A year back, this day, I realized something. It was a realization that I could never forget. Time never plays fair...
It's an affair that knocks our doors every day of the year. People in agony. Dying anonymously- along with those thousand other nameless faces.. Acts of terrorism tearing apart families.. It is not uncommon. Humans born each day- humans taken away! It's a normal cycle of life.
Somewhere- along those lines- these humans begin to forget the fact that they are soon going to be taken away. The result of which is family. There are people who become a part of you. There are people, who smile for you.. grieve for you.
Time never plays fair. On another note, I don't think so. It happens. For it happens.
Still, I wonder at times! How easy it is for us to write things? "I felt sad","My heart was ripped apart..","Plunging into the depths of sorrow..". WORDS! And I am a person, who believes in the power of words..
Sometimes, there are things, that can never be justified by words. Truth, innocent questions of a child, the happiness of a mother holding her new born.. And there are other things too..
I have seen my family, crumbling at a loss- too heavy. A family losing its pillar of strength. A sister losing a brother, whom she held in hand once.. Seen him grow.. Make their father proud! Her tears don't justify her loss.
A tear is that which comes out of a self, only when the self is completely 'castaway'. I feel crippled- here I am sitting and staring at the television- hearing the turn of tables each and everyday- what could I do? what should I do? what can I do? NOTHING! It's a year- my mom cries almost every single day over her brother's death.. Our tears cannot justify his death.. Our tears can never justify our loss.. All that we now have,
I danced to the tunes of the Kucha roads- the crowded bus that usually carried more people than it actually could; the people- vendors, farmers, teachers; and their goods- everything became a part of my life. Years of travel in the same bus, I had learned to be friendly with the broken seats and sweating people. I was a part of their lives, each day- and so, I was a part of their stories. But in my story, there was one man, whom everyone knew- and also, did not!
All day long, he used to sit beneath the tamarind tree. He was very old- some said he was over hundred and a few- over thousand! All I knew was- he was old- he wore clothes that were dirty and torn at odd places. He had an old shawl to wrap himself at night time. Sometimes, he was smoking, what they call- a Beedi. Most of the time- he only sat there- did nothing but stare hard at the sky.
I felt oddly pleased to see that man everyday. Just looking at him, made me smile- I felt that he was inspiring me in some way- I saw no purpose in looking at him- but I looked at him everyday, nevertheless. It gave me a satisfaction! And my liking for him, had what made him a part of my story.
Mausiji. That was how we called her. She was so loud that people at the bus, dreaded her sitting beside them. She sold flowers at the nearby town and that day, I played her host! Mausiji was full of questions. About my name, my family, my profession- and she was full of suggestions. She had her opinion on everything- from the colour of my shirt to the furniture in my house. She said that her generation really knew the way the world functioned. She knew everyone in the bus- and had opinions on them too.
"You see him? The one with the white cap- he sells milk. He had been trying to save all his income. But he has this wife who eats like a pig. Poor fellow! All his saving goes straight into her food! And that Kashiram? He gambles away everything! I always say…"
I switched myself off, mentally, when she came around to that. But suddenly, my attention was brought back when she said-
“See that old man under the tamarind tree”?
“Yes.. Do you know anything about him”?
"Of course. Don’t you know? He used to be a big man- very rich- a Zamindar(landlord). The whole village had belonged to him- but that is past! He’s lost everything. All that he’s got now is- that shawl. He sits there all day long, waiting for his son, who’d gone off, somewhere! They say, he was a very bad father- he’s repenting! I always say…”
Poor man. I wonder how he feels. It is really bad- to own everything and to see them go off your hands- yet, unable to forget the past- for everything always stays in front of your eyes!
All night, I was unable to take him off my mind. I tossed and turned in my bed- I felt sorry for him. The stranger, though he was- however, a part of my life. Govind, the milkman- was always pleasant. When he smiled at people, they felt light and happy. I’d always liked him.
“… and our Sarpanch(village-chief) told us that he’s speak to the big officers. We’ll soon another bus”.
He had news about the village, about the town- about people.
“… they were telling me the other day that Prakash was arrested- did you know? They’ll soon arrest the old man under the tamarind tree too, I hope…”!
“What? Arrest the old man! Why”?
“Oh, don’t you know? He’s a bandit”?
I couldn’t accept the dear old man being a bandit. A Zamindar worked better with me, however. But, I certainly couldn’t help myself- being curious.
“He was a notorious bandit. Years before, he looted people and killed them, mercilessly. People were terrified. They say, he sits under that tree, all day long, guarding all his booties. No one dares go near him for he had laid a curse upon the tree. If anyone else, but him, goes near the tree, their nose would start to bleed and they’d die. Munshiji told..”
The old man was a bandit?! I couldn’t get myself to believe about the curse, but at least, it proved why he sat beneath the tree, always! I still couldn’t accept him being a bandit- so the information only increased my curiosity.
From that day, I stared looking at him more closely. I noticed that there was a mark on his cheek- a sort of scar left by a deep wound. I was beginning to believe Govind- and I was fascinated. The story of the old man was becoming more intriguing- each day.
It was around 8:00 pm. I was tired. I usually reached home by eight. I had had a busy day. The bus moved so slow. It made me think that I could walk faster than the bus. But I was tired. And all I could do was- to wait till I reached home.
Suddenly, there was a jerk and a noise. The bus had stopped. Break down. Some of us got down and pushed the bus to the nearby village. It was the old man’s village. But there was no old man beneath the tree! I felt strange to see the tree without the old man. It felt odd- vacant!
I joined the others, who were gathered at the nearby tea stall. I bought myself a cup of tea. The people were talking. But I couldn’t bring myself to listen to them- until I heard- “.. the old man under the tamarind tree, vanished..”
I turned around so fast that the man behind me, who was just speaking, spilled his tea all over himself! I apologized and enquired about the old man.
He said, “Don’t you know? He vanished”!
“What do you mean- vanished”?
“Vanished! He evaporated! Gone off to the Himalayas where he came from. He was a holy man- a Siddha- who knew the past, present and the future. He’d been under the tamarind tree- meditating, for hundreds of years; protecting us all. He’s gone back to the Himalayas to finish his penance. We’ve planned to build a temple for him, under the tamarind tree- where he’s left behind his spirit for the benefit of the villagers. The Sarpanch…”
So the old man was gone. And no one knew where- but he had left behind his memories- for everyone to remember and to share. For me, he’d always remain as the old man under the tamarind tree- a part of my life, my story.
Dark. The night was as dark as the heart of a murderer. But I felt safe. Mother was beside. Her warmth protected me against just anything. All my anxieties wither away- just one touch of hers, does wonders to me. The quiet night, was only destined to be quiet for a while. But we were not supposed to know yet. I felt the eternal quiet- a night, so calm and peaceful- an assurance brought about due to the sense of another being present beside- one whom you could touch and trust.
I lay lost in thoughts. I couldn’t sleep. I was just too happy. Everybody had been so happy that day. The day I was born. Father said that he had not ever been happier- than the day I was born. I knew he had spoken the truth. His eyes had never lied to me. My mother had probably guessed that I was not sleeping. She had started to pat me… gently. How come mothers know that? I could never understand that.
It had been an unusually quiet night. So quiet, that I could almost hear my own thoughts. I turned in my bed. I could see father. I think that I had got the best father in the whole world. Mother had been complaining since a few days back about “difficult days ahead”. I never understood what she meant by that. But father! He had never complained- about anything. He had always made sure that we were happy. He said- “It’s a man’s shame that his women complain. I would never let my little princess cry”. And he was a man of his words.
There were noises. Distant noises- coming closer- slowly- then rapidly. And all of a sudden- it ceased to be a quiet night. There were cries everywhere. People ailing. Crying out in pain- agony. People angry. People, in rage. In panic, in despair. It was a moment in my life when I felt all the human emotions- simultaneously. What was the cause of this commotion? I wondered.
Suddenly, I felt myself being lifted up by such a force- that I was being pulled back onto the firm ground from the land in my dream. It was mother. I could see her crying. Why was she crying? Father was beside her. The look on his face… What was it? Could that be fear? No. But it was fear. A strange helplessness- despair, had crept into him. I had never seen him like that. He looked at me. I tried to smile. But I couldn’t. I felt that my doubtful, uncertain glance at him had only weakened him. We were running. Like fugitives. Like animals being hunted. But why?
I saw people on the road. Some were holding up torches. The flames from the torches were not as bright as their eyes that shone with mad pleasure. Some of them had swords. Some- knives, spears. They were beating and killing everyone. I could recognize some of the people who were running along with us. Those were the people, who were being killed- tortured. We ran faster and faster. The noise around was unbearable. May be, we were dead. And we were in hell… What else could it be?
Suddenly, I had fallen off my mother’s clutches. And before I could realize what was happening, my mother had ceased to run. In fact, she had ceased to move, talk or cry. She was not… was she? Where is father? I looked around. Some of the men with swords were holding him. I started running towards him. He looked at me, and when he fell down, he was still looking at me. The men with swords were coming closer, towards me. I was not running. I was not crying. They were standing, now, facing me. Judging me. The noise was dying down. I could now see, only their eyes staring into mine. I heard myself say, “What did I do”? And all I could hear was, the echo of silence…
The swing was swinging. Only, no one was on it. It was as though an invisible being was the master of the swing. The sight of it- it gave an odd pleasure. The swing was doing what it was suppose to do. An order in things that exist- for the sake of existing. This is how it should be. This is the way I like them, to be.
***
Some time back, I met a friend. He was a good man. But he let things change in his life. Disrupted the order of nature. And his life was never the same again. He was repenting. I felt always happy to hear people say that. Approve of my ideas. It feels good to see people share your belief. Say ‘you were right’.
***
That is how my life is. The way it should be. Not an inch on this side of the life. Not one inch on the other. Just there. Where it should be. Where it would stay safe. Uncomplicated. Traditional. Natural.
***
In my life, there was no place for madness. The way I am, is good. I saw someone on TV the other day, who said something like- “.. chaos happens when an unstoppable object meets an immovable one..” That is exactly what I hate. I am immovable. And I don’t like unstoppable objects.
***
I found this girl near the Jogger’s Park gateway. About twelve. She came unto my waist. Covered in rags. She was unconscious. I took her to the hospital. The sight of her, back at that moment- was disturbing. It was as though- it reflected the poverty of the entire world put together. I couldn’t help it. It was not in my system.
***
She stayed with me. Always. I had to teach her to talk, eat, walk properly. There was this sense of another being beside you- constantly. I was trying to get used to it. Meanwhile, she gave me a name. ‘Dada’. I didn’t know, what that meant. But I thought, I should probably give her a name too. I asked her, what her favorite name was. ‘Diya’. She became that.
Diya was an unstoppable object. She spread throughout. Like water, like fire, like life. The extent to which she had influenced my living- I had no time to think about it. There used to be a bird inside me- that usually popped to remind me of time. But it doesn’t do so anymore. It was as though, it had gone away from me. I was not myself without it. The bird was free. And I am never. Or so, I thought.
***
She liked to swing. I bought her one. I could see her. Full of life, whenever she was swinging. It was a pleasure to see that. It brought me something that I had never experienced before. Happiness? Sorrow? Elation? Depression? I don’t know. But whatever that was, I felt good. Like never before. I felt like I was living to see her swing. But one is suppose to live for oneself. Then how is that, that I’ve come to like this feeling. This unconditional love for the girl in rags, who had no name. ‘Diya’?
***
Something was not well. I could feel it. I was trapped between her world and mine. And this was not alright. When my one feet was in my world, the other was in hers. This was not me. I was never like that. I was beginning to experience traces of chaos. I was beginning to see nature being man-handled. When you’ve carried a belief for this long, it always felt hard to see it crumble. I had never seen me the way I was now. I was beginning to sense danger.
She had made a drawing. She just loved colours. I always found her attracted to colours. I liked black. And white, at times. But she liked all the colours. The brighter the better. The drawing was full of colours. Just like her. But I never liked colours. And she was making me like what I did not like. I hated her for it. But I loved her for it. This was the beginning of chaos. I was crumbling the drawing. I was crumbling her smile. I could not stop myself. I was torn between who I was and who I am. I could see tears in her eyes. I felt tears too. But I felt like they were coming from one of my eyes. She was trying to tell me something. I could not hear what that was. I was beginning to collapse. I? I didn’t know, who I was.
***
The swing was swinging. Only, no one was on it. It was as though an invisible being was the master of the swing. The sight of it- it gave an odd pleasure. The swing was doing what it was suppose to do. An order in things that exist- for the sake of existing. This is how it should be. This is the way I like them, to be. The swing was swinging. But there was no one on it! And why did I feel happy about it? She was not present on it anymore. I was no longer ‘Dada’. I was I. I should feel happy about it! But why was I not feeling so?
***
May be this was why people liked to change the way things should be. For the fleeting moment of happiness that they get to experience. To sense their heart getting heavy and light all at once. I now knew, why they liked it. It was a part of nature. It was a part of the order too. One can never evade it. One has to live with it. Chaos completes natures’ orders. It completes the life with nature. But I had lost my chaos. My sense of being complete. And I need to be complete. I needed to findDiya. I would go looking for her. I would like colours. All of them. I would be ‘Dada’ forever. That was who I am. Who I should be. That was what nature had planned for me. I would bring back the order in my life. I would complete my life. I would bring back, my Diya…
For more, the heart and the senses yearn. Deprived of pleasures, a million around. For more, it screams in agony. The scream becomes the pleasure then. Forever a necessity- yet reduced to some cheap luxury- it stays up there. Awaiting for the being to reach it. Taste it. Feel it. It stays up there, untouched and welcoming. Its virgin surface spilling purity all around. Purging moral from air- the minds, vacuum from the sense of penance. Pleasure, they call it. An omen of sin.
Strange are the ways, the mind of a human works. Somewhere inside, a clock ticks- a constant reminder of being human. The animal within, put to sleep. A sleep, when awoken- seeks the pleasure. Or tries to seek. What is pleasure? It wonders. It was, after all, created by the same Creator. A kin to hope- brother to grief; sister to happiness and a cousin to pain! Why then these barriers? Why this cage? A desire to melt away the irons of moral- creeps in the animal and gives it the strength. Strength so strong, stronger than mind, itself! Pleasure- the magnet, emerges out- winner!
Pleasure- lies in things forbidden. Pleasure lay within guilt. Guilt, a proof of pleasure, experienced. Pleasure, felt. Enjoyed. Guilt is- the child. Why shun the child? What sin has the child committed- to be left abandoned? Denied? Pleasure becomes, the wronged lady. Doomed to bear, the burden of guilt. What was my sin? Pleasure wonders. Is it crime to be the way I was created? Is it my fault that the animal is awake? There could never be, an answer- ever! Guilt is guiltless- and it is only fair, to accept it.
Branded- the omen of sin; left to rot deep within the layers of thoughts. Thoughts of so-called God-fearing souls. Hypocrites, who fail to accept creation, as it is. Fail to see, the beauty of it. Refuse to embrace the truth. But deep inside- the animal lives- killing the pleasure- or trying to do so. Death was something, that could never reach pleasure. For the urge to kill becomes the child of pleasure! And so, the pleasure lives- doomed to live a half life. Neither out, nor in. Neither felt nor denied. A fate so cruel- waiting to be changed. Waiting for the doors within, to be opened. Waiting to emerge out as not an omen, but a Goddess, of sin!
The bus was gliding through the silhouette of hills and trees. A white ray of light from the moon- highlighting the roads ahead- the moon followed me, wherever I went. ‘E-Ajnabi’ from ‘Dil Se’, filled my heart with joy of unknown happiness while the moon filled my eyes with dreams. I like dreams. The song always made me dream. But today, it was special.
I was in the ‘middle of nowhere’- with only the moon above me, and ‘E-Ajnabi’, inside me. I didn’t remember, what happened the day before. Not that I should. Not that I would. And I didn’t care about what lay ahead. The moon was there, as ever and so would be- ‘E-Ajnabi’. So many things, flashed through my mind. Yes. I would be voting for the first time in my life! I would be home, in few hours time. But now, I was- in the ‘middle of nowhere’- with the moon and ‘E-Ajnabi’.
‘Ghost of the smile’ that I had smiled, earlier that day, had stayed back. I didn’t want that to leave me. I needed all the happiness that I could get- to carry along- into the day ahead. It had already become, my best birthday, ever with 'the ghost of my smile’ aftermath my birthday celebrations, the moon, the place somewhere at the ‘middle of nowhere’ and ‘E-Ajnabi’…
