In Weakness And In Death II

Continued from - Part I

At first people couldn’t believe it was me. The weakling. The one who never had any serious problems. The quiet one. The one who fed stray dogs and cats and gave them shelter.

 But then people changed color.

“He yelled at me once during basketball coaching, I was so frightened”

“He was a very different kind of child…he seemed to pay attention to the smallest of things”

“What were the parents doing?” and etc. Like parents don’t have any other job other than pay attention to their just out of college son all the time. And then some minister was accused of forcing himself on his male domestic help, some train had derailed, and a few farmers died of starvation. Some college girl was gang raped in a moving car in Delhi. People were killed in Kashmir. Needless to say, I was yesterdays’ news.

He cursed once. I ignored. He told me girlfriend I was a drug addict, I told him to back off. He went around telling the world what a chutiya I was and how I didn’t have the balls, I ignored. He called up one night and cursed me. I gave him the choicest of words that would make his ancestors turn in his grave.

He slapped one of the young worker boys in the neighborhood who couldn't afford to go to school, for trying to clean his BMW with a dirty cloth. He accused the little boy whom I used to teach on occasion of scratching the windshield. That boy couldn't hear for two days afterwards.

No one liked him, but no one wanted to drill it into his head. No one wanted to teach him a lesson. No one helped or raised their voice. They just watched and tolerated his nonsense.

He trashed about my dead mother. I just laughed at the fact he had no other cards to play.

He tried to make the moves on my sister after getting drunk at a party. She found it funny and called him a loser. I was alert,concerned and worried. She told me that's how he was and it could've been any other girl.

Then one day when out with my friends on a Sunday afternoon, he mocked me and my friends since kindergarten who were like the brothers I never had.

 He came up and pushed my plate of the table.

Nostalgia IV

Continued from Nostalgia III

She was the perfect girl with the perfect tastes, with the perfect friends, the perfect life. She was a mirror image of Bidyut when it came to interests. And that made it worse.

If Bidyut wrote a poem, she'd eventually write a better one.
If Bidyut cracked a joke, her add on or comment would make people laugh harder.
If he liked painting at times and made something he thought was brilliant. Her's would make his jaw drop.

If he scored a 99, she'd score a 100.

She was the rain that poured down on his few minutes of sunshine.

She was the perfect daughter, the perfect friend, the perfect girl ...the kind that would make guys fall head over heels and break their necks and what not. The kind that would make the most self destructive sorts love themselves, quit smoking , drive safe and remember dates in an instant. The kind that people doted on and guarded like their very own.

If God had to make a female version of himself and cancel out all the imperfections, make a few upgrades, she'd be the result.

He hated it.

They'd known each other since they were 4. And boy did he hate her. He hated her then, he hated her now.

She broke his train set. She pulled his hair. Then with time, she made fun of his drawings. She would randomly quote his writings and poke fun at him. Everything he worked hard at and  took seriously, she didn't. And she'd do it better. Life was unfair.

Parents friends and everyone who fell in between would constantly talk about the both of them.They talked about how similar they were. How brilliant they both were. But at the end of it, if they had to pick, they'd pick her. They celebrated their differences. Of course all this , never in front of them.

He hated it. Perhaps it was an ego issue. Perhaps not. He had never met anyone so infuriating. Yet, it seemed as if he was the only one with anything against her.

And to top it all. She was pretty.

Then all of a sudden without warning, the right side of his face turned hot.

Nostalgia III

Continued from Nostalgia II


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Sometimes, surprises don't delight you. They make your skin crawl. Sometimes surprises don't make you smile.They make your nostrils flare. Sometimes surprises are a declaration of war in an instant.

But alas. It was a girl. The girl in fact.

Hating a girl complicated things.

Unless you were a girl of course.

It meant having no decent leverage. You couldn't instigate , bring her out and bust her head through a car's side-rear view
Though it would feel very  nice....... You couldn't do much. You could use sarcasm, and have her reply with some half baked come back which people would guffaw at, because well, it was coming from a girl. And the best or worst part was, people would frown upon you for having negative feelings towards a girl. The only thing that would work was in the emotional department. Something that he had yet to discover again.

Fairer sex my ass.

"You okay?" Apoorv asked with an amused look.

"Yeah, how could I not be?"

"Ooh contempt..... Get over it, let bygones be bygones"

"She made my life living hell. You better watch over me, cause I might have a drink to many, drag her into the alley and you know....you've seen the movies...."

"Dude , are you out of mind?, Grow up man.Go take a few drags of Apu's bong and come back. Jackass."

But Bidyut wasn't listening. He walked straight to the table. Took the seat right opposite her. She'd changed    over the years, literally and........figuratively. But her face was almost the same. He wished he could wipe that smile off her face forever.

"How much for an hour?" He asked.

"Excuse me? What?"

"You know , how much for an hour? Do I have to pay extra to have a little more fun apart from the obvious you know....OH , is your pimp around, do I talk with him then?"

"He's drunk. Excuse us."

Bidyut  made a mental note to give Apoorv a piece of his mind later on.

Torment

I wrote this while listening to this piece of music. So I'd like you to do the same.Do it slowly. Especially the banjo part. Please.Ask yourself why you're giving the answer you're giving.The music just makes it better, so listen to it whenever but please do listen to it. It's a beautiful piece, by a musical genius.


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Have you ever wanted to paint the visuals that you see inside of your head?

Have you ever had tunes in your head you couldn't play? No matter how much you tried?

Have you ever thought of  beats and rhythm  that you couldn't explain to people or play yourself?

Have you ever reached the point where no matter how much you tried, you couldn't get the picture right...and whatever was on the sheet of paper in front of you was nothing like what you had in mind?

Have you ever wished you could shove a hook up your nostrils and pull the ideas out?

Have you ever suffered from fits of madness.....a point where you start believing there's something very wrong with you?

Have you ever wished that you could pull the plug on your imagination.......silence the thousand voices screaming to be heard at the same time......silence the whispers that haunt you at night?

Have you ever wanted to scream to the point where you lost your voice ?

Have you ever wanted to drown in sound, color and sensation?

Have you ever wished your skill matched your drive ?

Have you ever wished you had what it takes?

Have you ever wanted something so bad.........that you don't know what you would sacrifice for it?

Have you ever loved something so much........that you reach a point where it feels the same as hate?

Have you ever thought that all the blessings you receive.......all the abilities you're gifted with...feel more like a curse?

Have you ever felt like your blood carried poison?

Have you ever felt the compulsive need to keep your mind in a stimulated state at all times?

Have you ever felt that certain things, people, substances, sensations, block your thought process?

Have you ever wished you could fall forever?

Have you ever wondered what you consciously thought of when you were a baby?

Have you ever tried to remember what it was like before the age you can remember?

Have you ever wanted to print the photographs you've taken with your eyes and saved inside your head?

Have you ever bitten into fruit that tastes like the produce of heaven?

Have you ever tried to recreate the satisfaction gained after biting into your favorite food from when you were a kid?

Have you ever laughed for no reason?

Have you ever cried for no reason?

Have you ever been in so much pain.....that after a moment or two, you can't tell it from pleasure?

Have you ever wanted to drown in sound, color and sensation?

Have you ever wished you could close your eyes forever so you don't have to put it down on paper anymore?

Have you ever wished you could fall forever?

Have you ever wished you never woke up?

Wake up. 

Nostalgia II

Continued from Nostalgia . 
-----------------------------


"Yeah sure. You got a match?"

"Here. You got another Cigarette?"

"No lets go get some. Besides you don't like Phillip Morris products"

"No I never said that. What I said was , the Marlboro man was gay icon"

"Fair enough"

They walked down to the nearest panwadi literally 'paan man'. Street slang  for the one who sells paan. However over time since God only knew when, they acted more like mobile stalls for Cigarettes, chewing gum, toffee, and of course, paan amongst other related products such as safety matches and lighters. There was always activity at such a stall.

There was a certain unexplainable respect that these people commanded. Maybe it was the intimidating signs announcing to the world that Selling tobacco products to those below the age of 18 was a criminal offence.Maybe it was the power they had of refusing to sell you something that you so dearly craved for.

Come to think of it, these makeshift vendors had very loyal customers.

Bannerjee took out his camera. It cost him almost the same amount his friend spent on a second hand Royal Enfield motorcycle. He mounted his 50mm prime on to the camera body, This one was his favourite lens amongst all. He looked through the viewfinder and adjusted the focus ring. click click click. Three frames per second. 


"How do you do that?" Apoorv asked as his left hand nurtured and protected the flame from a match freshly struck and brought it to the other end of his Classic Mild. click click click.


"By clicking a button and holding it down?"

"Now is not the time man. I meant, how do you get the shots to look so...emotional?"

He looked at a few pictures taken earlier with his favorite lens. The focus was just right. The backgrounds beautifully blurred.All thanks to this small piece of glass and metal that had a fixed focal length. Screw Zoom.

"I get what you mean....I really don't know, I just see what I like, wait until I think it's the right time and click"

"All in less than a second?"

"You make it sound like I'm some wizard"

"I'd say you were, but that would just make you full of yourself"

He saw the three inch screen on the back of the camera. The shot was perfect. A little bit of the yellow umbrella, a little bit of the different brands of cigarettes, the gum, the lighters and in the center of all the face of the old man making paan.

The next one showed a classic mild just after it had been lit, the smoke wafting away, the glow of the burning tobacco, and fingers that seemed very familiar.

"You should tell people before taking their pictures"

"Never have the time"

There was so much of color. Somehow the pictures saddened him. All pictures did. Yet there was this deep sense of unexplainable satisfaction after a shot well clicked. Like a nicotine rush. Naturally caused.

They walked back....even though they were both grown adults they still did not enjoy the right to smoke without having the previous generations worth of friends and relatives appalled. Hypocrite bongs all of them.

"So after three years, almost everyone will be here?" asked Bidyut.

"Well.....not quite." replied Apoorv.

"Why? Who's not coming?"

"No I mean.....Everyone will be there."

There was a slight smirk and a glint in his eyes. Bannerjee decided he'd rather be surprised.

Nostalgia.

One of my favorite shots yet.
Right click open in new tab/window
to view full size image.

Note: There shall be a series of Durga Puja/Dusshera/ Diwali posts for a while. It's in the air.

Bidyut Bannerjee stared into his reflection, his cup of coffee. His family's association with a Durga puja being held close to a major market place had it's advantages. Easy access, to convienience stores, cafes, bars and fast food joints.


But right now, it wasn't about all that. It was the day of Ram Navami. The day before Raavan met his fate. It was also the last day of Durga on Earth, before she returned to her heavenly abode. He noticed himself, his sunken eyes...his lips...as if he had grown into a 23 year old sitting right there in that corner cafe.


It was amusing how every year, on this particular day, the next years pujas seemed far away, and somehow a week before they arrived, it would feel like time had zipped past.

He pondered over the last few pujos, the last few Navamis. He was a different person then, with different priorities, different skill sets, different relationships…..

Somehow, every puja, a particular group of friends he wouldn’t meet the entire year, perhaps only on rare occasion, would find themselves together around the same table, making merry, like nothing could go wrong.

It used to be ice creams at first. Then coffee and cakes at a Café and now it was over drinks. With time, their conversations had also matured.

He remembered chatting up with the first love of his life over ice cream. He was maybe 10 perhaps 12 then. He remembered having coffee with her late afternoon after all the bhog was served to a few thousand devotees when he was 14. A full course meal. It was hard work, even though all both of them had to do was put plates napkins and spoons together. She didn’t graduate to the drinks table. She became a different person, with different tastes and priorities. He often missed her, her childlike smile, her innocence, the way she carried herself. Maybe they were much younger then, or maybe that magnetism was real and could happen again.

He remembered how Arsenal used to have 9 out of 11 french players, a particular undefeated season that was on during the pujas long back. Now it was a stupid team like Chelsea that was winning. (They were brilliant, but somehow he didn’t love the team). How a team like Liverpool was drowning in fears of relegation. He remembered what it was like to play football for the school team.

He was one of the youngest in the group. When he was in high school, most had already finished or were completing their under graduation. But he fit in just fine. And he was taken in with no hiccups. Every year, no matter how difficult it would be, everyone would make it a point to meet up. It had become difficult since those days. Work would keep people busy. Like all starting jobs, they were all given hell.

But nothing could keep them from living it up during this time. There was this sense of security that enveloped them around this time…it was there…but hard to explain…

His thoughts were interrupted by Apoorv, five years his senior. If there were tricks to live out high school and college, he got it all from him.

“Just got off the phone, Seema will make it…last day… beer tonight bro?”

Puff Off.

Mostly  fiction. will include it in a script somewhere someday. Just felt like writing this. I read on someone's facebook profile that the person was 'too cool' to smoke, or do drugs. I felt insulted because as much as i respect the choice of not indulging oneself .....I believe that respect should be mutual. 

I do not like smokers. I have no soft corner for them. I do not like the taste of cigarette smoke. I do not like people who smoke packs a week, some a day.


I smoke. Knowing fully the risk I am putting my physiology at. Knowing fully that there are chances of me dying of cancer. I am not addicted to cigarettes. Nor do I think I will ever be.


It was in the seventh grade that I lit my first cigarette...how well I remember that day....I stole two India Kings from my dads pack the night before, having no idea about strong, mild, or regular cigarettes. Plain curiosity.Boy did I learn the hard way.


Five seconds into taking my first drag, the nicotine hit my head for the first time, and it hit me hard. I was amazed, at the same time and yet scared of what happened to me.It was a state of confusion, yet clarity. I was more scared about the smell of smoke from me, so  I never bothered about the second one.


Later on along the way , I realized there was something wrong with me. My mind felt like it was at a busy intersection on a hot afternoon in Delhi, with cars all around me blasting black metal. My mind felt like it was driving down a highway, being overtaken by those I had passed long ago.My mind felt too many things all at the same time.




My family ties were weakening. My impulsiveness, aggression increasing. People noticed the difference.


After months of deliberation, in class ten, I bought my first pack of cigarettes. Gold Flakes to be precise. I made a promise to myself, "only when it's absolutely necessary".


A pack of ten would last for two months. My basketball days were dwindling, I could tell, my worsening knee condition wasn't permitting me to run. So losing out on my stamina didn't matter to me.


Like most people will remember the first time they gave their board exams, it brings with it long nights. I loved coffee. I would often spend an hour beating the coffee and steaming the milk to get my blend right. People at home thought I was crazy, but it was in those small things, that I found happiness and satisfaction.


Coffee with a cigarette, I realized was the best break ever. With a kit kat to sweeten it afterwards.


High school brings with it it's own share of adventure. It was in the 11th grade that I smoked openly, much to the shock of my mates who didn't know what it was like. Except one, who gave me a heads up and told me to change brands instead.


One by one, I saw most of my friends lighting up. And one by one, I saw all of them becoming addicts.
Not more than once a week became not more than one a day. Not more than one a day, became not more than one pack a day.


I went back to my cousin's place in a very nice country, met up with friends and family, a certain someone who I had a soft corner for. It was in this damsel's company and at her beckoning that I decided to not do it again. After a long time, my mind was at ease, it felt calm, like it had been given four years of therapy.


But all good things must come to an end I'm told.


That setting changed, her boyfriend changed, my work environment changed. my outlook to certain aspects of life changed.


So I felt I had , had enough of it all, and lit up once more. It was like these white soldiers of death were my best friends giving me company while I was lonely. Silently whispering into my ear, words that would bring me solace and comfort and joy.


A cigarette at the end of a long tiring stressful day, accompanied with a chilled beer was as good as a warm blanket on a cold winter night.


I never smoked to 'fit in' or 'be cool' . In my experience, most of the people I've seen getting hooked on , is not because of those reasons, but serious issues. It could be family, friends work, whatever. I believe only a small fraction of people start smoking to fit in. Some out of curiosity.


The only people who have a right to tell people not to smoke, when to smoke, are people who are smokers or have been smokers. OR people I care about.


I smoke, it's my choice. I need a break. Get me an alternate solution to clearing my head, I will.


I've done marijuana on occasion as well. As much as I'd like to I'm not doing it over and over again. Once in a blue moon.


Anything is bad in excess. But there is NOTHING wrong with an occasional smoke.


I care very little about myself.  Find me an alternative high and I will stop.


But please don't disrespect or judge people because of the fact that they have a cigarette now and then.


And if you are someone who lit up to fit in, I'd really want to shove a pack up your ass right now.


And the dude who had that shit on his profile, man seriously I'd love to set you on fire.







..

Drowning in darkness

Why is a funeral is so artistically vivid? The sight of bits of ash being blown by the wind into the air.....like each individual particle having a life of it's own.....the wind blowing the heat from the funeral pyre at you....making it glow brighter.....the expressions.....peaceful...fillled with hate...or indifferent..

The notes, the colors........despair...sorrow....death.

The classical interludes of an acoustic guitar, with bits of jazz, while the singer mourns for his loss.....

Why is loss so appealing? Why  wouldn't I mind diving into the ice cold waters of   hell, and swallow the sweet syrup of death, while a thousand nails pierce through my skin?

Why would I breath in cold water....linger on the few moments of euphoria that follow...and float forever in the void of nothingness....

"Oh beauty is beguiling call to death and I'm addicted to it's sweet siren...."


I need to sleep.

My favorite track as of now. If you haven't already heard it, please do. You'll love them. 

Getting lost.

PART 4 OF A RUNNING SERIES. PLEASE READ 1ST 3 PARTS BEFORE READING THIS.


incase you can't the followings are the ramblings a boy who's failed at comitting suicide. He's telling his story after he's woken up at the hospital. The events and what follow.




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Sometimes I’d just feel like getting lost.




It’s like with every trance track that lifted me higher, with every opeth track that made me float, with every cigarette I smoked afterwards to bring me back, the need to get lost just became stronger....like i was living a lie. Like my entire life in front of me, this world, the BMW M3 parked around the corner that I would stare at and hope to own and drive someday, the toasted bread with crunchy peanut butter on top, I chewed on for breakfast , was all an illusion.....and certain kinds of music were tunnels through which i could see the truth....which wasn’t happiness....but sheer joy. It was addictive. I was hooked.


It was like every painting, every photograph, any surreal piece of art seemed to be drenched in reality while I was living a lie. You don’t know you’re dreaming until you’ve woken up.....except for those moments inside a dream when you realize you’re dreaming.


I wanted to wake up.


It was like the very air I was breathing , I knew wasn’t real. It was like there was someone , something up there watching me.....like this whole planet was an ant farm in some curious 12 year olds make shift science lab.


I was tired. Tired of being the only one awake in a world full of people who walked around sleeping with their eyes open., people who’s ambition in life was to make enough money to make a decent living, to get rich, or die trying. But there’s nothing such as enough.


Money, Sex , alcohol and substances. All the worlds problems could be traced to one or more of those words.


And ironically enough, in this vicious cycle that our civilizations been trapped in....it’s those four that solve the problems.


Call me an escapist. But was getting away from this nightmare of a world and going someplace new, someplace filled with joy, someplace that felt real, a wrong thing to do?


I was a failure. And because of my hyper vigilance and high rates of self awareness, I saw the world for what it was. A lie. There is no heaven or hell after death. Because we’re already in hell.We just don't realize. 


A world where the guards don’t guard themselves. A world where greed,impulse and power are taken seriously. A world where a blind man is invisible. A world where parents can’t trust their children, and their children can’t trust them. A world where innocent animals are beaten, killed, injured and treated as the scum of society. A world where the people who don’t have a home aren’t given one. A world where taking the right path is suicide. A world where children are raped before they can even recite the alphabet.


I rather fall sleep forever and then wake up.

Succeeding to fail 3 - Orange juice with cancer.

Note:: Please read Succeeding to fail part one  and part two  before or after, thanks.


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My mind feels unburdened. It feels light. It feels….. like I’m floating. Every negative thought seems to have left my body. It’s a lot like my first encounter with heroin. Lower than half the dose and minus the exhaustion afterwards. It’s not happiness….it’s joy.


Or maybe I should throw my evening’s dose worth of these psychotic pills out the window. If I’m going to die, I rather die without all this trash in my bloodstream.


I’ve had enough. Really.


I overheard the doctor saying there was a slim chance I could actually make it. Something about will power. And then he rambled about miracles I have to admit,. he had good bedside skills.


I believe in miracles. But miracles happen to people who deserve them. I, am not one of them.


Miracles don’t happen to a person who hits his best friend until he can’t lift his hands to hit some more, or smash his windscreen. Miracles don’t happen to someone who sees a man dying and doesn’t do anything to save him. Miracles don’t happen to people who have visions of brutality towards people they love. Miracles don’t happen to ungrateful useless, mediocre people who indulge and drown in their cold lake of sin.




Miracles don’t happen to people like me.

I realize I’ve lost track of time while I’ve been here. I look around for a clock. None. I look around for a calendar. None. I instinctively reach for my absent cell phone. I decide enough is enough. I decide to take a walk.


I pull out all the wires and tubes from the back of my hands. My heart monitor starts screaming out to the room that I’m dead. I pull the plug and switch it off to avoid a flood of specialists through the door ,strapping me to my bed like I’m some kind of animal who doesn’t know what’s good for it.


I stand on my two feet. And try to walk. I fail miserably. I crawl to the chair on my left next to the coffee table and pick myself up. It’s like all the energy and strength I garnered in the last 18 years of my existence has gone on holiday.


I manage to regain my balance…and some strength. I slowly walk to the door. I rest myself on it. “You are weak only if you think you are” I smirk to myself. I push it open.


The first thing that hits me is the unique medicated hospital smell. I stagger towards the wheelchairs and I see this nurse running towards me. I wonder if I should race and have her chase me around the hospital like in those Hollywood comedies.


I decide not to.


“Excuse me. Can I help you?” She asks.


“License and registration? Or was it because of the seatbelts?” I ask.


She laughs. That makes me kind of happy.


“Where would you like to go?”


“Home.” I say to myself. “The cafeteria” I tell her.


“I’m going there as well, may I help you?” She asks again.


“Only if you want to” I say.


She doesn’t let me complete the sentence and begins pushing my chair down the corridor. I look around. Hundreds of people here to try save other people’s lives. Relatives, Friends family….all hoping for a happy ending.


I spot a huddle of women weeping outside a room which happens to be the neonatal intensive care unit. I guess someone will never become a mother. I guess someone has just taken a bypass route to heaven . Just a guess.


“So what are you in for?” She asks.


“Nothing serious. I swallowed a whole bunch of pills and was hell bent on killing myself. Better than jumping of a building. I figured it would hurts less and there wouldn’t be much of a mess to clear up.”


I don’t know if it is the subject of discussion, or my casual tone that makes her look like the way she is.


“Oh uhm…I’m sorry….” She says.


“Oh don’t bother, I failed at it anyway. Much like everything else. It’s safe to say that I’m used to it by now”


“Right…..oh look we’re here, nice chatting with you” And saying that she walks away.


I make a mental note to stop being so frank. I wheel myself around trying to find a table where I can dock my chair in. All the empty ones have chairs that I don’t have the energy to move.


Finally I spot one.


“What will you have sir?”. I see his name tag. He’s an intern in the department of psychiatry. Is it coincidence or is it faith?


“Get me something that tastes better than the crap I get in my room, orange juice and throw in a self help book about manic depression and obsessive compulsive behavior while you’re at it.”


“Rrrrrrright away sir.” He smiles.


I always looked around and saw people happy. Only now it doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m going to be going on the trip of a lifetime.


It seems like I’m the only person sitting on a table alone. Even people who can’t remember their friends and loved ones and look at them like strangers, have people around them….all hoping that one day the memories will come back.....


I believe everyone at some point of time or the other wants to erase certain memories. Even I did. But after a while you realize that even the good ones will make you nostalgic, and leave you with a sense of longing…..and gets you uncomfortable after which you make up your mind to shut them out as well.


The noise of a tray landing on my table brings me back to my chair with wheels. I look down and see a glass of juice, two pieces of bread, some jam, a black pill, an orange pill.


“You’ve got to be kidding me right?” I express.


“Well it’s your first solid meal, eat light” He tells me.


“What…no chicken? .......and what are the pills for?”


The sight of any kind of pharmaceutical drugs makes me feel like throwing up.


“The pills are to make sure, your stomach takes it easy…..those pills did their damage….anyway it’s a good sign that you want to eat.”


“ So if I recover fast enough, can I get a hot dog?”


“No”


Why not?”


“This hospital serves only vegetarian food”


It’s like I’ve waken up to another nightmare.


“Enjoy your meal” he smiles.


“Wait…..how do you know about my pill binge?”


“I’m the guy who comes around during the night to make sure your heart’s still beating. I basically make sure you stay alive at night.”


“So you’re the reason a guy who wants to die is still breathing….I oughta sue you for that.”


“Haha, go ahead, by the time either one of us wins we’ll be too old to bother, or dead………..see you later”


“Not so fast. One last question. Are you going to stalk me around all the time making sure I don’t eat or….. swallow things I’m not supposed to?”


“Naah, I just work here part time, don’t feel like going home. Don’t worry.”


“See you, good day”


Either it’s because I haven’t eaten anything real in a while. Or it’s because I haven’t eaten bread with jam in a long while. Either way, every bite is heaven.


While I finish my juice, I notice a girl sitting a few tables away. She has very little or no hair, seems frail and weak. From a distance for a split second it’s like something out of a science fiction movie. I am not used to seeing women without any hair on their heads.


She turns around and our eyes meet, she smiles. It radiates a kind of happiness that seems like a ray of sunshine in this dark damp place. I smile back. It takes a split second of eye contact and an exchange of smiles and I feel like I’ve known her for ages, almost like I’ve met up again with an old lost friend…maybe a sibling. I wheel over to her table.


“Hi. Tell me your story” she says.

Rocknrolla

Chapter uknown: uncomfortably Numb.
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This piece of writing is fully fictional. Any Resemblance to any person, place, event is purely co-incidential.




“The recording studio should be on the top floor, with the Artiste and event management offices.” I thought to myself.


“The club ceiling should be…….hmmm…. at least a minimum 6 meters high with soundproofing to prevent the noise from escaping. The heavy Iron frame holding the lights however needed the walls and the ceiling to be reinforced. But what material could possibly take on that load and still be light? And not to forget they would have to stay cool to save on air conditioning costs and not forget the dance floor had to have transducers underneath, so the bass frequencies would go right up people’s bones and make them feel the music.” This was hard work. I sighed to myself. I sketched out a neat rough plan of the floors at the back of my register while going back to important thinking.


“……. And now Mr. Amartya Bhattacharya will be kind enough to explain the difference between the Carbon bonds in the chains of Alkenes and Alkynes. Yes?” I heard Mrs Nagre’s faint voice somewhere in the distance. And then I noticed the rest of the class looking at me.


“Huh?” I said snapping back to the present from the future.


“Well?” She asked again.


I knew I was in trouble. Whenever teachers use your very long full name to call you in that manner you are most definitely in trouble. Or you’re getting a reward.


“Mr. Bhattacharya If you can’t concentrate now, what will you do in march when you will be sitting for your board exams??”


“Hitting on the chicks sitting next to him so he can get the answers” Snickered Aryan. Loudly enough for the whole class to hear. The class acknowledges with laughter.


“Only if its someone hot. Unlike your daughter” added Mooli. In a very serious manner. Stressing on the word unlike. Which was unfair if you ask me, I mean she wasn’t a nine on ten, but she had an amazing voice. A natural Soprano. And she was really nice.


“ Shameless! How dare you. I shall complain about you the the principal Mr Ganguly.! Mr Bhattacharyya May I have your diary please?” Commanded Nagre.


Ouch. This could mean only one thing.


I watch as she glances through and starts scribbling inside. 6 years ago, I’d be begging her to stop, and make promises I would actually end up keeping.


“Get it signed by tomorrow. The standard of students in this school is going with every new batch ” She sighed. I looked at the note written with a teachers red ink pen in the “Notes to parents page”. “Lackadaisical” It read. “Day dreamer and does not pay attention in the classroom. Is a constant source of distraction to all around him.-


“What the hell, I wasn’t distracting anyone,” I protested.


“Language Amartya.” she snapped.


“-- Rude and no verbal restraint shown when corrected .Please check”.


There were three other similar ones. All had her signature underneath. And my dads signature in the next column.


Some reward.


The bell rang. There was rush of bags being pulled out and people rushing out of the classroom door like prisoners on death row getting a chance to escape. I didn’t blame them. When your in a school full of guys of all colors shapes and sizes, and you aren’t the ‘Alpha male’ type, you don’t want to stay very long. We three however were the last ones to leave. Not because we were bullies, not because we were slow, but because we were just plain lazy maybe, or couldn’t care less.


I sometimes wondered how the guys in sitting up in front managed it. Six hours is nothing less than torture. Add to that teachers and a principal who are very effective at ..err.. correcting us. Even for the people who sit at the back like the three of us. Or maybe it was just me who was Incapable of understanding their methodology.


I sometimes wonder if I’d be any different if I had stayed on after the first two years in that co-ed school. I mean would I be more sensitive to people’s feelings,? Would I have less girlfriends ? Would I have one at all? Or in these liberated times a boyfriend maybe?
Would I like babies? Could I be the geek sitting way up in front with nothing to distract me at all? My thought process was interrupted by a very annoying Mooli.


“Yaay now you can practice your dad’s signature once more, I think you should go easy on the S curve, you make it a bit too sharp. Oh by the way any of you willing to come along with me for a Pink Floyd Tribute gig tomorrow night??”


“Yea if you can convince the organizers that we are over the age of 18 and if we won’t call our parents to pick us up” I said.


“Car won’t be a problem” Aryan said. “ Dad doesn’t care about me, or his car anymore and besides I look above 18 and even if I get caught driving the cop won’t need anything more than 500 bucks. And considering that there aren’t many cops in that area on Saturday, the probability of us getting caught is very low”


“It won’t be a problem for your rich spoilt ass, but what about us?” I said.


“Don’t worry Amar, They’ll pity Mooli and let him in, and besides those glasses shield most of his face anyway, they won’t bother asking him and you’ll know people inside won’t you? Ask them to come and pull you in. It always works.”




“Guys shouldn’t we be studying I mean our boards are like only 3 months away!!!” said Mooli in his pseudo geek voice. We didn’t find it funny however.


When people with big glasses say something like that, not matter how pretentious their voice sounds, you assume they’re genuinely concerned.


Getting into a nightclub in Delhi is relatively easier if you have loads of cash and a few networking skills .Or if you’re a girl. A build like Aryan’s doubles your chances. A build like the familiar girl in the blue mini skirt I was looking at outside the venue triples your chances .Provided you’re a girl that is.


Mooli and I however had neither. We could neither intimidate the staff make them richer, or flutter our eyebrows and get ourselves in. Unless all the bounces were gay. Thought I doubt the guys who girls find attractive are attractive to the guys as well. But that would still leave Mooli out, so no it was not an option.


I spotted a group of people I knew from other gigs. I call them gig friends. I didn’t know their names. I didn’t know whether they knew mine. Though I could tell only a few didn’t, because of reasons you will come to know later on probably. We just met each other occasionally at gigs.


I raised my eyebrows for a split second and gave the ‘What’s up with you?’ nod to the girl in the dark blue mini. All of them waved back. A few puzzled “You know him?’s” followed with the guys’ expressions becoming a bit grim and the girls giving the‘ I know something you don’t know’ smirk at me (something which I can’t understand till today, I mean they give you the same look if you have something stuck to your teeth, if your asking about a girl who’s orientation is not quite straight, if they are about to make a pass at you, if they find you attractive, when your winking and they think your ugly. And they blame us for not paying attention.)


I made a mental note to ask for her number this time. Even though I couldn’t remember her name. I would have to pay close attention to what others would say to her.


Aryan didn’t seem to be in a very good mood. “Bloody hell they won’t sell us any beer here. We need to sneak some in from the Theka* across” A typical north Indian rich spoilt kid one would say. But I didn’t care. Aryan was not much of a Floyd Fan. Unlike Mooli and me, he needed something in his blood to give him a high when Floyd was being played on stage.


Some amateur metal band was opening. I think their name was from The lord of the Rings trilogy (which in fact is not a trilogy, it was intended to be one whole book which was chopped up, because it was too big to publish as a single volume. Besides, come to think of it, how many of us would actually bother reading it if it were that huge. I wonder if Harry Potter would still outsell the bible if all of them were published together. I think not) Anyway They came played their set, I evaded a very messy mosh pit, while observing the instruments, amplifiers and the fingers.


Aryan and Mooli would probably tell you that I didn’t have the guts to get my shoulder dislocated or get my nose broken. Maybe. Aryan could take on Two fifths of the pit on his own, and Mooli’s fat glasses would injure every thing that hit it. But the truth is, I prefer paying attention to details on stage and listen intently to what was being played, than push, punch stomp, get thrashed, and come out in state which would impair my judgment and sense of balance which had to be in perfect order if I was to make a few new friends tonight.


I’m not a Steve Vai or a David Gilmour. But statistically speaking I was about 70% sure I could play better. Maybe it’s something similar to watching those people sweat it out and make a fool of themselves on those scripted reality shows while believing you could do better or maybe it was genuinely true. The other thirty percent depended on the number of loaded girls in the audience. These guys however didn’t seem to notice important stuff like that. No encore. No surprise.


The next band came up on stage. I knew the bass player. He waved to me and beckoned me to come forward. “Hey look we didn’t have a proper sound check man, these bitch-fucks wouldn’t allow us more than 5 minutes, could you sit with the engineer and tell him what kind of output we need? “ I could tell from his eyes that there was a hidden stash or grass somewhere. Or Maybe he didn’t get enough sleep. “You just have to tell him what we want, that’s all, if he tells you to buzz off call me.”


There is an overused, clichéd phrase which I am forced to use to describe that feeling, it goes something like this –‘magic to my ears’.


What I feel behind a console is what a 5 year old who wants to be a pilot when he grows up would feel if he was given control of a small plane. Except I wouldn’t randomly press buttons and then ask what it would do. Its something similar to the feeling after you take control of a car and hit 60 Km/Hr for the first time (actually these days it would be 80 Or more), but not quite the same. A sense of power, control, a feeling if raised to the power of 10 I’d know what God felt like.


I sat down next to the ‘engineer’


I adjusted the big Alesis equalizer, and the engineer wasn’t the type who you would call an uncle(which is a boon actually). He was fair about five foot eight had a nice big colored tattoo on his left forearm, spiked hair and thin sideburns. He looked to be the sort who missed out on modeling assignments because of his height.


He didn’t need any help. But I still stuck around, because it was a soundcraft, twenty four channel console which had recently gone out of production, and it was calling out to me, so were the pair of monitoring headphones, and of course the girls were looking at him, and in doing so they were looking at me, after which they realized that the guy next to me was out of bounds and looked at me again. I didn’t look back.


The band started with a track called ‘Wish you were here’ and slowly progressed into playing faster numbers. During the second part of the infamous’ the wall’ Mr. Model took out a small sealed packet of something which for a split second I thought like Oregano seasoning, he then mixed it with tobacco and rolled a cigarette . Mr. Model saw me looking. “If you want a fix you could go out and give yourself one, they catch you on camera, they’ll screw you.” I politely declined. I was too lost, in the guitar solo of “Comfortable Numb”.


The band politely wished us a good night, and advised us not to drive, and signed off.
I spotted the girl in the blue mini talking to another girl wearing a red top who I recalled to have winked at me a few months before. It was now or never. The other band in line was setting up.


“Hey, Do you mind if I borrow your friend for a while?” I asked red top.


Now there are two reasons why I always used this one. The first being that no person would say no if asked, to avoid coming across as a dominant bossy bitchy person. The second is that the person I want to borrow would most definitely agree to avoid coming across as a submissive person who doesn’t make his or her own decisions, if the other one said no.


Applied Psychology for Bastards.


Both of them seemed apprehensive.


“I promise I’ll bring her back. Don’t worry if that’s what your thinking” I quickly added with a wink.


“Sure” came the reply with the smirk.


“Great, so enjoyed floyd?” I asked. Up close she seemed she was of north eastern descent. She also seemed far prettier.


“Yea. In fact it was one of those rare ones, where the crowd was good and cultured as compared to the rest of them I mean for once I could actually hear what was being played and my ears aren’t ringing. It’s a relief from all the blood sweat and dislocated joints” she replied.


“Why, are you one of those who think heavy metal is something you eventually grow out of?” I asked


“Not really, it depends on what you want you know, I mean if your in the mood for Miles Davis, you’d most probably think its noise at that time no ?”


“And if your in the mood for lets say Iron Maiden, Jazz would be……..?”
“Boring. Just plain boring.” Laughter followed.


I thought I’d found my soulmate.


We showed the man at the door the stamps on the back of our palms and went outside into the lounge area for some air.


“I saw you today with the audio tech. So were you standing with him only seeming interested, because you noticed my friends looking at you in that direction, or are you genuinely a sound freak?”


“Why the choice? Can’t it be because of both?”


“Do you always throw a question when you don’t want to give straight answers?”


“Why, does it seem that way?”


“Your not answering my questions…..”


“Ask too many questions you won’t be able to see the answers now would you?”


“You’re witty” She smirked. “ I like witty people, especially ones who have a taste for good music”. Ouch.I didn’t see that one coming.


“Well, in that case, you seem to be a pretty good song” I hit back


“THERE YOU ARE YOU FREAK!!!!!,, you won’t believe what just happened!, you know the guy standing right in front, he had fucking so much to drink, he fell on the synth player when the mosh started, and he puked on the Kord Triton! It was fucking awesome!” roared Aryan.


“Yeah and you know that chinky guy with long hair who we met at the Great Indian Rock festival last year? It turns out he’s broken his hand! It’s a bloody hell in there, what the fuck are you doing outside here?” Mooli seemed to be having a good time..


You know the times you wish the ground would part and would take you in? This was not one of them. Right then, I wished I could crush Aryan’s head with my bare hands, and break Mooli’s neck. Then I could hammer them into the ground.


I however did none.


“Do you know them?” I turned to her and asked.


“Uhh…no??” She replied, looking very confused.


“Right, Anyway I think we should both make a move on, the clubs closed, how you going home?” I asked.


“Oh no that’s okay, I’m going back home with my friends anyway” She assured me.


“Say where do you stay anyway?” I pushed it further


“Vasant Kunj. D block.” She winked.


“Oh by the way, the names Amartya.” Delayed introductions are very effective.


“Gauri. Nice meeting you. See you around” she waved without turning back. She had really nice hair.


Aryan caught me by my collar before I could turn around completely.


“You motherfucker, you come with me in my car. You drink out of cans I buy And then you fail to recognize me to save face in front of a girl?”


If anyone saw us right now they’d think I was the one not in my senses. I couldn’t hold in the smile anymore.


“Her friend was the one in the red top. The beer drinking, moshing one.” I reply.


“Holy shit, now that’s more like it. What all have you got on her ? “ he asked as we hi fived each other again. We just couldn’t help being a bunch of assholes. Thank God it was a Saturday. My neck was stiff and uncomfortably numb.

Succeeding to fail [Part 2]

Please read part 1 before continuing thank you.......


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I always knew there was something wrong with me.


I just didn’t know what it was. It was there at the back of my head…..nagging…an itch…white noise…that wouldn’t go away. You know…that sinking feeling….except I felt like that most of the time. The times I didn’t I could feel intense rage rushing through every vein of my body. I was angry. And I kept it to myself.




But today I know what it is.






It’s been a few hours since I’ve been awake. I wonder where my parents are, where Anamika is. Where Rita is. I wonder where my friends are…or whatever was left of them anyway…Do they even know?


I know I don’t have much time left. I may have taken two years to repeat a grade, but I was smart enough to know that an overdose of benzodiazepines with a lot of alcohol was enough to fall asleep and never wake up again.


In case I did, the damage to my heart would be so severe, that I wouldn’t have much time awake, before going back to sleep again. And the best part was , it was all peaceful…heck, I even measured the exact percentage required to increase the probability of never waking up.


I was lucky. Most pharmaceutical firms these days manufacture shit that gets pumped out of your bloodstream within a few hours of you swallowing them.


It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. You’re body isn’t programmed to die forcefully. I felt like throwing up after the 15th pill …or somewhere around that mark. I needed tremendous will power to keep it in. And because I’d had so much to drink before I was sure to fall asleep the moment my head hit the pillow anyway. And in any case, if I regurgitated while I was asleep, I’d choke on my own vomit and die anyway.


Just like Hendrix. Except I was a nobody.


The last thing I remember was looking at a calendar of Vivekananda with the words “Whatever you think, that you will be. If you think yourselves weak, weak you will be; if you think yourselves strong, strong you will be” The Irony.


I was a failure alright. At the age of 6 my uncle told me to help him back the car in the driveway. I couldn’t see because of the big bush on the side. He reversed straight into the wall. He said I was useless. After 10 years, most of my family thought so. They never saw meaning in me observing stars through a telescope, and noting down the change in constellations with seasons. They never saw meaning in my painting.


That’s what I was, a useless good for nothing ungrateful wretch of a son.


I was no genius. I was not basketball captain in high school. I never rocked with the band on stage.
I had a girlfriend whom I trusted with my life and loved with all my soul. But she let something as baseless as distance break the bridges that I built with my own hands.


The ones I tried so hard to keep from bending.


But I was only human.


No matter how hard I tried, how many other women I slept with, she never went away. The memories still haunted me. And it drove me crazy. I loved her, and that is why I hated her.


Its now that I realize, that life doesn’t have any meaning. There's no purpose of life. You’re just given one and you try and make something out of it. It’s not about achieving your dreams or any of that bullshit. It’s all about survival. Licking people’s shoes and practicality.


I rather sleep.