Buddha of Koregaon Park
His room was typical. As if a movie set carefully designed to contrive that the person living in it was a young bachelor who hadn’t expected someone who wasn’t a young bachelor ever coming into this room, right down to the overflowing ash trays and unwashed coffee cups and plastic bags wit tissue papers and the rough bills of the food delivered.
Lying lost and buried under clothes were glimpses of books and magazines, cosmos which Mahlesh bought to increase his vocabulary, tech mags which vin bought to review stuff which he couldn’t afford and didn’t require. It seemed as if people came to this room just to ruminate. As if it were the holy shrine of banality. As if this was the only Real place. A sort of physical equivalent of ‘reality check’
She noticed that he was trying to tidy up applying the age old methods of young bachelors since the dawn of dawn itself which was moving things to create a sitting area and piling it in places which wont come into use in the short future, which was universally accepted as the box next to the door.
Subtlety is an art only as good as it is never noticed. The leaning pile toppled.
“fuck”, he said.
“its ok”, she said.
He bumbled around trying to pile things in other places.
The sun was making his exit somewhere. Old trees with branches spread all over filtered enough light through the balcony to see but made sure shadows seep into each other. She moved towards the table belonging to the computer. An open notebook was lying. On the top of the otherwise blank page was written
If we could fly
Will we still be lonely?
She smiled. She gently flipped the page with her fingertips.
She is looking at the Book.
I looked around. The failing light was drowning the room in darkness. She was at the table with her back to me. I moved quickly, she was turning pages, I took the book from her. She turned sharply and stared at me with a tilted face. Her eyes shining in the darkness, my mouth, lips parted as if a cave opening to the depths unknown, slightly surprised like her should have been.
Waiting…
For her to say something.
“a man is as vulnerable as his writing, since his writing is what he is and what he cant tell anyone he writes down that would mean that the things that he hates most of himself he writes about, isn’t it?”, she said. Her eyes as brown as shiny melted chocolate, dark and sinful, did she expect me to confess something?
“No, its just some personal things, you know stupid stuff”
she laughed, I could see the lighted balcony doorway behind me reflected in her eyes. She moved towards the balcony, I followed her out.
It was a different world outside, lighter, smelling better. The rain of the afternoon had left everything fresh and crisp. The slight smell of magic hung around tantalizingly. The sky was purples and oranges. Rain birds called out to each other or maybe to the clouds.
She was smiling.
Say something… before the silence becomes embarrassingly long to break.
“nice weather…”, I said.
Aah, scintillating yet inteeligent remark to start a profound conversation.
I found consolation that the Voice although sarcastic wasn’t very good at witticisms. There wasn’t anything left for a man whose subconscious is more charming than his personality.
She said something!
“Sorry, what?”, did my voice betray my panic.
“I said it gets like that at this time of the year. But then if Pune did not have good weather all the time it wouldn’t have anything”, she smiled. “How long have you been here?”
Her hair fell as she leaned over the side, half defying gravity yet tantalising it into thinking that it had a grip on each of her strand. Was gravity going as crazy as I was.
“Last two years. I was here when I was a kid so when I had to leave Bombay I chose Pune”, I replied still hypnotized by her half falling hair.
It was the last light of the day. The light breeze was laced with strong hints of the coming winter. Red was turning purple in the skies above. Sunsets were heartbreaking, visual poetry that went unnoticed. Sparrows tired from their absurd games of chasing each other around were returning home. She was staring at me. the depth of brown in her eyes undetermined in the low light.
“Why did you have to leave Bombay?”
the silence I think waited for me. I waited for anything to take its place. It waited some more now lounging comfortably in a chaise. She smiled because I was smiling. Clearly the silence was in her pay and waiting was its specialty. During the day it tormented school kids standing in front of stern teachers.
Don’t tell her… now.
“nothing. Just stuff you know”
“I am sorry. I did not mean to intrude”, she frowned but her eyes looked concerned. Maybe my face had said something I didn’t want to.
“no its nothing. Just things you know”, I said. I wasn’t sure if I was more concerned about her feeling guilty or her realising something was amiss about me.
“its just that everyone has a reason for coming to Pune and its always something colourful. Atleast that’s what they tell people. I just wanted to hear your story”, she said. “or maybe you write your stories down”, she smiled. shadows hid her features but I could make out the glint of her eyes. The darkness highlighted her cheekbones. Night was on us.
“I find stories of people living in Pune better. No one outside will believe them. I first thought its just me observing people. That it would be the same at this time in my life in any city. But when I go to Bombay I find it devoid of the vitality of Puneites. Its just that Bombay and for that matter any city has its own way of dealing with Life.”
“is that what you write?,” Rita asked.
Lights were being turned on in the surrounding buildings as if creatures coming to life. The long night had started. orange street lights were turning trees into unidentifiable tangle of silhouettes. With the night came the mosquitoes. Every Eden has a snake. She hugged herself covering her arms with her dupatta against the stings.
“lets go in. the dusk seems to peak mosquitoes into a frenzy
“look I am like a asteroid”, I said.
“what?”
“well not like like an asteroid, its more like a gaint planet”
we are?
“what”
“what?”
“look,” I tried again, “let me put this simply. I destroy people”
“ah…” her eyes like cheap whisky glistening in a glass were mocking me. “oh you poor thing”, she said.
“I am serious I am not good with people on a personal basis, I can relateto them when I show mock concern but when I really connect I always seem to mess up their lives”
its because deep down you are not really a good person.
Its really hard having a self-conscious who hates you for who you are. But I needed a confessor. Me the natural confessor who everyone came to tell their life stories and then hated because I had glimpsed into their secret attic where all the darkness lay all the small mean desires hid in cobwebbed corners. They feared that I had a power over them and were waiting cautiously for me to display my animalness when all I could do was to record it on paper.
Do priests ever forget, do they ever get up at night to write fading thoughts into binary digits.
I needed a confessor for the same reason that priests need therapists, stories have to be told, repeated to others. It wasn’t gossip, it was some stoneage ritual which I had to indulge ecause at some point insanity would its chains of restraint and come looking for my soul. Or something like that. But she was there and I wanted her to know.
Still those eyes waited for me.
“its just that I am not very good with people but I seem to attract them. I am the lowest common denominator. I can see the things that people want and I say it not because I want them to like me but because somebody has to say it. because they want to hear it and then I am one of them only that after a while they hate it that I am not that I want to be but I am that I become and when things have to be done when I know what exactly has to be done and said I don’t because maybe because I don’t want to set expectations for something better so I break the expectations that are already their and all that is left is just me standing there, waiting. And the saddest part is that I am so completely sure of why I did what I did and it shows on me. but nobody seems to understand. And its just me standing when all have fallen to their knees. Broken.”
She stared back and then slowly a semblance of a smile appeared. Maybe she didn’t understand the exact words. Probably because I couldn’t understand them myself. But she understood the emotion behind. She understood because she was like me.
She was a confessional by herself. It was a while before I understood that we are a breed. We are chosen as friends because we listen. Sins and otherwise were absolved as soon they were shared with someone. As if we needed empathy to justify our existence. And then I understood as the sun hung around to create that magic hour when shadows fall to create beauty and everything is golden-peachy. Maybe from high enough society would look like a good idea.
She was my empathy-giver. She was better at it than I was because she didn’t remember. I did, that’s why I dream at night when memory cells in my head played basketball on the court of my sanity. That’s why I have a Voice in my head.
His room was typical. As if a movie set carefully designed to contrive that the person living in it was a young bachelor who hadn’t expected someone who wasn’t a young bachelor ever coming into this room, right down to the overflowing ash trays and unwashed coffee cups and plastic bags wit tissue papers and the rough bills of the food delivered.
Lying lost and buried under clothes were glimpses of books and magazines, cosmos which Mahlesh bought to increase his vocabulary, tech mags which vin bought to review stuff which he couldn’t afford and didn’t require. It seemed as if people came to this room just to ruminate. As if it were the holy shrine of banality. As if this was the only Real place. A sort of physical equivalent of ‘reality check’
She noticed that he was trying to tidy up applying the age old methods of young bachelors since the dawn of dawn itself which was moving things to create a sitting area and piling it in places which wont come into use in the short future, which was universally accepted as the box next to the door.
Subtlety is an art only as good as it is never noticed. The leaning pile toppled.
“fuck”, he said.
“its ok”, she said.
He bumbled around trying to pile things in other places.
The sun was making his exit somewhere. Old trees with branches spread all over filtered enough light through the balcony to see but made sure shadows seep into each other. She moved towards the table belonging to the computer. An open notebook was lying. On the top of the otherwise blank page was written
If we could fly
Will we still be lonely?
She smiled. She gently flipped the page with her fingertips.
She is looking at the Book.
I looked around. The failing light was drowning the room in darkness. She was at the table with her back to me. I moved quickly, she was turning pages, I took the book from her. She turned sharply and stared at me with a tilted face. Her eyes shining in the darkness, my mouth, lips parted as if a cave opening to the depths unknown, slightly surprised like her should have been.
Waiting…
For her to say something.
“a man is as vulnerable as his writing, since his writing is what he is and what he cant tell anyone he writes down that would mean that the things that he hates most of himself he writes about, isn’t it?”, she said. Her eyes as brown as shiny melted chocolate, dark and sinful, did she expect me to confess something?
“No, its just some personal things, you know stupid stuff”
she laughed, I could see the lighted balcony doorway behind me reflected in her eyes. She moved towards the balcony, I followed her out.
It was a different world outside, lighter, smelling better. The rain of the afternoon had left everything fresh and crisp. The slight smell of magic hung around tantalizingly. The sky was purples and oranges. Rain birds called out to each other or maybe to the clouds.
She was smiling.
Say something… before the silence becomes embarrassingly long to break.
“nice weather…”, I said.
Aah, scintillating yet inteeligent remark to start a profound conversation.
I found consolation that the Voice although sarcastic wasn’t very good at witticisms. There wasn’t anything left for a man whose subconscious is more charming than his personality.
She said something!
“Sorry, what?”, did my voice betray my panic.
“I said it gets like that at this time of the year. But then if Pune did not have good weather all the time it wouldn’t have anything”, she smiled. “How long have you been here?”
Her hair fell as she leaned over the side, half defying gravity yet tantalising it into thinking that it had a grip on each of her strand. Was gravity going as crazy as I was.
“Last two years. I was here when I was a kid so when I had to leave Bombay I chose Pune”, I replied still hypnotized by her half falling hair.
It was the last light of the day. The light breeze was laced with strong hints of the coming winter. Red was turning purple in the skies above. Sunsets were heartbreaking, visual poetry that went unnoticed. Sparrows tired from their absurd games of chasing each other around were returning home. She was staring at me. the depth of brown in her eyes undetermined in the low light.
“Why did you have to leave Bombay?”
the silence I think waited for me. I waited for anything to take its place. It waited some more now lounging comfortably in a chaise. She smiled because I was smiling. Clearly the silence was in her pay and waiting was its specialty. During the day it tormented school kids standing in front of stern teachers.
Don’t tell her… now.
“nothing. Just stuff you know”
“I am sorry. I did not mean to intrude”, she frowned but her eyes looked concerned. Maybe my face had said something I didn’t want to.
“no its nothing. Just things you know”, I said. I wasn’t sure if I was more concerned about her feeling guilty or her realising something was amiss about me.
“its just that everyone has a reason for coming to Pune and its always something colourful. Atleast that’s what they tell people. I just wanted to hear your story”, she said. “or maybe you write your stories down”, she smiled. shadows hid her features but I could make out the glint of her eyes. The darkness highlighted her cheekbones. Night was on us.
“I find stories of people living in Pune better. No one outside will believe them. I first thought its just me observing people. That it would be the same at this time in my life in any city. But when I go to Bombay I find it devoid of the vitality of Puneites. Its just that Bombay and for that matter any city has its own way of dealing with Life.”
“is that what you write?,” Rita asked.
Lights were being turned on in the surrounding buildings as if creatures coming to life. The long night had started. orange street lights were turning trees into unidentifiable tangle of silhouettes. With the night came the mosquitoes. Every Eden has a snake. She hugged herself covering her arms with her dupatta against the stings.
“lets go in. the dusk seems to peak mosquitoes into a frenzy
“look I am like a asteroid”, I said.
“what?”
“well not like like an asteroid, its more like a gaint planet”
we are?
“what”
“what?”
“look,” I tried again, “let me put this simply. I destroy people”
“ah…” her eyes like cheap whisky glistening in a glass were mocking me. “oh you poor thing”, she said.
“I am serious I am not good with people on a personal basis, I can relateto them when I show mock concern but when I really connect I always seem to mess up their lives”
its because deep down you are not really a good person.
Its really hard having a self-conscious who hates you for who you are. But I needed a confessor. Me the natural confessor who everyone came to tell their life stories and then hated because I had glimpsed into their secret attic where all the darkness lay all the small mean desires hid in cobwebbed corners. They feared that I had a power over them and were waiting cautiously for me to display my animalness when all I could do was to record it on paper.
Do priests ever forget, do they ever get up at night to write fading thoughts into binary digits.
I needed a confessor for the same reason that priests need therapists, stories have to be told, repeated to others. It wasn’t gossip, it was some stoneage ritual which I had to indulge ecause at some point insanity would its chains of restraint and come looking for my soul. Or something like that. But she was there and I wanted her to know.
Still those eyes waited for me.
“its just that I am not very good with people but I seem to attract them. I am the lowest common denominator. I can see the things that people want and I say it not because I want them to like me but because somebody has to say it. because they want to hear it and then I am one of them only that after a while they hate it that I am not that I want to be but I am that I become and when things have to be done when I know what exactly has to be done and said I don’t because maybe because I don’t want to set expectations for something better so I break the expectations that are already their and all that is left is just me standing there, waiting. And the saddest part is that I am so completely sure of why I did what I did and it shows on me. but nobody seems to understand. And its just me standing when all have fallen to their knees. Broken.”
She stared back and then slowly a semblance of a smile appeared. Maybe she didn’t understand the exact words. Probably because I couldn’t understand them myself. But she understood the emotion behind. She understood because she was like me.
She was a confessional by herself. It was a while before I understood that we are a breed. We are chosen as friends because we listen. Sins and otherwise were absolved as soon they were shared with someone. As if we needed empathy to justify our existence. And then I understood as the sun hung around to create that magic hour when shadows fall to create beauty and everything is golden-peachy. Maybe from high enough society would look like a good idea.
She was my empathy-giver. She was better at it than I was because she didn’t remember. I did, that’s why I dream at night when memory cells in my head played basketball on the court of my sanity. That’s why I have a Voice in my head.
2 comments:
every author has a voice in his head which prompts him to imagine!
It took me a very long time to get through this one.
I suppose its a story based n some event.
The emotion is there. Yet...
Maybe the grammar needs some doing?
Anyways.
Great going.
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