Neither Black, Nor White..

12 - July - 2012

Post a heavy Sunday Buffet lunch from Indigma, on a reclining chair on my patio, I relished the summer lights making ways through the hanging pots of full bloom petunias.. Multi-coloured bell shaped flowers evoke the spirit of Holi back home in India. A reverie was to unfold.

Part 1

Walking through the N. Charles’s street, my eyes landed on a frock on a mannequin inside the “BULLC”. The chest piece made of black satin, with the frills of black and white polka dotted stain starting at a higher level with an umbrella cut and spreading uniformly to all directions. It’s just till knee length with a black border.  Wow.. I loved it. 

I had this fixation for Polka dots since the late eighties when my mother used to wear a polka dotted saree. I used cuddle hide inside her saree  pallu when she reached back home from work. Is this in fashion again?? I mused staring at the mannequin.

I equally loved someone with long straight hairs. Straight hair in a ponytail knot is something I adored in Maggie, a high school classmate. My less known characters are I prefer home-made food and I like people when they speak less.

Monotony prevails when you reach office and starts with your virtual world of outlook. The parquet floors were rhythmically responding to a gallop when I looked up to see “her” in the very same Polka dress which I saw yesterday. She was a fair, with veins on the neck visible for naked eyes. She had dangling silver earrings and matching bracelet.  A small “Louis Vuitton” black shoulder bag, a leather folder and a high heel – shoes completed her attire.  I knew I was floating like a puff of cloud and my thoughts savoured the till date unfamiliar realms. I knew I was standing up to get a better view of her. I was hapless when my apprehension made me numb to answer the questions of this new employee, and when someone at the next desk was quick enough to direct her to the HR room.  As I invented newer ways to interact with her, in six months I married her. She was Lisa, my first wife. 

I loved her anklet, the sound it makes when she walks around, like the wind bells. I spotted her curly short hairs on the first month of our marriage, which shocked me.  I ignored that she was talkative person and my answers were mostly, yeses or hmmms..  She cooked amazing food and I loved the sea food she made. When she shortened her hair in another six months, I was upset.  Then I am happy with her Polka dress, I assuaged myself.  But when I saw, the Polka dots has lost its shine, the black dots has merged with the whites, I was totally angry. I was not rich for alimony, so I took a loan.

Part - 2

3 months post-divorce, I was back to my solitude and living on pizzas and frozen foods. I changed my apartment as I was unable to afford the rental. I sold my car and mostly walked or biked myself to office.

Then I found “her” standing at a Safeway counter. She was facing the biller and I could see the long straight hairs in a ponytail. She was wearing a Capri pants, a t shirt and shoes. I thought I can buy her a polka dress. To my own surprise, the desperate me, gifted her, the same, for her birthday in 3 months’ time. She was Alice and I married her in a few months. 

Though we lived in the same room, she had nothing much to talk as she was as quiet as me. She never cooked at home. So we ate out mostly. Till this date, I have not seen her wearing the polka dress. All I am left with are her ponytail, a huge debt, my grey hair and grey life. Or is it totally a black life?

Yes, its dark, already 10 PM. I have slept a lot in my life. Stll, back to bed.

Thank you Mr. Akhil Mekkat for the painting.

 

Enstonned

On the banks of Peacock Lake...

From

LimeStone,

Peacock lake bank,

University of Hyderabad,

GachiBowli, Hyderabad

To

Jaykrishnan CA

Times

Dear Jay,

I am a lime stone. Shahabad variety.  Born and brought up here as my address specifies. I have seen few centuries.. The oldest of this area. The tallest of natural stones of the campus.  Not like the red bricks, juvenile, which body the campus building.

I am now corroding due to the acidic rains of last scanty monsoon. I have a story to tell you. I tried to tell the many lovers who used to sit on me, share their amorphous, and tempestuous love for each other.  They never noticed me. It’s my story, through your day Jay.. You may say I am antediluvian and avoid me. But my Bio is replayed again with you Jay..I hope you can come out of this vicious circle..I want you to learn what Abhimanyu didn’t.. Abhimanyu of Great Mahabharath..

A preternatural talent to praise of, he could be a surrogate sleeper for all the colleagues working night shift as sub-editors at “Times”, at times even influencing his 3 year old alarm to sleep for an extra 24 hours. May be induced by the high dose of Valium, the summer heat of Hyderabad or the heavy and piercing Moreen fabric of the bed could hardly infringe his day time slumber till quarter to 6 when he woke up to his nocturnal blues of monotony.

“Oh!! It’s the day of Sukoon..”, the annual festival of University of Hyderabad of which he was supposed to make an article for Sunday Times. Gachi Bowli dawned in him as he took his tablet even without washing his face. With 2400 acres wide campus upholding the majesty of a highly scholarly crowd, striving to be the pioneers of tomorrow, University of Hyderabad had all the pride worth of portraying. Verities’ may vouch the campus being a true representation of India with students hailing from all 28 states and national territories. So being at Sukoon evokes long lost patriotism in vibrant shades of India. His thought process was traversing the right direction articulating and converting to word processor.  Abruptly diverting, her smiling face permeated him; she whose charm and love held him tightly for the last few years like a noose on a pearl bag of Hyderabad. She was capable of it, as she was a senior, mature and stable. Emoting traces of jealousy, curiosity or mockery for this love with senior, onlookers were never a scarcity. She has loosened her grips to scatter his life like pearls rolling in no direction. “Kash, the Sukoon had brought some sukoon to my life”, he sighed. He longed to reach the still cool shades of her life, to perceive the calmness she exuded and to enjoy the safety of her abode. She never spoke a word to him, she whose skin bore a scar of their names. She wrote it with a pain so physical which evaporated over time. But, in his heart it still festered to ooze the gore and pus. “How can she be so much a lady of “avoidance personified”?”

Well, I don’t know what happened between you and her as it was below the “Neem” tree with whom I lost connection years back. Today was special; it’s the anniversary of their break up, a day she said she will be leaving him forever, last day of his Sukoon.

No. She’s not. She’s still a good listener, though she never uttered a word. She was not hesitant to shadow him from the turmoil of his turbulent, boisterous mind, adapting from a love-lorn boy to a mature single man responsible for his family and a journalism student to a convincing employee. He worshipped Thursdays, off days for bestowing him with a chance to embrace her. She succumbed to his trivial tantrums and provided him a safe haven for unburdening his venal thoughts.

Showing his ID card to Babji standing at the security gate, he flashed a customary smile and rode impatiently to the 4^th street inside the campus to reach her, heeding no attention to Babji who was saying something indecipherable. She was standing there in dark, watching him as he parked his two stroke bike on the side to embrace her. He stroked her hair, dark in the night; he kissed her with affection which choked him, the last few minutes of intimacy. He devoured her with all the passion and intrepidity which the darkness of 4^th street provides. As he lay awake next to her, he ruminated the past interfaces with her, ridiculing him for arriving at this predicament of leaving her.

She spoke, “Oh my friend, today I tell you the story of the lime stone who loved me”, her skin wrinkled to give a vague glimpse of melancholy, something new for him.

Last week, when you sat on him, he was telling you the story. You never heard him, like you didn’t hear Babji today.

“How you know Babji was speaking to me?” He had many questions to ask though he stopped at one. He was happy that she spoke and upset that she called him a friend and wondered whether she is telling another love story.

“I can see him from here; he is still standing at the security gate. I can hear him. He needs some money for his daughter’s treatment”, she told.

She who was the tallest Neem tree of the 4^th street was speaking to him. She who bore his and his lover’s name on her bark, her sylvan instincts never cared for the limestone when she was young, fertile and amoral.

“Just like you, he was heedless and stubborn. I ignored his unrelenting mind and body. He adhered to his yearnings and his desires conquered him. He got cursed, stunted mentally and physically. His progression got truncated and became a limestone. Just like the Bible says, Lot’s wife who looked back at the sin, or the city of Sodom, became a pillar of salt. Or like Ramayana says,” Ahalya became a stone when she sinned”. You are also sinned and cursed my friend. “

“He is still a stone, not moving in life, but trying desperately to rise above the red bricks art’s school building to get a peek of me”. He still has his head turned towards me.

She stopped. He looked at her. He has always seen her verdant leaves, voluptuous branches and fragrant shadows. Now, with heaping cigarette butts littered around her, dry leaves falling on the sides, she is no more a blissful angel of the campus. She is just another withering tree of acid rains, who had seen enough to tell him her centuries old story, to awaken him from the sleep of blemish. An imperfection he wore for one long year, ethylating, nicotinizing and lastly hallucinating, masquerading the victorious master’s degree, campus placement and a plum job.

Wake up Jay.. Its time to heal..

All the best..

With unprecedented & unrequited love,

Lime Stone of Peacock Lake

 “Jay ho… Jay ho.. loud music played by singers of art’s school.  “Wake up .. Ofho.. Jay.. Wake up”, Sumaira was smiling at him, while Jay struggled to rouse from his dream. He lumbered back from the open stadium to peacock lake, holding her warm hands. They climbed up to the topmost point of the limestone. Sat there and watched across the lake to the well-lit GachiBowli indoor stadium.   They didn’t talk, but tried to listen to him in vain. Returning back, he stopped at the entrance, took out some money which he had planned to deposit at the “spirits corner” and gave to Babji who was gaping.

Thank you Mr. Shamseer Mambra and Midhun Raj U R,Sub-editor,The Times of India Hyderabad.

Gulmohar Road

Gulmohar Road, Vile Parle West…. 10.02.2012

Gulmohar fascinates me with its beautiful phoenix red colour change in May.

As a teenager, flat down by a note emotionally, I used to stroll through the walkways towards Joggers Park, with beautifully juxtaposed paver blocks on either side of Gulmohar road in some Friday evenings. 

Withered by the scorching heat of summer, losing all leaves to the ruthless nature’s caprice, I used to wonder whether these trees will die this year.  Banners hung on many branches, posters on the bark, smeared with bird droppings; most trees had a modern look of early Mumbai suburban developments. I have seen at least 12 trees on either side, neatly planted by some person with a worthy will, in front of whom I wish to bow my head. The first one of it grows from the walls of Shamu kaka’s paan beedi wala shop which actually is an illegal encroachment into the walkway. A small wooden berth attached to the bark holds the entire paan items in display. Contrary to the first, the last one stands at much pride at the entrance of the Jogger’s park as a king who leads many flowering shrubs in the garden inside.  With a concrete bench for the evening walkers to relax before they head off to home, all would have enjoyed a few minutes of her cooling shadows and cordiality.

Month of May with the first rain brings the blissful blossoms of Gulmohar, reincarnating with all vigour and passion where all the branches unify in a divine symphony appositely aided by the chirpy bee-eaters and squirmy squirrels.  We have seen much unparalleled warmth triggered by the first drizzle from we-who-at-the-mercy-of-mother-earth; mayflies displaying their momentary delight of gaining the feathers, frogs croaking fervently for more rain, smiley headed mushrooms waking up in crops from long hibernations.. etc.  But nothing as optimistic and supremely promising like the blooms of Gulmohar, where she forgets to convert even a single bud to a leaf. Had she been cynical and grouchy about the radical climatic whims, she would have been premonitory and reserved; and would have thought of adding some chlorophyll to feed her in future.. If she were a human, she would have aptly positioned on a mother’s seat.

Yes, she heralds the glory of breath-taking Mumbai Monsoons. Auspiciously showering flowers for the gods to bless for her annual sacred immersion to purify her by washing off from all the sins humanity offers, weariness and boredom of sedentary life, she stands with all gratitude and affection. Is she an avtar of Mother earth herself?

With the arrival of landscaped mango stalls on the walkways, the scenic beauty of Gulmohar road is incredible. By the time I reach the park, I would have started singing along with her, at almost a higher tone than at the start devouring all the positive vibes. Just like the Gulmohar waits for rains, revived from my moodiness, I used to wait for her for long 4 years on Fridays at this Joggers park concrete seat. My hopes, dreams and wishes were all covered by red petals, at times moist with the heart felt trickles.

Thank you Shijith George for the Pictures :)