop there. I was not doing it for TDH, I was doing it for me. I battled on; I am doing it for the Love of my life! No. Just Love! No. Just me…

The moon was relentless and kept on attacking the clouds. I shook my head, I could have been just any other girl excited about her first wedding night, but I was far away from excitement.

I sensed him behind me, even before I heard him. He was standing across the room looking down. He did not meet my eyes but stuttered;

“Friends forced me to have a drink, I hope you won’t mind”.

I just looked at him, trying hard not to betray anything, feeling a huge sense of pity.  

He stood still at his spot, stealing a glance at her he said;

“You look beautiful”.

Before I could react he said;

“I will brush my teeth and be right back”.

I looked at him as he vanished into the washroom.

It was his destiny. He was born into it… How could any one love some one like him? Yet he was the perfect candidate, he had nothing to loose, he was neither attractive, not had an ambition and to top it all was an orphan. Stupid, moron. My skin cringed at the thought of being in the same room as him, yet I was standing as his bride.

Baba’s reading of my chart were never wrong, “the stars don’t lie” he had said …

“My first husband was destined to die, on the night of the wedding”.

Then I would be free to marry my true love and live a life. 

I did not want my life as a gift; I was going to pay for it. I would lie down and let him, slay me through the night, as many times as he could.

In the morning I would be free. The thought of letting him even touch me made my insides revolt, but then I braced. This was the price of my life and love and I was going to pay it.   

He sat on the same bed looking at me and said;

“I can give my life for your happiness”.

The moon finally won over the clouds and the faint white light sprayed the room as I looked up to his face and for the only time in my life I saw love.

 

The Artists of Art

We all suffer from pangs of intellectualism when we discuss art and craft. From a complicated art process of cinema to a child's doodles ... We all seem to rise up 5 notches beyond our own intellectual capabilities when it comes to discussions about art.

I have sat through Bunuel and Biryani sessions and thoroughly enjoyed the Biryani.

 

I have been twisted trying to understand, which of the twisted reasoning was better in explaining the twists of Roald Dahl Vs. O Henry?

 

I have been witness to discussions about Shobha De and how she should put in “some effort “in her effortless style of writings and wondered WTF was “effortless” about writing a dozen books? 

Online and offline I love a discussion on art. To me the whole process of discussion about art is a form of . . .

 

I love the way the superiority of the "my opinion" perches itself against the inferiority of "another opinion" Which is supported by another and discounted by another...

The strongest "my opinions" about Art, comes for Cinema. People have huge likes, dislikes, prejudices and even lord worships for this art form.  

All it takes is the 2 hours and 20 minutes and some popcorn to have an opinion about the “second most difficult process” on this planet and that too by people who have spent a life doing everything else but cinema.  

I have read reviews about the back ground of the director and how his bidi smoking father’s grand uncle inspired him to depict the moving train across the meadows scene, or his love for his lost love made him shoot the boardroom scene with low angle and bright lights. Though the best debates are not on art but on the  “opinions” on art.

Then there are these Realism, Neo-Realisms, Somnambulism and Stella Artoism ( The last one has bubby genesis ). Frankly I always found myself completely at sea in these segmentations.  

The discussions go like this " It is the artists romantic interludes of angst against the neo capitalistic tendency in the absence of dynamic spiritual spectrum which is projected in his aspiration of a socio theory of equality' which made him paint the nude in that manner you see with shades of black against a grained patchy back ground.  

I am sorry but I don't remember the 16 adjective, counter point to this one. 

Please remember an artist exists and somewhere in his own time and space.
 
An artist, is a person, who has the guts to stands naked in front of you with his art and gratefully gives you the freedom to experience his art. NOTHING MORE!  

This in my opinion is probably the greatest challenge in living... especially when our existence is defined by how good we look. 

 

 

 

FYI

Are you sure? He asked. By this time, I was already dying of indigestion of this same question. I gave him a cold stare and said. I was not seeking your opinion, it is an FYI.  

He looked away, tilted a bit making it easy for his hands to reach into his pocket and fish out the cigarette and lit one, blowing the smoke into the air. When he looked back at me his face looked different. He calmly asked; Tea? I carelessly nodded. He jumped off the wall and walked away to the tea stall across the road, lazily blowing smoke.  

We have known each other for 22 years and now we were just used to each other. We met in the play school. He was 8 months older to me and has been my best friend ever since. From our fights for the ball to helping me with mathematics problems to being a silent support through my awkward puberty, he was always there. If he wanted to go clubbing I was always available to beat the “couples only” entry policy and if I wanted to go for a movie I had the perfect chaperone. But the fact is I needed him more than he needed me. 

I was used to him. Many a times I wondered if I was romantically inclined to him. The intense proximity between us brought the inherent insecurity essential in a romance to null. We were friends and neither he nor I ever wasted time bothering about legitimizing it socially. 

Did we fight? Oh yes we did! But with each fight we strengthened our bond. We did not agree on many things but he used to say; why the hell do we have to be in agreement with each other. He was one person, I did not have to perform to prove my existence and on a rare occasion he did put up a performance, and usually got a sharp rebuke from me. 

Saw him walking back with the tea cups across the road, his face did look different. A bit tired I think. May be he was working hard in his office. We sipped the tea silently and then he said; You remember when I asked you about a friend 2 years ago. I looked at him and said you mean your girl friend? He nodded. I shook my head; yeah what about it. He looked beyond the road and said; we had already gone out a couple of times by then, but I wanted your opinion. I shook my head and said; she is a sweet girl. I would have told you otherwise. He nodded, I know you would have.  

I looked at him confused when the auto stopped and out popped his girl friend. He jumped off the wall and relieved her off her laptop bag. She was a chatterbox and even before both her feet were off the auto her mouth had shot off, giving him the entire days, details. He was keenly listening. Some where in between she waved to me acknowledging my presence. They had to go for a movie and then a dinner, before he would drop her back to her single room or may be he would stay back the night with her. How I wished mine also did the same, and I had come to realize he was not all this, may be that’s why I loved him.  

After dinner with papa and mama, I helped mama in the kitchen cleaning up and waited for the call from my guy. The call came in and we started chatting. I told him about the day, I asked him about his day and I told him about how I blasted my buddy for prying into my life. I expected him to support me in this, he did not. He was silent. I went on to a different topic and another till it was time for me to say good night to him.  

Lying on my bed, I thought about the day and the little sliver kept on irritating me; the incomplete story of how he had asked for my opinion about a choice he had already made. Almost in a flash the realization of my stupidity struck me. I wanted to rush down to call him, but realized he may be with his girl friend so I stopped my self.  

The evening traffic on that road was thin and I had been waiting for the past 30 minutes opposite the tea stall. He walked in almost 15 minutes late and waved to me and walked across to the tea stall and got two teas and jumped on the wall besides me. I looked at him; he looked at me and smiled. His face was back. I was a bit uncertain but I had to do it quickly before his girl friend turned up.  

I am sorry; I did not mean to be rude yesterday. He did not look at me but looked beyond the road and when he spoke his voice was clear but sad. FYI is a good place for me now, but it is a new place so it may take time for me to adjust myself in that. I have been used to you leaning on me for 2 decades now, I could not let go. I still have to learn to let go, but I will learn it FYI; he smiled a smile struggling to reach his eyes.

 

He looked deep into my eyes and said; you know it, if you ever have to look back, you will find me standing. Before I could explain again the auto stopped in front of us. 

 

The Sin

It was not supposed to happen, but then it happened, over the years the millions of justifications I built to validate its existence in my life have all crumbled bit by bit. I am still vacillating between sheer disgust of succumbing and a faint thrill of that evening.

I know he would never tell any one, I am 100% sure he won’t. He may have got me to do it, but he is a gentleman the rare of the rarest variety. We do meet even now and despite me searching in his eyes of any sign of betrayal, his eyes have always been friendly and never ever even shown any trace of that evening. My secret was safe with him. He was not the one I needed to worry about. But even if he ever sneaked to any one, it would come back to me. It always does. Secrets have a way of leaking and finding the way to the people who own them.

God knows what came to me that evening. How could I do it? Just one tiny choice of letting go and the person with only God to fear looked at every one with a little bit of apprehension. Involuntarily  I took a bit longer to see if any words, gestures or even breaths had any other meaning other than what they meant to every one else. I was guarded in my words, my smiles and even my frowns. The single omnipresent question was “Does s/he know?”

Amazing how just one evening can change a life for ever.

I was married then. People were surprised at my choice. He was known to be the hermit. No smoking, no drinking, no non vegetarian, you get then point. I took an instant liking to him due to his sweet nature and the respect he gave me. One thing led to another and before I knew I was hopelessly in love with him. When we married he never laid a single restriction on me, but out of my sheer love for him, I gave up non vegetarian. We were a picture post card family, with a cute adorable daughter. For 10 years I did not stray, then this blasted evening happened. If he ever found out, it would shatter him. After that evening, I started bed time prayers, closed my eyes and just prayed, “let the whole world know, but not him”. I thanked for another day to have passed of him not finding out.

I kept on telling my self I was giving that evening too much of importance, and it was nothing. This was the 21st century. Some of my friends do it and some are quite open about it. The justification always gifted me the shrill excitement , with each and every moment of that evening coming out in its fullest colour. The fluttering orange yellow curtains, the glint of light reflecting from the polished furniture. The music tingling my senses as I let my limbs go loose and relaxed my muscles.  The bright contrast cushions soon turned blur. His laughter was first mocking and then it was teasing, I was enjoying the submission. The heady mix of an escapade and doing something absolutely immoral was the biggest high of my life. His eyes were encouraging or was it the eyes of a conquest.

How could I do it? I could have said NO! Why the fuck was I so weak. My relentless bludgeoning of me made me get up and run to the wash room to splash water on my face and rinse my mouth. Miraculously the water always managed to wash my sins away.

I lived this hell, all because I slipped that one evening.

Today was his birthday, we had been invited over for dinner along with another couple. The drawing room was filled with laughter and I sipped my fruit juice as did my husband. His wife walked in and thrust a bottle in his hand. Open it darling. He expertly peeled off the seal and put in the cork screw and popped the cork out. His wife got 6 glasses and put them on the table and looked at me.

It is about time, you saints started. My husband gave a laugh and said, well excuse me, I am already high on tomato juice. You can ask her.

His wife was at her playful best.

Come one darling, there is always a first time. Just a little wine. I am sure you can give it a first try.

I hid my face behind the glass and looked at him pouring the wine into four glasses; he looked his wife and said; I guess there won’t ever be a first time, for either of them. He lifted a glass and stretched to offer it to the other couple, without even looking at me or my husband.

I shut the images from my head, as I saw the other glasses being passed around. Turned to look at my husband, who was comfortable chatting with the other couple. I looked back at him, searching his eyes. His eyes met mine and in that fraction of a second he conveyed; Don’t worry, no one will ever know about that one single glass that evening.

I sat back and sipped my juice; hopefully I won’t have to rinse my mouth today.