Losing is not an option!

What does desolation taste like? Bland, insipid…but so very addictive…Yes, in a way, you fall in love with that feeling…that feeling soaking you in, and sucking life out…you blame the world for leaving you alone, when it is actually you who is pushing the world away. A feeling of self-pity is what you revel in. It is a big bad world out there, out to get you, and you are the wronged victim – this is what plays on a loop in your mind. You enjoy wallowing in that sick, gooey mass of self pity till it actually immerses you completely and shuts the world from view.

Desolation has a clinical name – depression. It’s a term many use loosely whenever they feel a bit under the weather. But that’s like equating headache with brain tumor. Depression is desolation at its worst. Depression alienates. Depression breeds loneliness. Depression kills.

Some give in. Some don’t. At the end of the day, it is a choice. Yes, it is a disease…but whether you choose to fight it or let it take over you, depends on you and just you. Here is a way out: writing. Writing helps. It has helped me. And if a girl who couldn’t string two words together two years back can do this, can own up to being a victim of self-pity, and try and woo the world, so can you!

Yes, you there, who has switched off her cell phone, has refused dinner and is currently counting her misfortunes, am talking to you. Don't let depression fiddle with your mind. Don't let it persuade you to abandon the world. Don't let it break you! And I use the word ‘let’ because that is how it actually is: the control is always there in your hand. Don’t let that slip. Come on now, we are together in this! Losing is not even an option!

Sundays Way Back Then!

Way back then, Sundays used to be a different affair altogether. Mornings used to start with ‘Chitrahaar’ – old classics were aired and I would be often left gaping as I found my very serious uncle or very reticent Baba (father) humming to these lilting tunes. As for myself, I liked the dance numbers better – and unseen by others, would occasionally break into a jig à la yesteryear star Mithun, at some nook of our sprawling house.

And then there were some Sunday mornings when I would travel all the way to the marketplace with Baba where, among other things, he would buy fish. This, somehow, fascinated me a great deal. I would stare at the fish with all my might, and at times, when Baba was not looking, touch their scaly bodies gingerly. My curious mind would come up with an avalanche of questions. I would pelt the fishmonger and Baba in turn with these questions – why is ‘this’ fish different from ‘that’ one, why does that one have a bigger ‘tummy’… and the list would go on till they would beg me to stop.

And the special breakfast menu was something which actually made Sunday my favorite day of the week. Luchi – the deep fried bread that can make any Bong go moony-eyed, served with spicy ‘alur-dom’ (I wouldn’t even try describing this one – but it is not just “some potato curry”!) was something I would literally hanker for! And I would manage to tuck in ten ‘Luchi’ at one go – which is saying something given that I looked pretty anorexic back then, and couldn’t manage to finish off even a single helping of rice on other days.

Sunday afternoons were the time when I would wait, with eager anticipation, for ‘Someone’. That someone used to be a pot-bellied sweet seller – the man would flash a toothless smile whenever he saw me and at the sight of him, I would rush inside and implore my grandma to buy those creamy sweets that would just melt in the mouth!

Come evening and we would all go to the terrace to enjoy the cool breeze wafting by. Elders used to talk their hearts out while I used to dream, wide-eyed, about how I will own a big house someday where Luchi will be an everyday breakfast affair and creamy sweets will be available aplenty!

Those dreams might have changed, but the girl who used to dream those dreams still remains the same – those memories still make her smile a wide smile, and…she still asks too many questions when she is in the mood for it!

Yes, it is my Facebook World!

There is the real world and there is this Facebook world – or shall we call it the virtual world? Where people reveal a bit of their soul and double up their efforts to hide the rest. Where people bond and where people drift. Where love happens and hatred comes bounding out! Dichotomy at its best, you say? Yes, it is my Facebook world.

Profile pictures, cover photos, status updates – everything screams “that’s ME” – an urge to make the world sit up and take notice of us, of what we are – or rather, what we want to project? Sometimes they are music to the soul, as they reveal the raw, unkempt self – may be the wrap just got blown away! And sometimes it is plain noise – cacophony of opinions and counter opinions. Dichotomy at its best, you say? Yes, it is my Facebook world.

There are cursory likes, prim and proper comments and a compelling urge to appear 'different' – because let’s face it, off-beat is what secures attention, right? For some, Vero Moda tops make the 'difference', for others, it is the Akira Kurosawa stuff. And then that one moment, when you just don’t feel like putting up an act anymore and don’t care if the world gets to know the real you – the one who would rather have ‘phulko luchi’ than that Italian dish that claimed so much importance in your last status update! The world gets a peep into your real self and is intrigued – which is the real you? The one who lives on Bollywood junk or the one who swears by Bergman and Tarantino?  Dichotomy at its best, you say? Yes, it is my Facebook world.

And then there are times when you are all alone. And a ping. And you are happy. Or you revert to your snobbish self and make polite but pointedly indifferent conversation. Whichever way, it is you and you – yes, there are two – one you project and one you hide, one that sometimes wrenches free of your grip and makes a rare appearance, only to be kicked and shoved inside. Dichotomy at its best, you say? Yes, it is my Facebook world.

The Mystery of Chemistry

Chemistry – ew, how I had hated that subject in school! But how I have loved reading all about the on-screen Chemistry between McAvoy and Fassbender (any X-men fan out there?)! Chemistry is not just limited to acrid smell and glove wrapped hands – it goes way beyond that! This doodle on the various facets of Human Chemistry, was done way back in my college days! I still feel the same way – so haven’t really changed it much, except a few words here and there! Happy reading!

P.S. And exploring Chemistry!

The tiny mite of the baby looked like a small scared bird, which has just fallen from the nest. However, it was soon reassured by the inarticulate cooing and purring made by its mother. Doesn't it always make you wonder how mothers are able to read mute lips, soothe irritated minds and dole out comforting lullabies. This is what ‘Chemistry’ is all about – a bond that thrives on the unsaid!

Whenever my brother comes home to spend his vacations, our grandma arranges a surprise for him. Sometimes, it is a jar of his favourite lemon pickle, at other times it may be a brand new cricket bat. He often wonders whether grandma can read his mind. Why, he has not mentioned a word about how much he has missed the mouth-watering pickle or how, for the past few months, the bat has always been on his mind! Such is ‘Chemistry’ that it effortlessly bridges the gap between generations. There is also ‘Chemistry’ in the warm bear hug that Baba used to give me every time I failed in Maths exam (which was pretty often!). There is ‘Chemistry’ in the way my aunt ladles out an extra spoon of ice-cream on my sister’s plate on the days she loses her basketball match.

There are moments of intense shame, regret, repentance or embarrassment when a person craves seclusion. In those despairing moments, in the confines of the dark, secluded room, sounds of heart–rending, smothered sobs are all that can be heard. During such moments, one person always knows the route to that lonely room, the route to that lonely heart. He is called a Friend and the equation between two friends, an extension of Human Chemistry. He tells you off when you are about to give up. The naughty twinkle in your eyes gets reflected in his eyes, when he plays your accomplice in a prank. Your failure to conquer your inner demons costs him bitter tears. He is ready to put everything at stake to bail you out of sticky situations…such is the 'Chemistry' between two friends.

In life you may take the well trodden path or chalk out an altogether new path for yourself. The journey called Life might be infested with thorny challenges, or for a few lucky ones, a bed of roses. Whatever it might be, there is one person, who walks by your side, ready to share all that life has in store for you. Your soul mate, he or she is there to keep you from falling, should you stumble in the rocky road ahead. It is love that connects you; love that is there in your eyes, which light up when you see that person; love that is there in the feeling of content in your heart when this person is close by; love that makes you oblivious of the grim reality of the world passing by; love that is ‘Chemistry’ at its best…

‘Chemistry’ is not just about bonds that have tags or names to them. It is also about relationships, feelings or bonds which simply cannot be put in words, which do not follow set rules. Why is one able to ‘decode’ the silent gaze of a stranger, someone he has absolutely no link to! Why does a dog wag its tail when its master ruffles its coat? Why does the pitter-patter of rain spell calm for many? And why is ‘Chemistry’ the answer to all these “Why’s”?

However, in today’s busy world, ‘Chemistry’ is fast losing its charm…today, rash action by one human is quick to inspire hatred in his or her close ones. Ties are getting looser, smiles dimmer… ‘Chemistry’ does not tug at your heartstrings anymore! It is only in those rare moments that we catch the faint but pleasant whiff of ‘Chemistry’, that we want to live life…all over again…

New Stories, of Old Men

This is the story of an old man. Someone you wouldn't notice otherwise. Frail, walks with a limp, and feels awkward whenever he is being spoken to. But then, you might notice him for his smile. A half-shy, heart-felt smile that lights up his pock-marked face and wizened eyes. I have known him for years now. As I sift through memories dating back decades, I find a man who would let his emotions come to the surface rather than smothering them in. He would grumble, grudge and even yell at times. Over the years, his anger has given way to meek acceptance, and his defiance to helplessness. He has gone numb. And no, not “Comfortably numb”!

This is the story of an old man. You wouldn't get to meet him. Unless you go to that dark room and make a conscious effort to look for someone who is oblivious of his own existence. He sleeps, sleeps for the greater part of the day. Sleeps away, and as I watch him sleep, memories take over. Even a few years back, he had been a mighty old man. There were times when he had even come across as self-obsessed; a couple of notches above the ‘normal’ mark. And then I saw him losing it all. Dementia they called it. And I saw him withering away; all that was left was a shell and a fragile one at that. The rest went to sleep, perhaps forever.

And now, the story of an old woman. She still smiles, even though that faint smile fails to mask the palpable sadness in her eyes. I miss the ‘khichudi’ she used to cook on special occasions. Dollops of ‘ghee’ and dollops of love – that’s what used to go into making it. I have had ‘khichudi’ on various occasions later on, cooked to perfection but somehow that flavor was missing. She used to be one jovial woman and her laughter was infectious – would translate into a smile on your face. That laughter is gone, marks of defeat loom large.

And much as I love them, I don’t want to meet them. I don’t want to be left interacting with shadows of their former selves. For the people I knew are lost forever.

Win and Loss

Battered and bruised, I still smile.

“Oh, not enough, she is not broken yet”, Life kicks me harder.

I fall down, I bleed. But I still smile, even though it is a weak, faint smile.

Life rubs its hands in glee...it has sensed blood...and this time deals a mean blow.

I try to smile.

I fail.

Life laughs uproariously.

It has won.

She Was ‘MAD’ – Part II

She was 8 then.

She had gone out with her Daddy, her tiny morsel of a hand clinging onto his big paw as she happily trotted beside him.

She always loved this ‘alone-time’ with him…they always had this heart to heart talk which helped her understand her reticent father better than when they were in the oppressive confines of their home.

‘Dad? …’ She was hesitant, not sure how to put in words what had been on her mind for quite a while now.

‘Yes, my princess?’ her Dad replied back in that happy, indulgent tone.

That assured her, gave her the confidence she needed.

‘Why do we three never go out together?” , she asked in a soft, still-slightly-hesitant tone.

Till then her Dad had been smiling, expecting her to flummox him, like she always did, with some perfectly simple but difficult-to-answer question that her ever-inquisitive mind had managed to come up with!

Well, the question apparently did more than just that...

The smile on his face froze and then...vanished. He grew sober, then angry. She knew he was angry by the way he clenched his fists, furrowed his eyebrows. She immediately regretted asking the question.

‘Because your mother doesn't want to…

She is…
                                                                        
She never…

She won’t…
…’
 the allegations went on; the bitterness came bounding out…

The girl first looked surprised, frightened…and then, as her Dad went on spewing his grievances, her hopes received a jolt…she had always known that something was amiss…but this time, she had a feeling – things were never going to be ‘normal’…

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She was 12 then.

It was an unusual day. On returning from school, she had enveloped her mother in a bear hug, driven by a sudden impulse and her mother had not pulled away; enough to make the day an ‘unusual’ one for her.

She rested her tired head on her mother’s shoulders and just listened as her mother went on and on about how some distant cousin of hers had aced some particularly difficult exam and was going places now.

She was happy, plain happy to enjoy the physical proximity to that one woman, that most important woman she found so difficult to understand.

Suddenly, her mother’s voice grew angry. She hadn't really been paying attention till now to what her mother had been saying, since she was too busy enjoying the togetherness, the warmth…now the change of tone shook her out of her bliss…stray words entered her ears…

“And look at your father…

He never tried…

Better job…”

She froze…something 'broke'…

=================================================

She was 18 now.

She had taken her parents out for dinner. She had taken up a part time job, after passing her school certificate examinations. It would be a while before the results got published and so this had seemed like a good opportunity to make some quick money.

It was a posh restaurant.  Everyone spoke in hushed voices and when the food was served, the most perfect table manners came into play. The three of them were no different. On second thoughts…they were! They were the only ones not smiling, and looking ill at ease. No, not even fake smiles; the ones her parents put on at special events and parties were missing. She looked at them.

She made one last effort.

She smiled a warm, earnest, pleading smile, her eyes brimming over with hot, sad tears. They froze. They didn't know how to comply with her mute pleas. They loved her…but how could they, after all these years…

The girl turned away her face…she wouldn't show them her tears, she wouldn't give them more reasons to loathe each other…it was then that she saw them…a baby girl lisping her nursery rhymes, and her parents listening to her with rapt attention, their faces lit up with an inexplicable joy.

Something SNAPPED.

She laughed…she just laughed…a loud, raucous laughter…disapproving glances, shocked looks nothing could restore her sense of decorum…she just threw back her head, and laughed and laughed and laughed...

She Was 'MAD'

The receptionist tried to size the girl up. She ‘seemed’ alright but then why on earth did she want an appointment with the psychiatrist?  Was she mad?  But she looked the perfect girl next door, no signs of being ‘off the rocker’…

‘Excuse me’ …the girl’s quiet voice interrupted her thoughts, ‘I want an appointment with Dr. Chatterjee’.

‘Umm…alright, take a seat’…the receptionist looked positively uncomfortable.  The girl didn't seem much bothered; she was used to this sort of behavior; there were times when she had to deal with a lot worse…snide comments, rude remarks – she had endured it all.

Two hours passed. The buzzer rang. It was her turn. The doctor smiled as she entered. The same old cursory smile… “Ah, how are you? Are the medicines working?” …the girl nodded her assent.

“Hmm, you are sleeping alright? No more nightmares? No more suicidal thoughts?”…the girl shook her head.

“Alright…I have just adjusted the dosage for your medicines…”…the doctor gave that practised smile, signed off the prescription with a flourish and gave it to her with an expectant look. She took a 500 rupee note out of her bag and the doctor’s face lit up, this time with a genuine smile.

“Take care…” he was all smiles….

The girl came out of the doctor’s chamber and was just making her way down the corridor when she bumped into a relative. ‘Hiiiiii…what are you doing here?’ she got a quizzical look.

For the first time in the day the girl looked flustered. She tried making up an answer, failed and could just mumble that she was in a hurry. And then she just ran…yes, she was MAD, she didn't have the 'sanity' to understand the world around her...