Reason

He rolled over and shut the alarm off. The battery on the darn thing was weak, had been weak for weeks now, it wasn’t really ever going to wake him up – it let off a pitiful squeak every morning at seven and then fell silent, cowering like a dog that’s been beat up one too many time. His bones hurt, he had been generous with the last couple of shots last night, but hey Jim Bean was a good mate and keeping the last inch in the bottle was bad luck. Barney had told him that, back in junior year.

Where was Barney these days, anyway? He remembered a mail from him, about Sara and him finally getting hitched. But that had been a year ago and they really hadn’t been in touch since. It was weird. It seems only so long ago, that they had been puking their guts out side by side after a night of drinking and side-stepping in the melting pot and now they didn’t know in which city the other guy was. Weird.

He was just lying there, wasn’t he? Fuck it, he didn’t feel like getting up at all. The sky was grey outside and the only bloody sliver of light was falling directly on his eyelids. Damn it, the curtains were useless. He stretched, knocking over the pile of cloths that had just been washed. Fuck it. It was just Monday, damn it. He hated himself most days, but this was more. This was like being in a blender of detritus, sinking into shit even as it slowly choked you.

Looking for a reason to get up, was he? Well, he had to take a dump and he was hungry as hell. That bowl of day old insta-noodles was good for an hour and for making your insides clamp up. So, he got up, sat hunched on the edge of the bed for another five minutes, absently scratching the old scar on the left knee. Then he went in and stared at the bathroom mirror, the toothbrush absently foaming in his mouth. His hair was thinning, a prominent widow’s peak making itself known. The cheeks were shrunken, with a couple of days of stubble, streaked with gray and the eyes were dull. He sighed. Was he dying? He wasn’t even thirty. He hadn’t done anything yet. And well, he didn’t know what he wanted to do. He always drifted. He had tried studying, he had tried working. He had been drunk and he had been high. He tried writing and he tried construction. Nothing worked for him. It was like something was broken in him, something that stopped him from feeling. And now he was in his seventh job in three years, fielding calls in a call-center surrounded by giggling children barely out of their teens. He was called Uncle, behind his back, quietly and sometimes not so quietly. It was a fucked up job and it was a fucked up life. He sighed again. He was getting started fucking early today, hmm? He didn’t bother shaving.

The day went down the shithole pretty much from the start. He’d forgotten his umbrella and the 411 was late by twenty minutes and then filled with sweaty and wet people, rancid with yesterday’s hopes and today’s fear. Made him want to put his fingers down his throat. He’d even tried cycling to work, but after the last near-death experience which involved a cow and a cat and an Audi and put his arm in a cast, he’d pretty much resigned himself to a lifetime of nausea and to holding his breath. A bus it was, then, one that made him wait, even as it took him to a place he didn’t want to go.

He stopped by Leo’s after work. The day had been a doozer. That rat Iyer, a glorified pen-pusher, a sodomizer of little girls and a filthy excuse for a human had again called him to his cubbyhole of a cabin. The walls were paper thin and the faggots could probably hear every word as the shithead tore into him for ‘irreverent attitude’ and ‘irresponsible behavior’ – like the bastard would even know if reverence and responsibility smacked him in the face, repeatedly,  wearing an iron glove. So, maybe he had shown up drunk at work thrice in the past week and maybe he’d called a caller a ‘whiny bitch’ – but that woman had deserved it, too.

As always, Leo’s was good, silent almost, the people there thought drinking was serious business. He picked his spot, the solitary chair and the lonely stool that masqueraded as a table. It was the beginning of the month and George, the busboy who brought him his Vat and his cheeselets, was attentive as usual. He spent a little longer than usual, sitting in his chair, staring at the grime colored glass pane that blinked with the stare of fireflies as cars passed by outside. He could get drunk here, often had, and then make the stumbling walk, smoking his Classics, the fifteen minutes and three blocks to chez home.

It was past one when he walked out, the last one to leave. It was raining now, again, and the night seemed to have hunkered down, speaking to itself, the way he often caught himself doing, that it wasn’t planning to change tonight and this was what it was – silent, sad, long hours, hours without end. He didn’t mind too much, it was almost as if the world was sharing his mood with him, at harmony for once and he had learnt to shield his smokes from the rain – it was easy, once you burnt your fingers a few times.

He took the longer route home, getting water in his eyes and walking through the narrow lanes that threaded through the shantytown of the menial class. The mongrels on the doorsteps gave small, angry barks and then settled back into the cocoon of shared heat between man and animal. And there it was, a man lying in a puddle just across the corner in the dark. He stumbled against him in the dark and then unable to hold his footing in the slippery mud, he fell awkwardly and hard into the ground. Even as he fell, he could smell the vomit and the cheap booze and the piss on the other guy. The man moaned and shifted a bit as he fell on top of him.  And then the drunk belched a stream of fluid on him – well, rum tasted as good going down as coming up someone had told him once. And something snapped.

He wondered about that half an hour sometimes, in the moments that he thought about the past. He could see himself, burning with anger and self-loathing, this mirror of the man that he was. Could see himself, standing up, looking around dazedly, and then picking up a fist sized brick from where it was resting, gleaming, wet from the rain and then getting down on his knees and smashing it down to the face. There was a soft crunching sound, curious in its normality, and there was a harsh shuddering answering moan from the man as the blood started pouring down from the mouth and the nose. And he just couldn’t stop pounding the brick, pounding it till it broke and the man’s face was unidentifiable. And then he just stood there, swaying, as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. It was still raining, gentler now, and there were grunts of faraway trucks on the highway. His senses were heightened, he could smell the damp in the air, the lingering traces of fresh vomit and he felt more alive than he’d ever been.

He slept well that night. And next morning was the brightest one he had seen in a while. And if the world started to make a little less sense, he knew what he had to do now.

The Luckiest

After I jumped, it occurred to me, life was perfect. Full of joy, of laughter and surprises, of heartbreaks and of moments where your heart did not know what to do. So full it was of possibilities, of wonder and awe at the chance at happiness, happiness it couldn’t bring itself to believe was possible to have.

That first second, you are afraid. But it passes all too quickly. And then you close your eyes.

The first smell. Nothing quite like anything you smelt since. Baby powder, cerelac and mother’s milk. No questions, no fears. Not that you knew then what that smell was. But I remember smiling faces and I knew then that whenever I could get that smell, it meant a mother’s love. And there was nothing that could possibly hurt me.

The first time I watched TV. Still remember it. Or maybe I am remembering it again now. It was Ramayana on the morning nine o’clock slot. And every time Ravan stood up from his throne, I would run back to my room and hide under the bed. I couldn’t understand why everyone was laughing so hard. Wasn’t everyone afraid of this, this man, who could make a God tremble before him?

The first time I rode a train. Rather the first time I remember travelling by it. Don’t remember the first half that much – probably was sleeping. But I remember waking up to the din of the traveling vendors, with their steaming pots of tea and coffee and a porta-chulha. Used to wonder how they kept track of what was what. I took a while to calm down after a train journey. First thing I would do once at Grandpa’s place was to collect the kettles and bang them together and cry, “Chai! Chai!”. And Grandma would always buy a cup.

The first kiss. It wasn’t you. But there was this girl. And there was a college social and there were idiot friends, even back then. And there was an awkward dance. Isn’t there one always? And there were my size nine chappals and this shuffling side-step which somehow made her moves even more graceful. And then there was the mandatory powercut, this happens a lot in Calcutta by the way, and then we were just holding hands and it seemed like a moment to do something stupid, like fall in love for the first time. So I guess I did. You would have liked Calcutta. Next time, I promise.

You don’t hear much when you are falling. You’d think that there would be people stopping and staring and pointing fingers. It’s after all, nearly seven; the sun’s been up a while. But if they are out and about, they aren’t looking up. And if they are looking up and shouting, I sure am not hearing them. Blessed quiet. Only the wind rushing through your hair, like the fastest drive you never had.

And now the images come faster. I guess the brain figures out the time left and then goes into overdrive. Flickering images, lots of them. Brother, asking me something. Dad, proud of me. Mom, smiling. Grandpa, explaining. Sunrise, somewhere. Sunsets on the drive. Sand through fingers, cool and grainy. You.

Now, it reaches the end of the reel. And I open my eyes.

Little Steps

He could hear her. She was crying. Just sitting beside his bed and crying her heart out. Like it was the last day of the summer and they’d just buried Jack, her cocker spaniel, back when they were kids. 

That’s when they met, when they were kids. He was the school golden boy, a shoo-in for the prefect. He has just placed in the nationals and they were already talking about an Olympic medal. And he, he just wanted to swim. She had just transferred in, all coltish grace and prickly beauty. And he had seen her and realized that there was a greater goal than anything else.

They had married young. It had just seemed so natural. Nothing else would have really fit. Her parents had thrown a fit and they had run away for a court marriage. She quit medical school midway and then traveled the world with him. The championships. The Asian golds in 1998. And then Sydney in 2000. And then he quit. At the top of his game and no questions asked. They had Sumon in 2001. And she was the best mother. And then she went back to college – she had other souls to save. He was the stay at home husband-father, with the non-demanding job at the coaching academy. And it was perfect.

It was 2005, when he first started noticing the tremors. They had just come back from celebrating his 31^st birthday. And the newspapers were calling for him to finally get the Khel Ratna. It was high time. And he had gotten the teensiest bit drunk on his pint and a half. He just couldn’t hold his liquor apparently. And she was there beside him and her lips were red from the merlot. It was her drink, her only drink. He had brought back a bottle the first time he had gone abroad and they had gotten drunk together. A first time for them both. And now he was the teensiest bit drunk and he wanted so much to hold her and frame her face and kiss her on her red lips. But he could not find the words and his fingers were not quite his, strung as if on an invisible master’s strings.

Dr. Alok was in his mid-forties and was everyone’s description of the family doctor with his warm smile and comfortable manner. However, he was actually the foremost neuropathologist in the country and he wasn’t smiling this time.

I’m really sorry. Your test results came back. It is early-onset ALS. It is very rare.

Okay. How do we get past this?

He clutched her hand.  Sumon was at his grandparents’ like for most weekends. Instead of their usual drive down to Lonavala, they had booked an appointment with the doctor.

You do not. I’m really sorry but I feel that you would be better served if you knew all the facts beforehand. Obviously we can prescribe medication but you are looking at 3, 4 years at the most and with the kind of numbers I see, I think the disease could be progressing fast.

And he couldn’t find anything to say.

At first he got scared and then he got angry. Then he turned inwards and shut everyone out. She cried, hit him and shouted at him. But he just needed to turn off. And then he couldn’t. She was everything and without her, he was dead anyway.

And like a river running wild, the disease took away chunks of him. There were days when pretending was easy and they laughed and talked and snuggled together. But most days it was difficult to pick Sumon up and roughhouse just like they used to do. It killed him to be less then than that, less than the perfect father he had always wanted to be, less than what he thought he’d be.

And now she was crying. The meds Dr. Alok had prescribed him made him groggy and the lights were dim and he wondered vaguely if it was evening yet. Though it didn’t quite matter. Time was nothing, meant nothing and he didn’t have much of it anyway. He didn’t stir. She was talking to herself, talking to him.

Why did you choose me? (I didn’t have a choice.)

The fear is killing me. Sumon is so young. Will he not know his father? (You’ll tell him about me.)

I don’t know how long I can keep on being strong. This is so unfair. We had the best time and then you gave up on me, on us. You know we had our deal and you are just not sticking to your end of it. (I know and I’m damn sorry. Just believe me when I say that if there was a way for us to be together, for me to stay, I’d find that way.)

I can’t take it anymore. I had a dream and you gave me the dream. And now it’s a nightmare.

That night (or maybe it was very early morning) he woke up. He had never felt better. He had not taken the meds the previous night. She usually insisted and he had just pretended to be asleep. His head was clear and there was a glow in the window. There was the faintest chill in the air as he stepped up to the floor-length window and just stood there for a while. The view was usually spectacular from the 12^th floor. The rain started in the slow manner of most rains. He reached out a hand to collect some drops. And it shook. Just a bit.

It was funny. And sad. And it was the best dive he had ever done.

Running Away

He was waiting outside. As always. There was a strange ritual where he would shuffle ten steps towards the door and then pause. Wait for a minute maybe. And then head back to the Car. The Car was an old beat up Fiat. But it started every time. He just wasn’t sure of his welcome. Of the look that the drunk father of hers gave him every time. Even though Her eyes lit up every time she saw Him. Or it was he who read twenty minutes of insight in a second’s glance. Or the smile that she gave him – a half whisper, a ghost – meaning everything. So he usually waited till she lifted the curtains and came out.

But he couldn’t wait outside any longer. The sounds from the inside were getting louder. A knock, a grunt, a muffled sob. It was quiet that night. It was always quiet at that dead part of the small town they lived in. An abandoned settlement for the factory workforce. A little speck of dust in the middle of nowhere country. But the cries were awful and loud and he just couldn’t wait outside any longer. He walked up the driveway and rang the bell. Then he pounded the door. Once, twice. Harder.

The door jerked open. The father was standing there. There was that mean drunk look in his small eyes that he knew from the times his own father had slogged him one. Educating him, he called it. Then he grew up and those stopped. But she was fragile. And she was crying now. The nose was red and there was an angry welt on her left cheek and she was the most beautiful sad person in the whole world as she stood there clutching the ratted arm chair for support. He just hit him. On the face and he staggered and fell.

He looked and she was cowering and it broke his heart as she tried to shy away from him. But then he slowly, gently but firmly held her arm and walked her out. They sat in the Car for a while. It had started raining, the slow drizzle that signaled October. They looked at each other and she spoke.

What are we doing?

Leaving.

Leaving?

Yes. Don’t you see? If we stay here, we’ll become just like them. Angry, drunk and mean. We need to leave. I have some money saved from the repair shop work.

And go where?

Bombay.

Bombay? And do what?

We’ll figure it. It’s our lives.

Our lives?

Ours.

She smiled. And it was beautiful. He started the Car and kept driving.

Adventures in cooking and other diversions

Things have been afoot. Not crazy, bad things, I hasten here to reassure you. Nothing great and life-changing either, so you might wish to cancel the party and the order for the carton of balloons as well.

So what's then been happening in the last year, you ask me. And since this is a conversation between you and me, and there's really nobody else in the world who is remotely interested in the answer, answer I will. Little things, common place and ordinary things, things that made the year pass, and its almost the entire year now, extremely fast. I grew old, 28 now and I am kind of getting ready to move into middle-agedness. I am more than a little sad about it, I never had that feeling of youthful freedom that makes no act a folly (as I write that, I realize that just sounds way too pompous and way past middle-aged even and that makes me smile). I have never traveled, except for work. I have never played a sport, except when not kicking a ball would have detained me in PE. I don't know how to ride a bike, drive a car. A pretty dismal and sad state of affairs, I'd think you would agree. But then that's the life I've led and its a little too late to change what has happened and is past and that way lie thoughts of suicide and laughter that breaks into uncontrolled sobs and I do hate a fuss - and so the thoughts, they shall lie untouched, not taking up any more digital space.

I changed jobs. After 5 years and a bit, I moved from a corporate finance job to a job in the banking sector. People seem to be happy about it. I am glad for them. But I have come to the conclusion that while I am probably a workaholic, it doesn't stem from any overwhelming feeling of passion for the work that I do. I hate people telling me, or even indicating that I shirked my responsibilities, absolutely hate it. And so I will do whatever needs doing and I will put in the best effort that I possibly can. I might not be terribly happy about it but I will put a smile on it, just so, and do it well. So there are things to read and processes to adjust to and that should take some time, but I am hopeful yes and a little excited too, about seeing, learning and doing something new. Met new people during the 2 day induction program which is the only part of it I found interesting.

And I am trying to cook. What with brother moving in, I probably feel a little bit responsible and I enjoy the therapeutic and yet experimental nature of cooking. Rice and chicken (and some lentils boiled in lots of water - a thin soup) is all I can manage for now and seafood is something I am getting started on and it is interesting and you get fed at the end of it all. Makes me happy and it is a life-skill, people tell me, so I feel a little bit righteous as well. There's a guy writing a weekly column in Mint Lounge who puts in interesting recipes and thoughts on cooking - so maybe its a trend I am catching on at a fashionable time. We'll see.

A new feature (cue thunderous claps and a standing ovation) is that I will try to put in links to songs/books/other things that I find interesting and worth a bit of attention to. This should act as an erratic chronology of things that pique my interest and in this self-obsessed little corner that's all that matters too. So, without further ado, here it goes -

1. Song - Nick Mulvey - Fever to the Form (http://youtu.be/_242CRH3GI4)
   A few snatched words at the end of a Stephen Fry documentary. They were about being clean but unclear and as I try to find a middle ground between my adoration for both Neil Young and Mogwai, I find myself liking clean vocals, lyrics and understated instrumentation. And this song fits that bill quite well.
2. Movie - Holiday (1938, Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn) (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0030241/)
   A screwball comedy by George Cukor, it is not as good as either Bringing up Baby or The Philadelphia Story, but the dialogue sparkles with dry wit and sly humor while maintaining the innocence that these black and white classics possess. And the physicality that Grant and Hepburn bring to their role is quite amazing.
3. Book - Neither Here nor There: Travels in Europe (Bill Bryson) (http://www.amazon.com/Neither-Here-nor-There-Travels/dp/0380713802)
   Honest and opinionated yes, but Bryson possesses such a wicked and wonderful sense of humor that you can't but laugh out loud when he describes his traveler's cheques being stolen by a Gypsy girl in Italy and he goes about replacing them. He falls in love with some of the unlikeliest places and is disparaging about some more famous ones and paints the scenes with some of the simplest and warmest writing that I have read and makes me want to visit Como and Sofia and Rome and so many other places. Someday...

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It is a Saturday and I should now have 2 day weekends. Fingers crossed.