Being there. final part

"Ah! you are awake. I was just coming to wake you up. You wont ever believe what I've done now." Sai came into the room just as Nidhi was stretching herself and struggling to keep her eyes open, in spite of the mid day sunlight.

He stood there with such a wide grin and an unbeatable look of accomplishment that she had to laugh.

"You are laughing? Did I miss something? I didn't say anything funny did I?"

"You made breakfast." she said trying to keep a straight face and acting overwhelmed.

" how did you guess? I changed my shirt. I haven't dribbled anything on my pants...how did you guess?" He asked baffled.

"Wifey instincts!!" she said smugly.

He stuck his tongue out at her. "Fine. Someday, even I'll discover something like husbandly instincts and then you'll see."

"hee hee....am eagerly awaiting the day"

"Well anyway. I made dosa. I couldn't figure out how to make sambar or chutney, so you'll have to do with ketchup. And don't make that face. Be grateful I dint kick you out from the bed to make breakfast. Do you even know the time woman? its nearly lunch time. No actually its brunch time-11.30. and...."

"Get the breakfast Sai...am hungry...and am not sure I cant resist dosa and ketchup....." she said, smiling an evil smile.

Not catching the sarcasm, his face brightened and he walked out of the room.

he came in with 2 plates of what looked like bits of dirt, painfully arranged in the form of a circle, and a Maggi ketchup bottle balanced on one of the plates.

"there you go. My best creation ever. They are slightly...erm...overdone...but they are tasty. I tried them." he looked at her sideways.

she hugged him and whispered into his ears. "I love burnt dosas"

"I knew you'd say that."he said smiling at her. "so you start attacking the dosa, while i get the paper."

She started picking on the brown remains of what was intented to be a dosa.
Surprising how the dosa could be burnt and yet not cooked properly on the inside. Probably that's why Sai called it his best creation so far. Nidhi chuckled.

The first bit of the dosa was slowly finding its way into her mouth when Nidhi screamed. The dosa wasn't brown because it was burnt. It was brown because it was made of cockroach wings. brown, shiny and plastic like.

Sai came rushing into the room and saw Nidhi screaming like she'd never screamed before. She jumped out of the bed as soon as she saw him and lunged at him wildly.

"You are the one. You put cockroaches in the dosa. you are the one who has been haunting me. You are trying to kill me" she said hitting Sai with all her strength.

"Nidhi! what are you saying? what about cockroaches? calm down. CALM DOWN!"

He was shaking her like a rat. Willing her to quieten down.

She looked at him wildly. She could see the cockroaches coming out from his hair. They were coming out from his finger nails. She could feel them climb over her. Shey were crawling on her. all over her. And he was laughing. He was standing there, throwing back his head in mirthful laughter.

She broke away from him and ran. She had to escape. She had to. This maniac was out there to kill her.

"Nidhi...what are you doing? Where are you running to? There is nothing here Nidhi. Its just me. please listen to me" His voice was frantic now.

The knife which was lying on the dining table slashed his fingers. it cut his chest. tore at his arms.

She sat on him and pared away the cockroaches. One by one. The ones coming out of his finger nails, his hair, his mouth. When she was done, she laughed.

"I cant die now. All the cockroaches are gone."



*********************

The cockroaches never left her.

They were in her little cell too. She could see them crawling all over the room. And she felt as many as twenty scrambling on her head. Running down her nose. Some sliding down strands of hair…she searched for a knife so that she could chop her hair off. Then perhaps they would stop crawling over her. But in that tiny room with bars there was nothing except a thread bare cot, a water jug and a blanket. She reached for the water jug and smashed it over her head.

being there III

Vikram helped them negotiate with publishing houses day after day, month after month. After 6 months of not hearing from anyone tempers were running high.

“It’s just been six months. People wait for eternity to have their works published. You should have patience.”
“And some things never get published, even after the people who wrote it is dead”
“Come on Nidhi. This is your first attempt. Give it time.”
“I never wanted to do this in the first place. You forced me into it.”
“I was trying to help you. I thought people needed to read you Nidhi.”
“Well I was doing better without anyone reading me.”

She walked out off the room and him out of the house.

“Mmmm...No. Not tonight.”
She pushed his arm away from her as he tried to caress her breasts.
“Sai, I think we should move to another home”
“Huh?” A confused voice responded
She turned around to face him. He took the opportunity to kiss her nose and snuggle into her.
“Yeah! We need to change homes. I don’t like it here. There is something wrong somewhere. I don’t like the feel of this home”
“You women and your feel” he chuckled and tried to kissed her neck.
“Am serious.” She said, pushing him away and sitting up on bed
“But Nidhi....., we’ve lived here for 2 years now. I love it here. This home is so...it’s so us....”
“Please Sai, listen to me. There is something wrong.”
“Nidhi, tell me what is wrong. You don’t seem yourselves these days. And I can’t imagine what is wrong with our home or you...” he leaned over and switched on the lights.
“Don’t switch on the lights. They will come.”
“Who will come? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know Sai...I don’t know...am scared....please let’s move out from here...Please....”

As she snuggled into him and slept off, her whimpers dying into the dark, Sai sat clueless...wondering what was wrong.

being there. part II

She took up journalism after her masters, and he went on to do his M.Arc. After 3 years of courtship, they decided to move in together. Within the olive green painted walls of their new home, she wrote for a newspaper, and he toiled under a demanding company.

“ I think you should really write a book. All those scribbling you do should be read by people.”
“ You read it right? I don’t think anyone else will want to read it”
“ You will never know that unless you publish some of you works”
“ Its too much work”
“ Its not. I will help you out. Proof reading and all”
“ I don’t now Sai. I don’t have the confidence”
“ Come on. I trust you. You can do it”

A lot of cajoling, and pressurising and boost ups later, Nidhi sat down to begin her first book.

Getting a publisher was one thing, and it didn’t help that Nidhi was still apprehensive about her work. Every rejection was hard and depressing.

“ They dint want it did they?”
“ No” he sighed “too simple a plot”
“ Its ok I guess. You loved it. Its more than enough”

He stood watching her. She was going around the room with a broom in hand.

“What are you doing? I see you with a broom at almost every other day. It’s not like you”
“Cockroaches. Everywhere. I am driving myself mad with trying to drive them out”
“ Buy Hit. Spray it all over. More effective than brooms”
“ Doesn’t work. Brooms are the best”

being there. Part I

And now they were here too. She could see them crawling all over the room. And she felt as many as twenty scrambling on her head. Running down her nose. Some sliding down strands of hair…she searched for a knife so that she could chop her hair off. Then perhaps they would stop crawling over her. But in that tiny room with bars there was nothing except a thread bare cot, a water jug and a blanket. She reached for the water jug and smashed it over her head.

****

He rushed into the room excitedly. “ You made it. You book is topping the charts now. Vikram just called me.” She was bending over something near her table, but as soon as she heard him, she squealed and rushed into his arms.

“ You are joking right? My book, I mean our book…”
“ I always told you it would work right. See now” He grinned
“ But I can ‘t believe it…I just cant”
“ Well I can. I would have not believed it if it hadn’t happened this way”
He smiled wickedly at her astounded face…
“ So…the treat then…are we going out now? Or….”

She screamed and rushed into her bedroom slamming the door after her.

Laughter rang loud.

He was an engineering student and she a student of literature when they first met at crosswords. She was immersed in reading from Daphne du Maurier and did not even hear her mobile ringing. He’d felt annoyed first. How can anyone be so oblivious as to the disturbance? Quite a lot of people had begun to stare at her trying to locate why she wasn’t picking the call.

“ Excuse me, but I think your cell is ringing.”
“ What? oh! Is that mine? I am so sorry. Oh my is everyone staring at me? God! Where is my cell now?”
she began searching her large jute bag with a minimum of hundred pockets frantically.
He took pity on her and snatched the cell from her fingers and gave it to her.
“To think I was holding it. How silly of me. Will you please catch my bag, while I attend the call?

Without waiting for an answer she thrust the bag into his unsuspecting arms and walked out of the store. He stood gaping after her. Feeling angry irritated and amused at her audacity, her silliness and her stupidity. She trooped in with a tear stained face something like half an hour, while he had almost gone to sleep hanging on to the bag.

“ Will you please drop me home? My fiancé just called off our engagement and am not sure I can find my way home alone”

Two strangers they were. But as it happens in all movies, they met by fate and were destined to be together. After about a year of casual calls and some infrequent messaging, they started going out together. She the scatterbrained and he the meticulous, she the effervescent and he the sober, a mix of Bollywood music and Beethoven’s symphonies, Shakespeare and T-square, they got on famously well.

He wanted to build homes for the poor, she wanted to write.

I love you

I could hear him in the garden, watering the plants. Its his morning ritual now— tending to the hundred or so flower pots in our garden. Ever since Anu started living in the U.S, he has taken it upon himself to keep her garden going. Watering, weeding, pruning, he has become a complete gardener is what I often feel. Every time that Anu calls, both of them have only time to talk about the plants. How the orchids have bloomed or how the jasmines haven’t been doing well…it amuses me to hear them talk. I still remember when Anu was in school and she suddenly took it into her head to start a garden. The times she had her father rush home from the hospital to go around the town getting new plants and the times she barged into his consulting room crying about some plant or the other which had wilted…

I’ve never been an outdoor person and except for helping anu with getting the pots decorated I’ vent done anything much. It has been father-daughter all the way. And now its just him. He says he is doing it so that he gets some exercise in the morning, but I know better. He misses Anu, and this is his way of staying close to her.

The tea’s growing cold. He’s taking a bit longer than usual. I keep my coffee mug and his teacup together. I should remember to get biscuits when we go for our evening walk. And yes dog food too. Hagrid, Our 5 yr old Labrador will go hungry if not.

“You done yet”? I shout out
“Almost”

5 minutes later, he comes in dragging all the dirt into our tiny living room. Now, I’ve never been much of a house keeper and I hate all the cleaning-washing routines. I open my mouth to ask him what exactly he is doing but before I can get a word in, he walks right past me, gets the broom from the kitchen and with a sly glance at me starts sweeping the floor. I close my mouth and stare at him, hands on hips.

He religiously sweeps the whole place, keeps the broom in its place, and sits down at the table with the tea and waits for me. I keep standing there looking at him. And then we both laugh-together. I cant help it. Nor can he. I sit down next to him and keep laughing and in my laughter fit, I knock down his tea right onto his lap. He jumps. I stop laughing and look at him, scared I’ve hurt him. And he still laughs, and I join in. I put my hands around his neck and continue laughing…

The laughter slowly dies out and we cuddle into each other more. He takes my hand and gently kisses it, and places it over his chest. I take the coffee mug and offer it to him. He takes a sip and then presses it to my lips. We finish the coffee together. Still in the half hug…

We have grown up and grown old together. We’ve seen good times and the bad. Tough moments and lighter ones…we’ve lived together for 28 years now…and it all seems like yesterday that he walked into into my life—a stranger. And now—I know how exactly he likes his tea, I know which side of the bed he usually likes, I know the way he hugs me at night, the way he drinks his coffee, the way he runs his hand through his hair, the way he looks, after he’s just woken up, the way he reads the newspaper…I’ve grown to love everything about him—the way he slurps juices, his funny little moustache, his way of forgetting to shut the main door every time he goes out, the way his t-shirts always have mud splotches on them, the way he smiles in that bemused way of his when I tend to scold him—everything…

Nothing matters to us than each other—I don’t care that we’ve grown old, and that the skin on my hands have lost their smoothness-I still feel the same way when he takes my hand in his. I don’t care that both of us need glasses now—we still see each other with ever growing affection. I don’t care that I’ve put on weight, all in the wrong areas, he still hugs me the same way he did when we were young…I don’t care a bit- I don’t need to…

I realize that he has been calling my name—his name for me…and I smile at the circumstances that had led him to call me that. I lift my head from his shoulders and I look up at him…he smiles that dimpled smile of his and gently tucks back a loose strand of hair from my face…

'I love you' says he…and I remember the night that he told me the words for the first time…it seems centuries ago…but I still feel that I am the 19yr old who cried with pure happiness, listening to him…

whitewashed brain

When I was about 4 years old, I broke my arm. I had tried to squeeze into a shelf with my teddy bears, and found myself stuck. I un-stuck myself a few seconds later, only to have a cast on my arm a few hours later. I dint know autographs on casts were fad. I decorated it with mud instead

I absolutely loved going to school. My parents didn't. In the going to school ordeal, I tore about 3 of my Amma's saris, bit my ammumma some 50 times, kicked my achan and made our neighbors rush into our home, with my bawling. No wonder we changed homes every two years

Going to the post office with my Muthassan was my favourite pastime. Especially because my muthassan always told my ammumma that he wouldn’t take her to the post office. I felt jubilant and marched off after my grandfather, happy to stick stamps on with the very murky and smelly glue.

I had to walk barefoot in my school once, for not wearing the proper school shoes. Luckily on unluckily, I said the pledge that day in the assembly. I tried in vain to shut out the sniggering and giggling. Needless to say, my pledge went India is my country. All Indians are my brothers and sisters. I sob... shall always. Sniff sniff. Sob...waaa.....waaa.... they still did not however, let me wear my shoes.

I thought that being a vegetarian was boring. I tried to pass off the dried mango pieces in my lunch box as meat balls. No one believed me.

The first time I was on stage for a dance, I was thrilled at the idea of wearing lipstick. My muthassan spoilt it all by asking the make up person not to put it for me as lip stick contained toxic ingredients.

I told my achan off for not letting me sing all that I wanted to. I was on stage, mic in front of me and around 100 people looking at me. My father was compering. It was a banker's union family meet.

When I was in kindergarten, a boy in my class had a white birthmark under his eyes which looked as if a tear was running across his cheeks. I refused to wipe away my tears for a very long time to get a similar mark. It never happened that way.

the day...

I wished to have a moment of peace in my home. But that I think is the least I could hope for tonight. There's music blaring from the speakers. The sound of people talking to each other at the top of the voice came from all possible places-inside, outside, the living room, kitchen, bedrooms...everywhere. The phone kept ringing...and no one seemed to pick it up...

I am sitting in my bedroom. There are people all around me. Aunties, grandmothers, babies, little imps of kids...everyone. I want a little peace, a room of my own. But of course am not allowed that. I have to smile, and exchange pleasantries with the million faces that present themselves before me. I cringe inside and keep smiling and nodding my head to the aunty who keeps rambling about my childhood antics to anyone who'd listen. In between wanting a little silence, and trying to ignore the pain in my cheeks from excessive smiling, i wonder how this 'aunty' knows so much about my childhood, when I don’t seem to remember seeing her at all.

My sister, the ever welcome whiff of fresh air comes in and declares. "Amma says Chechi has to sleep early. The function begins early tomorrow". A sudden outburst of "is it time already?", "Look at the time", "poor girl, she must sleep. Dark circles wont do tomorrow" was followed by my sister shepherding the twenty or so people crowded in my room, out to the hall.

I sigh and sit at last in relative silence. The speakers are still blaring.

I open my cupboard to pick out something to wear for the night instead of the heavy Kanjeevaram saree that I am wearing and my eyes fall upon the dozens of velvet boxes sitting on my shelves. Slowly I pull each out and lay them open on my bed. Nagaphanam, kaashi maala, poothaali, palakka mothiram, pearl and ruby, garnet necklaces... and other boxes full of bangles. Some new, some old, yet polished so that they defeat the new ones in their brightness...

I looked at the red Kanjeevaram silk saree that I was supposed to wear tomorrow.

I had longed so long for this day. This hullabaloo happening in my home, the guests, the noise, the colour of the mehendi, now deep on my palm. I had seen myself adorned and bejeweled, looking happy and content beside the man of my dreams. This had mattered so much to me...the wedding, the preparations, the dressing up, the invitations, the fragrance of jasmine flowers, and the scent of the incense sticks, everything...

And yet, today when I should have had genuine smiles on my face, instead of the plastered one, when I should be delighted at how dark my mehendi has come out, all I feel is numbness, a vague fear at the back of my mind, a wild desire to run away...

Tomorrow is my wedding. With the man I love with all my being. I should have been happy….but am not…

Of times and timings

Its been nice being at home. I wake up to Amma's usual indignation of me sleeping on after the wake-up-deadline of 8am everyday. My father can be seen eating his breakfast at the table, silently oblivious to anything and everyone. Occasionally looking up to check the time on the wall clock. I'd still pretend to be sleeping, though I would have woken up some 2 hours ago, to wake a certain someone up. But I should say that these waking ups do not in any way hamper my sleep. waking up is OK. Its the getting up from bed that is a pain in the 'wrongest' place.

Just when I think Amma has given up on me and that I can steal in another 10-15 mins, I hear Achan thundering my sister's name. My very punctual sister is, as usual late for her classes. Amma and my sister are stalwarts at keeping time. Give them a deadline of 9am in the morning, you can be rest assured that you'll see them out of the house, very punctually, at 10.30 am. I am ready by a quarter to 8, Achan at almost the same time and Ammumma around 5 mins to the said time. Amma meanwhile can be seen humming away a song at the top of her voice, the pitch,rhythm, tune all intact. The lyrics, a mess. This facet never fails me irritate me as am particularly finicky about the lyrics of a song, not much about the other necessary factors. But all said and done, Amma still creates havoc with the lyrics and keeps singing. I bite my tongue and try to convince myself that the lyrics could have been probably written like Amma sings them too.

In between the singing and rushing out of rooms here and there, and the never ending search for safety pins to pin up her Saree, punctuality is lost on Amma. My sister, the boss of my family, and also the youngest member, believes in the motto of going out well-dressed. OK. I get that point. But not the reason why it takes so long. Before going out, my sister changes her hairstyle from a plait to a pony tail, to a french plait and then back to a plait. Her dress changes from jeans and pink top, to a black shirt, to the pink top again and then to her usual favourite white striped shirt. And then, she invariably has to wear the matching earring, slippers and watch. By the time my sister is done with her Queen's dressing and has stepped out of the house, Achan would have already started the car, blared the horn 12 times, and decided to call off the outing 3 times. Amma would have by then realized we are horribly late and begin her woes about how little chores always make her late,and ammumma would have finally finished all her sudoku exercises in our two morning dailies. I would sit next to the window, watch everything happening around me and feign concern over the necessity of punctuality. But honestly am hardly bothered. We invariably make good time anyway-all credit to Achan's brilliant car maneuvering skills.

So to come back to my mornings. I venture out of my bedroom after possibly everyone has stepped out of home. Ammumma would be happily struggling with her Sudoku and would be lost till I voice my need for coffee if she can make it. The coffee is usually the only good thing that happens in the mornings these days. The very thought of dragging myself to the good for nothing internship, at Indian Express, where I see my name printed along with articles, which I would never accept as mine, even when threatend with death, puts me off immensly. But then there are things in life which you've got to do, and counting this as one helps me just a wee little bit. And then there is always a slight twitch of the heart whenever my name appears on paper, and also an opportunity to stun people who think tuppence about you by telling them that you 'work' for the Indian Express...sigh! Probably what they call little pleasures in life.

from the past to the present and back

I know it does not sound very interesting when i say that I love her. And it still is not interesting when i say that she loves me too. but then again, if you people knew me, as in really knew me, then you would sit back and take notice now. as in right now. because i happen to be a ghost. yes a ghost. not the fanged, horrible, blood thirsty gruesome creatures that you humans picture us, but yet a ghost...


i saw her in her backyard. reading under the mango tree. you wouldnt call her pretty. but you would certainly call her beautiful. decribing her would be futile. as i am not very good with words. but the thing is, i fell in love with her as i sat looking at her. we ghosts as you humans think, cannot become nvisible. but we can do a lot of other things. we are shape lifters. i can be a tree, a butterfly, an earthworm, a bird a snake...anything natural, anything with life...except ofcourse the human form. but we cannot forever dwell in these...as they say, we need to move on...


i do not have a past. no ghosts have. as soon as we are dead, our memories are wiped clean...we have no recollection of what we were, or where we were from...we are souls...with no memories. we roam around everywhere. in fact there are mosre ghosts than there are live people. but of course you will not know that. because you i presume is right now a walking talking breathing living human. but if you were slightly careful when you walked down close-to-empty streets, or sat under a tree, you would save us a lot of trouble. i for instance have been walked right into countless times. not that it matters much to us, but you admit that it is a bit odd when you find people walking right through you. sometimes, the more sensitive human-i must admit these are very few, do sense something when this happens. i've heard that walking into a ghost gives you a tickle in your neck. i dont know how this works, but that is how it works. but of course you humans would surely dismiss this. and consider this piece of trivia utter trash. sigh!

anyway, so i was on one of my shape lifting, shape hoppin moods one day. i became a grasshopper first. i thought it would be nice to go hop hop hop. but it was very tiring. i dont know if all grasshoppers are like that, but the one i happend to pick was unbelievably frisky. so i left it and became a blade of grass. i like green colour, in case you are wondering baout my choice. but being a grass is faced with a lot of risks. there are all kinds of bugs and insects around and they start eating you. again, it does not matter to me, as i cant die again you see, but you always tend to gasp in horror when an insect starts nibbling you.

so i decided. no more playing with risks. i'l be a flower. i wanted to be a diffrent flower. the kind no one notices and no one plucks. so i became this small yellow flower. mukkootti its called-but this i came to know later. so in anycase, mukkootti i became. but it was not long before i found myself being plucked. i groaned in dismay. so much for my big plans.

but the fingers that plucked me were gentle. i looked into the face that had spolied my plans. i couldn see the face properly, because she was carelessly twirling me in her fingers and looking the other way. but then she turned and looked straight at me and i swooned. she was so breathtakingly beautiful and i fell in love with her immediately.

it is not unheard of ghosts to fall in love. but i admit it is very rare. ghosts have no present past or future, we dwell in someone's past, someone's present and are sometimes someone's future. we never make choices. those are already made. by the seasons that change, winds that blow and rains that fall. we thus move on suddenly, without even us knowing and end up in a place, very different from the one we were used to. this constant change and our almost complete disdain for the human race stand in our way of falling in love with humans. but then you might have heard the term marriages made in heaven..well they did not come into being suddenly. some ghosts fall in love with fellow ghosts and become one-as in they become just start moving on together, forever.

and so i might be the first ghost in history to fall in love with a human. and to be loved back too. for i knew the girl loved mukkooti flowers and i loved her anyway...so isn this a perfect love story?

narratives of daily life

loud voices outside the door. intelligible language.unintelligible meaning.telgu.angry protests from my room mate. i snuggle deeper into my blanket.the unmistakable vibration of my cell.a message from him. a reminder of the night. sleep beckons.10 am is still early morning.a string of blue beads. a swift good bye from my rom mate. reminders to drink milk. sleep refuses to leave my eyes.



a filled bladder.beats any alarm clock. tooth paste,brush and the tiny wash basin. the faulty flush in the loo. back in room. drinking chocolate,milk and spoon.the battle begins. it ends up in a starving stomach. a tiger buiscuit. all that is left. an unread paper. read though seemingly unread.



the flicker ofthe system. articles to edit.messages pending. nonchalance. a super slow network.waning patience. a chance for the paper again.attempt at a song. forgotten lyrics. editing again. a glance at the clock. one hour gone. rest of the day looms. readings stare point blank. a missing drive. the stapled readings lie.untouched.



a smile. thoughts of the night again. a widening smile. half an hour for lunch. a lost appetite.

coffee machine. another of those puffy samosas. hot sun. fluttering curtains. thoughts of a bath. pink bucket and an ash mug. long nails. cracked heels. lots of moisturiser. kajal.

room again. whining of dogs. misplaced anger. pending work. a miss call. hint of a smile.

dinner. an empty full stomach.

night