When people matter

Five years ago, I sat crouched at my table, braiding 'friendship bands' out of colourful yarn. I had my calculations all clear in my head, yarn bands for my best friends and strips of ribbon for the others. It'd worked out perfectly well the next day as I exchanged bands at school. I'd counted the amount of bands I had on my wrists and prided in the fact that so many people thought of me as a friend. Cut to present-cynicism and the search for meaning and significance made these bands insignificant. The next 4 years after school, friendship day remained just another Sunday in August until a friend revived the tradition with gifts instead of bands.
 It was then that realization showered upon me, like the sudden showers of Bombay (yes, I'd still prefer Bombay over Mumbai); it's not the bands but the people whose friendship stays with you like the stubborn knot in every band. A yarn band, a ribbon or a thoughtful gesture would serve just as well.

When people matter, you hunt for a new copy of book of theirs that you misplaced or accidentally ruined. Then you personalize with a hand-written note and hand-deliver it to them at 8:30 am. You share embarrassing secrets over a massive lunch and glorious amounts of 'beverages'. A lunch that makes you not want to leave the comfort of the warmth in your chair that your butt has created. When you thank the heavens to have blessed you with that one friend; one who knows you like the palms of her hand because she's smacked you for each stupid thing you've done.You take all the possible detours to spend as much time with them as you can, talking, losing your way and finding it all over again. You run back home to meet the precious idiots you grew up with. hug each one of them and wish them a 'Happy Friendship Day.' You're glad you grew up with them because they can hear the rumble in your stomach before you can even say it out loud that you need food. When people matter, a humble plate of bhurji-paav at 10 in the night, seasoned with the weather's choicest drizzles feels no less than a feast. A stomach and a heart warmed by food and warmed by love.

P.S: Once in a while I tend to order extra cheese on my pizza and my feelings.

The Murakami Syndrome

    Two years ago I picked up 'Sputnik Sweetheart' from a street vendor at Fort. Curiosity struck me as I saw the minimal bright red book cover illustrated with a moon that looked as if it was shooting into the sky. Five books and counting, I realized I was bit by the 'Murakami bug'. He had me entranced. A Murakami novel successfully teleports you to Japan. To see, hear,laugh, weep, run, hide, live and breathe alongwith the Kafka Tamuras, Toru Watanabes and the Takahashi Tetsyas of Murakami's works. Stories that question every feeling or emotion which haunt us as we try to keep dancing. The feelings of loneliness or alienation that feature ever so vividly in his works oddly enough give you a sense of belonging. The indigenous similes, analogies and the metaphors leave you wondering if there could ever be a better way in which you understood what someone's trying to convey. Ambiguous emotions, not so run-of-the-mill characters, tasteful descriptions of love-making; the kinks and quirks of the characters only make you realize the far side of the personality spectrum that you are on. The message that screams off the pages is that it is okay to be in a mess( fucked up is what I would say in the crudest yet clearest way possible) and it's okay if you don't fit the society's definition of 'normal'. His characters(and so could we) create a definition of it along the way. The works of Haruki Murakami could exactly be equated with Richard Gere's description of Opera in 'Pretty Woman'.

     "People's reactions to opera the first time they see it is very dramatic; they either love it or they hate it. If they love it, they will always love it. If they don't, they may learn to appreciate it, but it will never become part of their soul."

 I feel not an ounce of shame when I declare to my family and friends of being in love with a 65 year-old Japanese man. The kind of love that leaves you weak in the knees as soon as you get your hands on the copy of one of his works. The man who narrates stories that remain etched in my mind; the man who gives me occasional lessons in Classical music, Rock and Roll, Jazz and Blues. The man who went from running a Jazz bar to running over 20 marathons till date. The man who told me to keep memories closer to me than people. The one who told me that pain was inevitable but suffering was optional. The one who made me take up Japanese with much more furor than what I intended to. The man I turned to when I looked for a way to mourn my dead puppy. My copy of 'Sputnik Sweetheart' has 'Read at your own risk' in black ink, diagonally scribbled across the first page. I now wonder whether the risk I was taking was of falling hopelessly in love. 

     A recent revelation in Bhutan led me to creating an analogy that Buddha and Murakami both set out to attain enlightenment at the age of 29; Buddha through his meditation and Murakami through his writing. Murakami is not a man of his words, he's a man of the magic his words create. For those who are fed up of my incessant chatter about Haruki Murakami, get yourself a book and you'll know what I am talking about.

Twenty-three

Annette closed the cabinet door in the bathroom and stared at the reflection in the mirror.”I’m letting you go, here’s your termination letter” Johnathan said that morning. The words hung in the air and it almost made it difficult for her to breathe.”Two” she counted. As Annette made her way to her bed she looked at a picture on her bedside table a charming young man and she ,arm-in-arm looked distinctly happy. Anne wiped off a stray tear, removed the picture and tore it.”Five” she counted. All this anger was making her hungry.”Time for a midnight snack”, she mumbled and she walked over to her fridge. The walls were lined with pictures of her as a kid with hands all messy from hand-painting, grey hands from a trial at pottery, her play-doh kit she received at 8 as a Christmas present. Anne steadied her gaze at the Law degree that hung next to these. Bland, drab words on a piece of yellowed paper. What an antithesis to all that colour she loved as a kid!”Eight” she counted.

           Wasting no time she took the frame containing her degree and smashed it to the floor. The glass broke and it’s shards were all over the floor.”Ten” she counted. She grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter as she took one long sip. The new electric whisk she’d bought sat there on the platform, gathering dust. As instinct took over her, before she could even realize Anne was grabbing flour, eggs, butter and sugar from the cabinets.”Grandma loved chocolate cake” she said as if someone standing next to her was listening. There was no one. She hummed a tune as she was stirring the ingredients in when she realised there wasn’t any cocoa powder at home.She stopped stirring the batter and began walking away from the messy platform.”Twelve” she counted. Anne chugged down her second beer.”Thirteen” she counted. It was close to 3 am and she decided it was about time she went to bed. As she made her way towards her bedroom upstairs “Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one” she counted.

            Annette’s voice almost echoed in her empty apartment or so she felt as her vision began to blur.”It’s working” she said to herself with a smirk.”Twenty-two” she counted. She collapsed onto her bed and a tiny white bottle escaped her grasp. Seven little pills tumbled out of them,she popped one into her mouth her vision still blurry.”Twenty-three” she counted. As the world around her turned a monochromatic shade of grey “Tomorrow is a new day…” she said sounding cold and disinterested. The grey had now turned to black. Once it’s gone black, there’s no coming back.

Fame in Flames

“Fame is not everyone’s cup of tea” said Dr. Cooper to which Anushka replied “Not everyone’s glass of vodka either Doctor” holding back her chuckle as a cigarette was still dangling from her mouth. Three months had passed after this conversation between her and Dr. Cooper which was also the same amount of time she’d been sober. She had many visitors while she was recuperating at the rehabilitation centre but she refused to meet every single one of them.”Let me just write my goddamn music” she would scorn at the attendant and continued to strum away at her guitar. Then came the day she left the world of pale walls, faded curtains, “discussions” with Dr. Cooper and group therapy sessions. Anushka’s friend and manager Raghu stood at the exit of the rehab next to her car. Raghu was happy that Anushka was back but he was happier now that his source of income was back too. As she neared the car both of them hugged and Raghu whispered into her ear “I got you a gig”. Anushka shrugged, got into the car and they sped off.

              The venue of the gig was a club named The Little Door, ”A good place to start afresh” Anushka thought. As the crowd cheered her name, her palms began sweating. She could use a little alcohol to calm her nerves which she usually did, but after three months of sobriety that didn’t seem like a viable option and now a little would not be enough. She clutched Raghu’s arm, he knew what was bothering her, gave her an assuring smile and screamed to overcome the loudness of the crowd “You were and always will be my favourite rockstar!”When she got on stage the bright lights blinded her, she narrowed them to adjust to her brightly lit surrounding. “I hope you lovely people enjoy tonight because it’s the beginning of many more to come”. The crowd cheered louder, she began strumming her guitar and she sang. As words became lyrics and the strumming became a tune, the crowd fell silent. The room was filled with her seductive voice. When this seductress sang of love, people believed in love and when she sang of heart breaks people disbelieved that very belief. She hit all the high notes effortlessly that night, it felt good. ‘I’ll sleep well tonight” she murmured to herself as the crowd demanded an encore. She took a bow and exited through the little blue door.

          That night as she retired to bed she’d done something she hadn’t done in a long time, Anushka dialed her mother’s number. She felt her mouth go dry as the phone rang as she didn’t know what or how much she would explain to her mother. A known, mild voice answered “Hello, beta...” then there were no words spoken only the sounds of soft sobs were heard in the background. Anushka felt warm tears flowing down her cheeks too. “Amma…I had a gig tonight and it went pretty well, Raghu said I’ll pick up all the broken pieces soon. I’ve been sober…for three months’. Silence. She could hear the beep on the other end. There was an assurance in the silence .She’d taken a step towards rebuilding what alcohol had destroyed. “If I think, I won’t drink, If I drink, I won’t think” she repeated this affirmation she’d learnt at a group therapy session. It became more of a chant and she drifted off to sleep. She began tossing and turning and woke up in the middle of the night, her body drenched in sweat. She’d experienced nights like these at the rehab but there always was an attendant around. Here it was her and her mind in which all thoughts began directing to alcohol. She stumbled out of her bed to look for her phone to call Raghu, he’d been fast asleep. “ There must be bottle lying around somewhere” she screamed as she began rummaging through her apartment. She found one hidden away in the corner of a kitchen cabinet.

                 As Anushka sat on the floor and drank that night, her life, the blinding fame flashed past her eyes. About how she’d begun drinking just a little before performances to take the edge off.How she added to the little a little more at the success parties and just a little more at the after parties. And how the little had become a lot and the occasional traversed into almost all the time. She thought of how the music blared and her intoxicated mind and body swayed to the music. The empty bottle now broke her chain of thoughts. “More” she uttered. She called a former acquaintance up with whom she would go out drinking. He was up and around she demanded for alcohol.”But…weren’t you?”he said.”That’s exactly my point, I WAS, not anymore” Anushka grinned as she spoke. A few minutes later the door bell rang, an unsteady man stood at the door with a package, Anushka walked over with a bundle of notes in her hand. Taking the package she said “ Won’t you wait?” the man nodded as if saying no “Well, I’ll keep myself company, your work here is done, get out now” she handed him the bundle of notes and slammed the door shut on his face.

            That morning as Raghu walked into Anushka’s apartment in a hurry he saw bottles strewn all around the floor. But she was nowhere to be found, Raghu’s heart began beating faster with every step he took. He opened the bathroom door only to see Anushka lying on the floor in her own vomit. Raghu panicked and tried getting her up. Then he felt her pulse. None. As he broke down he tried to remove the bottle Anushka was clutching. As it turns out, nobody could.

On missing that wagging tail

Of the litter of six puppies you were the only one who survived, for then atleast. Four months later you got run over by an ignorant moron. If only he would've seen you following me and everyone else around the building and seen the carpets and doormats chewed up awkwardly. If only he would've seen you roll over when someone rubbed your stomach. If only he would've found all the missing chappals and sandals that you loved to chew. If only he'd felt your cold,wet nose against his. Or heard the sound of your paws on the cold marble. If only he'd held his palm out and held your paw in a polite 'shake-hand'. Or would've seen you come running towards him when he called out your name. If only he'd seen how your little soul had become such a big part of ours.

It's almost been a month, a month since I sat there petting your motionless body and helplessly see the blood make its way out of your mouth. Tears were shed, people were hugged and held tighter, food was left untouched on plates. Your bowl is no longer below the staircase, it is where it belongs, with you. I miss that wagging tail of yours and I guess I can because I can never forget it.