Que Sera, Sera

It was about four in the morning. With all the alcohol and the cigarette smoke in my system, I was fighting hard to stay conscious and in my senses. Fighting a faceless demon inside of me, I tried to shut the voices I heard. Voices that told me to cry. Voices that suggested that I should just give up, throw in the towel, runaway, and restart. I was trying to my best to live, to act like it didn't hurt and pretend that I was "happy". I just couldn't take it anymore. 

I made my confession. My friends jumped into a discussion which led to an argument. Bits of Advice were thrown around. Counseling was served in platters. But I had heard it all and I had had it. I had made up my mind and I knew what I needed to do.

I have no memory of walking towards my bike, starting the ignition. I was a good twenty kilometers into my journey before  I realized what I was doing. The repercussions of my action kept gnawing at my soul but I didn't pay heed to it. I had to do this. 

I ought to do this. I owed it to myself.

I reached my destination on the outskirts of Pune, about a hundred thirty kilometers away from my home. Then came the waiting. I waited. I sat fidgeting with the cigarette in my hand trying to write my dialogues.

What was I supposed to say?

What was my plausible explanation?

What was I doing here?

It had been eighteen months since I had seen her. Eighteen painful, stressful, haunting and hurting months. The last year and a half of my life was by far my worst time on this planet.

I waited.

She stepped out. I saw her. She hadn't noticed me yet. She looked just as beautiful as she did eighteen months ago. It was a moment where I was happy and sad at the same time. A moment where I had a lot to say but nothing worth saying.

Our eyes met. I saw a twinkle in her eye which died in a fraction of a second. She didn't frown. She didn't look angry. She smiled at me.

We talked. I explained. I apologized. We had to sacrifice our love like an innocent lamb on the altar of religious dogma. She is a Muslim and I am a Hindu. For some, the very notion of us engaging in holy matrimony was satanic and unnatural. Our fate was thus sealed. 

They say that you owe a lot to your parents - I had to pay that bill at the cost of my love. We had decided to break up. I thought with time the wounds would heal, things would improve. But they never seemed to.

After spending fair amount of time apart, nothing had changed. Nothing was healed. Nothing was right. I still loved her, I still wanted her and I was ready to fight for us. I had made my compromises but my soul just didn't let me rest. We live only once, then why not live it for what we love.

I explained. I apologized. We were both in tears. We sat there just a few feet away from each other staring into the void of our hopelessness. We pulled and yanked at the shackles of society and religion and culture and responsibilities that kept us away. Freedom eluded us.

She whispered almost like an afterthought. I have moved on she said. I knew she was lying. I could always tell. But nothing I said or did seemed to change her mind. The sense of euphoria I felt when I saw an hour ago was now evaporating. It was being replaced by a sense of despair and hollow cries no one could hear. 

“So you have really moved on?”, I said.

“Yes I have. And it is time you move now too...” She said.

I tried convincing her. I tried to remind her of all the good times we had had. It kept up with my monologue and waited for a sign from her. A sign of acknowledgement. A sign that she was convinced. But I couldn’t find any. She was hell bent at ending the relationship and kept repeating that she had move on in life. She was now dating someone from her own community.

She was trying hard to agitate me. To hurt me, to instigate me. To make me hate her. I just could not. I could see through her. She was lying. I knew she was equally hurt and wanted this as much as I did. I knew she was staying strong for the both us.

“I love you.” I said. I waited for a minute but she didn’t say anything. She kept looking at her feet.

I decided there was nothing I could more. I left.

I could sense her watching me. On my way back, I rode at the fastest speed I could. As if running faster would help me escape from reality. But it didn't. I was still crying and was unable to handle my emotions. Just when I thought, I was going to break down - an epiphany struck me.

I tried. Yes, I tried. I didn't let the love of my life go without giving it all I had. I should have done this earlier, but I was scared. Years from now, should I look back at my life, I would know that I had tried. 

It may not make my life easier, but will certainly make my death more peaceful.

Without regrets of not having tried.

EENIE MEENIE MIINIE MO....

It felt like hell. Hell with bright light, cold oak wood benches, a projector and a huge ass

blackboard. The devil’s minion (our economics professor) tried to entice us with something to do

with “The Great Depression of 1929”. My greatly depressed mind was doing astral projections

across the county.

 

I was in Goa with friends, drinking chilled beer and watching the waves collapse over each other.

In an instant I was in Alibaug riding a bike, from there I was in Kalaghoda, Bandra, Chennai. I

was eating vada-pav at my favourite stall and in another moment I was smoking a sheesha. My

mind was all over, but could not find peace no matter where it roamed. The minion had now

changed tactics. He was now blabbering something about trade deficit that is eating away at

India’s economy. I wish I could yell out and tell the entire lecture hall what was eating me away

from within.

 

The shrill voice of a distant bell fell on my ears. I was back in the lecture hall. I yawned heartily

and stretched my numb arms. I didn’t notice so many of us where packed in such a small room

until now. It was another twenty minutes before the next minion (the dreaded business ethics and

protocol professor) would appear.

 

I tried to make the most of the next twenty minutes by deciding to take a nap. Just when I was

about to lay my head down she chirped in my ear.

 

“Hey, interesting lecture wasn’t it? I didn’t know India’s economy was so poor and the insights

Mr. Mehta offered...Amazinnngggggg”

 

Grudgingly I looked up with beady eyes. It was Sucheta. My neighbor in the lecture hall. She

was also my batchmate and a member of the many groups we were sorted into, for the many

projects we were working on, for the many submissions we had to submit. If I wasn’t this sleepy I

would have just punched her in the throat.

 

“Whats the matter with you? Are you alright? You seem upset. Hungry? Is it a

hangover ?...”

I was in no mood to play this painful version of “Who wants to be a millionaire” hence I spoke, 

“I am fine dear. Thanks for asking. Just a little sleepy.”

 

She responded as if I had just recited a love poem in the most romantic way a man could. I could

see her cheeks literally blush and get red.

 

“Okay. I was just worried. Would like a sandwich..?”

 

I could use some sandwich. Suddenly I was aware how hungry I was. Mental note to self - Never

miss breakfast.

 

I took a bite of the juicy, beefy sandwich with beans and peanut butter. I was slowly feeling alive

again. We had another thirteen minutes to go and this hell was known for its punctuality.

 

“Hey let’s play something.”

 

Excuse me? Play something. Where do you think we are? On a play date?

 

I was about to bark something bitter but then she smiled. She smiled. 

I wonder how girls can make your mood go from “please-get- out-of- my face” to “life-is- beautiful-again” just with a simple smile. 

“Ok. What do you have in mind?” I said wondering what her reply would be.

 “Stretch out your hands with your palms facing upwards...”

 

She reminded me of my fifth-grade math teacher. Logic was not going to help her. 

I could do nothing but play along.

 

“Ok...” I muttered with a little hesitation. I stretched out my hands as instructed.

 

As on cue, she jumped in a fit an ecstasy and started clapping her hands on mine in a rhythmic

motion.

 

She started singing a rhyme. “Eenie meenie miney mo, catch the tiger by it toe...if he hollers let

him go, eenie meenie miney mo...”

 

Suddenly my hands went limp. Like a heavy hammer crashing violently on an ice sculpture I was

breaking from within. My world was whirling at a speed of a hurricane gone wild. I wanted to hold

on to something, do something, say something but I just sat there frozen like a wax statue. I tried

to talk again but the lump in my throat had left me speechless.

 

Only my tears moved. With a mind of their own, they slowly slipped from my eye, traced my

cheeks and fell in my lap. I was transcended to another dimension. A dimension where her

memories lived.

 

I was lost in her. Her childlike innocence, her cute eyes, her honest smile. Her laughter. The

sound of her soft giggling was now ringing in my ears.

 

I was sitting in a park bench waiting for Prachhi. It had been over an hour now and I had given up

fidgeting with my phone. She was late again and as usual.

 

“Sowlliiee shonu...” she said taking a seat next to me while pouting her lips. I was furious. Angry.

Agitated. All of that melted away though as soon as she smiled. Life was beautiful again.

 

We sat there talking for hours. Watching the kids play on the see-saw and the slides and the

swing. I sat there with her hand in mine. We never run out of things to talk about but in that

moment we found bliss in the silence between us.

 

She startled like a bolt of electricity and chirped, “Let’s play something.”

 

She made me stretch out my hands and started clapping them in rhythmic succession...

“Eenie Meenie miny mo, catch the tiger by its toe...if he hollers let him go, eenie meenie miney

mo...”

 

She sang the rhyme like a three-year-old. Only girls could do with something so silly in a public

place and yet get away with it.

 

I could do nothing but play along.

 

It has been almost a year since I have been to that park. Eight months since I last spoke to her. It

is said that love isn’t all about rainbows and roses. Sometimes there are fights, disagreements,

and ego clashes.

 

I wondered how long we could stay away from each other. My friends keep asking me what

happened between us and I can never give them a definite answer. It wasn’t that I was lying or trying to hide

some thing. I was just as clueless as them about what had happened between us.

 

Maybe she decided there were more important things in life than love.

 

Career. Family. Ambitions. Ego.

 

I don’t know why or what it is that is keeping her away from me. But she wants to stay away,

there isn’t much I can do.

 

There isn’t much I can do but simply play along...

My experiment with Weed

“So how much do you want?” The peddler asked in a bored tone. We looked at each other. This was the first time we were buying weed. What would be the right quantity of weed to get three testosterone fueled teenagers high enough – we thought. We asked for three packets.

The peddler looked at us with awe and astonishment. “Three packets huh? Are you guys sure?” It wasn’t that that stuff was expensive – but three packets were enough to put an elephant to sleep. The peddler knew it. We didn’t.

We paid him hurriedly and scurried out of the dark alley. We were filled with a sense of excitement and our adrenaline levels were high. As a teenager, we found it amusing to push the boundaries, just to see far we could go.

We had planned to ‘smoke up’ at Sanjay’s house. It was a two-storeyed bungalow and we had planned to try out the little experiment on his terrace. We slyly moved to the terrace taking the stairs that went from inside his hall and the first floor. Sanjay’s father was sleeping in the first-floor bedroom so we had to be extra careful. He didn’t know that we (Me and Amit) were planning to stay the night and of course the fact we had industrial quantities of narcotics on us.

Finally, we reached the terrace. The cold air helped soothe our anxiety-cum-excitement. We quickly got to work. We were armed with all the necessary equipment – old newspaper, smoking paper, flashlights, and cigarettes and of course – the weed.

“Bro. Let me show you how it is done”, Amit said proudly. It was his idea and hence he took the lead.  We let him. We looked at him in awe as he started cleaning the weed meticulously. He tore the newspaper and gave Me and Sanjay our own share of weed to be cleaned. We got to work under the expert supervision of Amit. At first, it seemed cool, but after the thirty minutes, it got really boring. I was promised that I was going to enjoy the weed and it was going to be an amazing experience. What I was never told was that I would be spending what seemed to be an eternity in cleaning the weed.

“No bro. You are not doing it correctly. Here, let me show you”, Amit criticized my work and proceeded to lecture me on how important it was to get the weed cleaned well. “You see bro, if we do not clean the weed well, the high will not be a good one. Plus, the seed might cause the joint to blow out”. To me, it seemed a little odd. It was like a virgin giving advice on how to enjoy sex better. It was his first time, wasn’t it? Still - I listened obediently and then continued to labour under the dim light of the torch. It was almost two hours before we were ready for the ill-formed – ill-shaped joints. There were a total of 9 joints. We had greatly overestimated our capacity to smoke. We continued to be denial and mutually decided that we will finish all nine of them. As teenagers, we believed that our ability to handle intoxication was directly proportional to our masculinity.

Sanjay backed out at the last minute. This was the second time he had done this. Not a long ago, we had decided to try a beer for the first time. The auspicious venue for that excursion was also the same terrace. Even at that time, Sanjay had backed out the last minute. He did have a lot of laughs at our expense once we were drunk and starting talking funny. In my heart, I knew what Sanjay was up to. He was planning to get us high and then have fun at our expense. I thought of him as an evil scientist and we were his lab rats. Nonetheless, I joined hands with Amit and swore to bring our little adventure to an awesome end. (It was anything but awesome)

Finally, the smoking began. It wasn’t pleasant at all. It was like ordering a sizzling brownie for dessert that tasted like boiled broccoli (unsalted at that). All my illusions of ‘smoking weed-and-getting high’ was gone with the smoke. It tasted foul, smelled pungent and made my eyes water. I coughed badly, I could feel my lungs reverberating in my chest. For a minute, I thought I should give up. But again - being with my peers, I couldn’t accept defeat or acknowledge my weakness. I decided to power through. The joint was rotated after four drags as instructed by Amit (He told us that passing the bud after three drags was a bad omen. At that time, we thought he was super cool to know such trivia).

Nothing was happening. We were done with two and a half joints. We were hoping to feel a little tipsy by now. But nada. Nothing at all. This is where we should have stopped but we didn’t. We celebrated our manliness and our apparent immunity to weed. The smoking continued. Somewhere in the middle of the fourth joint, it happened.

Unlike whisky or beer, where the high is like shifting gears in a car, you know you are moving from the first gear to the second and then to the third. Weed-high, however, is very different. One minute your walking leisurely, on a plain of grass, admiring nature, minding your business and before you know - the land under feet is gone. Whoosh. Gone. I felt completely weightless and was finding it difficult in keeping my train of thought in check. At one point, it wasn’t even a train of thought – my mind was like a TV with two hundred channels. The problem was that all the two hundred channels were on at the same time. I was thinking one thing, which I couldn’t control or alter, which led to another thing, equally beyond my control, which led to another thing and to another thing and then to – so and so forth.

I couldn’t tell if Amit was high or not. It is difficult to gauge another person’s intoxication level, when your brain can’t even spell ‘intoxication’. If he was indeed high, he was doing a fabulous job at hiding it.  That is when Sanjay (the evil scientist) came up with a plan to feed his lab rats with sweets. Before we started smoking up, Amit had shared another trivia with us that eating sweets multiplied the ‘weed high’. I was impressed with this trivia and as well and secretly wanted to know who was Amit’s source after all.

There were chocolates, and cakes and gulab jamun (an Indian delicacy which is a one way ticket to diabetes-land). Even while intoxicated, I wondered when and how did Sanjay manage to get the sweets. I then recollected that we had purchased it before going to meet the peddler – Amit insisted on getting them. Just like with the weed, we had greatly overestimated our capacity to digest sugar.
We started munching like cows. My mouth felt like the Sahara Desert. No amount of water seemed to hydrate it. I kept drinking water but the desert-like feeling wouldn’t go away. Amit was high now. I could tell because he had started slurring and was trying to lean on the wall. I knew he was high. I mentally scored the match 1-0 in my favour.

“Ok guys. I am high. I am going to sleep”. Those were Amit’s last words. No – he didn’t die. Amit rose and started his journey to the downstairs bedroom. Sanjay offered to help him but I think he was still clutching on to his manliness too hard. He declined. “I am fine. I go myself will….”. We let him be. Sanjay kept pushing sweets to me and kept denying. I was still smoking though. We were down to the second last joint.

We could hear Amit’s footsteps as he walked down the stairs. They were like heavy thuds and unrhythmic. Like someone tried to pick a bag of flour – decided it was too heavy – and dumped them down on the floor. We knew he had reached the final stairs that led into the bedroom. And then we heard a loud bang. A sound of a heavy man falling and along with it a few other household items. I was too high to get up and check on him – Sanjay was plain lazy. “Are you ok?”, we yelled from the terrace (I hoped Sanjay’s father was fast asleep. High or not high, I was in no mood to be interrogated by his father at four in the morning)

That is the last I remember of that night. After Amit’s unsuccessful attempt at climbing down, I said I am done. I had won the imaginary match anyways. I told Sanjay I was going to bed. Those were my last words. I walked down carefully, utilizing the walls as much as I could, as my walking-cum-falling down support system. I saw the bed and my weed-riddled brain said, “Sleep”.

And slept I did.

To copy or not to copy

TO COPY OR NOT TO COPY

The bell rang and I thought my fate was sealed. I was going to fail. Miserably. I stared at the giant black board. On it, were the words – XII Board Final Exam – Physics II. 

I sat there, trying to keep myself calm and composed. I took deep breaths to relax. Not that it was working. I was seating in the farthest corner of the room. On the last bench of the last row. The invigilator was a tiny, pot-bellied professor. He seemed robotic and mechanical. He rudely slapped the answer sheets on the desk. Then came the ritual of us signing the answer sheets, pasting our unique bar codes, filling all the required details. I did all of it effortlessly. 

Another bell rang. My heart was beating faster now. I was handed the question paper. It was printed on second grade paper, I found it too flimsy – too toilet-paper like. I scanned through the paper once. Whatever confidence I did have was now out of the window. I could feel panic curling up in a hot ball, slowly rising from my stomach – to my chest – to my throat. I didn’t know what to do. I sat there trying to recollect what I had learned the entire year and I was drawing blanks. Actually, I wish I had blanks. What I had was ‘white noise’playing between my ears.

I was an average student. A little over average maybe. I had studied well for the exam and had done fairly well in the mock tests as well. So why was I losing my marbles in the final test? I wish I could tell. Maybe I had taken it too seriously. I knew a lot was riding on this exam. A good score in this paper meant a good GPA. Which would increase my chances of getting in a med school. Good med school meant I would be a good doctor, which meant good money – so on and so forth. 

I was weak when it came to Physics. I will admit it. Not to blame the education system in its entirety, but I had been trained for a decade now – to be a skilled parrot that could memorize gigabytes of data and then reproduce it in the final paper. Only to forget the concepts, themes and ideas the minute after the exam was over. I was never exposed to what one would call a conceptual learning model. And there came Physics. Ah! What a cruel mistress thy are. Whenever I read a physics textbook, I was fascinated. Atoms, molecules, energy, magnetic fields, gravity – It was like the universe spoke to me through oddly shaped symbols. The problem was no matter how fascinating it seemed to be – I could never decipher it. The odd symbols till date remain a mystery to me.

I was finding it hard to breathe now. I could feel my eyes burn and my throat close up. I was crying. Not the types you see at a funeral. I wiped away the tears rather quickly before anybody had a chance to notice it. I looked around the room – no one was looking at me. I saw everyone with their head down, furiously scribbling in their answer sheets. What the hell are these guys writing? Here I was almost done with my paper. I had attempted whatever I knew and was trying to come with excuses I could give my parents just in case I failed.

The more time went by the more I was convinced that I was going to fail. I was literally in tears. Yes, this time it was the funeral type. My friend heard me. He was sitting ahead of me and asked me what was the matter. I quickly glanced at the invigilator who was busy reading a newspaper. I whispered back my reason for crying. He offered to show me the solution to a few problems. He sat at the edge of his seat, body twisted at an angle so that I could see what he was writing. I felt a sense of shame wash over me. I simply nodded a ‘No’ and dug my head inside my paper like an ostrich. My ears felt hot. I gulped down some water and tried to calm my nerves. 

“No Deepak. You are not going to copy” 

“but what if I fail…?”

“You are not going to fail…”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Trust yourself man. Copying is not the way to go”

“Right now, I think there is no way for me to go. If I don’t pass this exam, I am done. Dad will kill me.. What about med school. I will never become a doc…”

“Shut up and focus. You can do this buddy. Come on now. Stop being a cry baby..”

Thus ended my internal dialogue. I tried to pacify myself that I am not going to fail (to ensure that my illusion was not broken, I ran straight to home after the exam. I wanted to skip the post exam – question paper discussion)

I somehow managed to solve a few more problems. My friend urged me to copy a few from him. He was still seating with his body twisted and his answer all there for me to see. I said no. This time I was sure I did not want it. He must have thought that I was a prude, or even too much of a chicken to say no to ‘copying’. After all, he was putting his career at stake trying to help me. 

The exam was over. The results were out. To my surprise I got an average score on the paper. It wasn’t that bad after all. 

This was the day I found my moral compass – or got the taste of using it. This was the first time in my life (or at least this is the earliest) that I can recollect is when I could see the choices life offered me very clearly. Good vs bad. I am sure I am must have made thousands of decisions before this exam, but only on in this incident did I actually feel like I was in the driver’s seat. I had the wheel. I had to take control. I could have gone either way. I am glad I chose to go the right way.

Good night Maa...

She was dead before I reached the hospital. My father had tried to reach me a couple of times but as always, I had let it ring. Not that I did it on purpose. It had become a sort of automated response for me by now.

I was very close to my grandmother. I hated the fact that I couldn’t be there with her while she was breathing her last breaths. I wanted to hold her wrinkly hand, maybe soothe her pain and tell her I would always miss her no matter what. She was always very protective of me. She was always there ensuring no one disturbed  me after I came home from working night shifts at call centers. She would even stay up at night, till two, three, sometimes even till four in the morning just to make sure I eat something before I go to bed. There were days when I would be so tired, that I would say no to eating, and then if not food, she would be ready with a glass of warm milk and biscuits. As long as she was alive I had never slept hungry.

We talked a lot too. She kept telling me stories of patriarchal India, of times before the independence, of times when it was difficult for women to even look into the eyes of another man – let alone work and live independently. She told me that it was during those times that she was married off, at an adolescent of thirteen and shipped off to Mumbai on the first train. Mumbai was tough on my grandparents. Not that I have seen it being nice to anyone of lately, but times were really difficult for them. Being uneducated, with no tangible skills, they both took on menial jobs and start working to fulfill their dreams – a house of their own, to start a family, to be happy.

My grandfather took to alcohol and kept getting fired one job after another. At least that is the version my grandmother tells me. I believe her, though she did have a penchant for exaggerating things – at the core of it, I think she was honest. She used to tell me stories of how she, as a single mother, raised my father and his four other siblings. She juggled three jobs and a house of crying babies to ensure that we had a roof over our head today. Again, I could sense the exaggeration growing steadily in her stories. I kept the bewildered and astonished look on my face throughout her stories. I didn’t want the old women to know that I was onto her.

In my head, she was always a strong and confident woman. Someone who could make tough calls and weighted decisions. It was hard for me to see her grow old and grow more and more dependent on people around her. Like watching a tall building crumble slowly, brick by brick. I cannot keep the count of the times my father and she had a fight on “you owns who how much” and “who did what all for the other”. For me, it was an annoying and painful game of book keeping. It is during on those stressful times that she had a paralytic stroke. She was paralyzed along the left side of her body. We rushed her to the hospital. We changed a few hospitals - we kept changing doctors – we even changed the gods that we were praying, hoping that at least one of them might listen to us. But in my heart, I knew her time was near. I felt a shock of embarrassment and guilt when I once caught myself praying that she would die.

I just wanted my maa to go to a better place and take a vacation. The tiny women had been working all her life.

Watching her in the last few days of her life, rigorously clutching on to life was hard for me. But it did made me realize the very nature of our lives – sooner or later, we will all die and decay and decompose. I don’t mean to sound grim or pessimistic but it is truly liberating when you see death for what it is. Even if it is for a moment or two.