Woebegone

So finally, after much effort, I have managed to put up my life story on this blog. ‘Tis a sad, sad story and I seek your pardon for its depressing nature. I implore you to pray with me so that no other living soul may go through this perilous fate!

_/\_

 

 

A long long time ago, on a warm, bright summer of sorts,

Handsome a youth, entered my life, and stole my beating heart.

Admirers all the way he ignored, and straight he sat on his seat,

While I expressed a deep felt gratitude to the almighty for this feat.

 

For, he was not an ordinary creation like you and me, my friends.

Sleek, stylish, serious he was. Filled with jewels of uncommon sense.

His face glowed when he awoke, and never grew he tired of the day.

Yet on the darkest of nights, if awakened, he’d still shimmer away.

 

Love at first sight it was for me, I could behold him for hours together,

Nervous he made me, I stammered at him, he ignored me altogether.

So I screwed my courage to the sticking place, dignified, my approach.

He looked at me, and his face dimmed, he treated me with reproach.

 

I swallowed my pride, and went up to him, his forehead I gently kissed.

he grew dark and hot, he shocked me, and my eyes were shrouded by a mist.

Yet, relentless was I, sat by his feet, and loved him with all I could muster.

He spurned my advances, ignored my existence, laughed at my pleading stutter.

 

His derision I accepted bravely, tears I hid and with a sad, hurt spirit I pleaded,

But he stopped responding to me, and I cried more even as his scorn receded.

And then a day came, when he fell ill, for he wouldn’t awaken whatever I did.

So I called the expert, who deemed him sick, and carried him off to his clinic.

 

I waited for my love outside his room, and prayed for his health and recovery.

But the expert kept him for longer and longer, much to my despair and worry.

Finally one day he was returned to me and I helped him settle back into his place.

But now he was angry, he pushed me away. My very warmth was to his distaste.

 

And now my woeful tale comes to an end. An end designed by me in depression.

I bought a stout rope from the nearby market, and from it, a noose I fashioned.

Messy are the tangles of unreciprocated love. For not once did my love lovingly see me.

Enough had I seen of life I decided and accepted, that “Alas! My computer hates me!”

   

 

Colours

There’s just a burn,

Some burnt stuff

And a couple of tears.

 

There’s a pie, baking.

Some hope brimming.

Some fool cooking.

Some jerk eating.

Gratitude is dead.

Words unsaid.

It’s only just a plate.

With a pie. A burn.

Some burnt stuff.

And a couple of tears.

 

Then comes the day

Fresh, and new.

Starts with hope.

Ends with self hate.

Something in between

Best left unsaid.

Tis a long sad day.

Uneventful burns,

Some burnt stuff

And a couple of tears.

 

You quell my spirit

Extinguish belief

Challenge my optimism,

Make me feel meek.

Am I that hateful?

You’ve got to be kidding.

What’s my worth? Burns?

Or burnt stuff?

Or even some tears?

 

Can such people be?

See the good in everyone.

Rise low spirits. Shine.

Every colour forms white.

Do not see the lacking sight.

Appreciate girl. Learn to.

For better days may come.

Days devoid of burns

Some burnt stuff

And a couple of tears.

 

Board Exams and Me

A long long time ago, in the sleepy village of ancient India, there was an outburst of energy. The village, Fidelius was much like the famous shire of Tolkien. Its inhabitants, the Fidelians, were habitually boring people. They never wavered from the familiar. This was a place, where the only thing called an adventure was not following the routine and where the road not taken- was indeed not taken.

But suddenly, as told earlier, in Fidelius, there was an outburst of energy. The Fidelians had all gathered in the house of the local seer- Sibal. Sibal was now on his deathbed. His popularity, judging from the number of people by his bedside, came from his prior prediction- that is-the only accurate prediction he will ever make henceforth will be when he was on his deathbed. And being the brilliant seer that he was, he never made a single correct prediction. He saw rains when the clouds vanished and sensed fog on the brightest of days. He predicted death to the healthiest of men, and sterility to hormonal teenagers. He became the talk of the town, and his seer abilities were spoken of far and wide.

On his deathbed, the great seer, sensing Fidelians hanging on his words gave out his true predictions. “The local doctor shall face a great, personal tragedy.” All eyes rushed, transfixed, on the local doctor. He gave out a whimper and looked like he had just seen Medussa.

“A war of mammoth proportions will break out in Fidelius.” A collective sigh of “ooh’s” and “aah’s” swept through the crowd. The Fidelians knew not the ‘W’ of war. The last war they fought was over a chicken, half a thousand years back!

“And then,” the poor seer raised his voice over the din, “everything will get back to normal.” The word normal stretched unnaturally in the last syllable wherein the great seer breathed his last.

The next day, the local doctor dared not step out of his mansion. He locked his family in and himself tended to his bulging waist and receding hairline- matters he had postponed to periods of scanty patients so as to swindle the dwindling population of the Fidelians with ease. The Fidelians suffered from Roachoc pox, a disease of the Roachocs (ancient cockroaches). After chicken pox was eradicated with much pomp and ceremony by the doctors of a century ago, no Fidelian doctor ever earned enough to have a square meal a day- until Roachoc pox announced itself with the vigour and velocity that shook Fidelius. And the local doctor triumphed. Therein came his state of the receding hairline and the bulging waist.

Anyway, the local doctor was locked in his mansion, while fifteen miles away, a fifteen year old teenager was gazing at a greenish blue solution in a test tube with the adoration and adulation that only a Grecian Urn could receive from Keats. The major ingredient of the solution was extracted from the intestines of a nasty little Roachoc who had bitten the youngster on his finger when he had tried to scrape its gut. But the boy had not bothered. He gazed and gazed at the little, gleaming test tube and then, all of a sudden, he “yahoo’ed” and jumped in the air, a finger over the test tube protecting that precious solution. He got out of his little cottage, and yelled to all the passing Fidelians, “Wah re wah!” (A chant akin to Archimedes’ Eureka, except our boy deemed it less prudent to strut the streets naked.)

And so he hopped, skipped and jumped his way, his lab coat swaying behind him with the test tube to the mansion of the poor doctor- him of the bulging waist and the receding hairline. He shouted out from below, “Doctor? Doctor? Come out at once! I have found a cure for Roachoc pox!”

Behind the security of two layered brick walls and curtains and fireplaces and what-nots, the doctor gave a sigh. His expression was akin to that of Macduff screaming out the death of the noble Duncan- “O horror, horror, horror.” The great tragedy had stricken. No Fidelian ever got Roachoc pox again. The doctor’s role reduced to a mere degree and a title. The only thing he ever prescribed now were tonics of vitamins and minerals for those with flatulence and poor digestion. The doctor of the bulging waist and the receding hairline became the doctor of the flat abdomen and the hairless scalp.

However, the Roachocs were hunted down far and wide. The ruthless Fidelians looked under drains, and sinks; in the roots of old trees and under big rocks, they looked everywhere. Everywhere the Roachocs were hunted and degutted, until the Roachocs had had enough. The disgruntled lot of them assembled under the old banyan tree by the outskirts of Fidelius and looked up to their president, the old, the wise, the experienced, Riddle Roach. Riddle paced the stage and coughed loudly. At once the crowd stopped chattering.

“As you know, the Fidelians have surpassed their limits. They have been hunting us down and degutting us for mystic reasons that do not concern us. They leave us in states of no-digestion. We can no longer eat without the food falling off our oesophagus in a pile. This cannot go on.”

The Roachocs nodded their little heads vigorously, their little feelers swiping away the Roachoc in front of them. Some of them gave out angry chants of assent with their chief. Encouraging the anger of his subjects, Riddle continued in that deep, wizened, experienced voice of his- “We shall not take this any longer. We will wage a war against those dim witted monsters and not give up until they promise not to hunt us anymore.”

His words were drowned by the screams and “woohoo’s” of the raging crowd. Out they flew, those little Roachocs fluttering their leathery wings and cart wheeling in the air with the agility that would have made an Archaeopteryx weep! They flew hither and thither. Here, they defecated on a sleeping Fidelians face. There, they rendered the alarm clock useless by releasing their stink pellets on the old man’s moustache. And there again, they poked the school going Fidelians so that their skin attained the texture of the Gobi desert. The war of mammoth proportions had broken out!

The Fidelians, dim witted like old Shemar had wisely said, were at their wit’s end. They had no knowledge of wars. They fiddled with those heavy AK-47s imagining what the trigger did, and where the nozzle must point. And by the time they figured this out, they wiped out most of the Fidelian army. The news of the mass suicide broke out, and the poor Fidelians deciding that the government must have retreated, stepped out of their homes and bowed down to the Roachocs and accepted defeat.

The Roachocs were delighted. They knew they would win eventually, but this easily? No, they had not believed it possible. Riddle Roach called out finally, over the din and stated in that deep, wizened, experienced voice of his- “We will end this conflict if the Fidelians promise never to hunt down or degut a Roachoc again.”

The timid Fidelians whimpered and nodded. They sobbed into their fingers, internally relieved that the war was over and they could get back to being lazy and lackadaisical again. The Roachocs were reinstated their rightful homes- in the sinks and drains of the Fidelian households. The doctor of the flat abdomen and the hairless scalp once again grew the bulging waist and his shiny head showed just the hint of a few white hairs. Roachoc pox was once again prevalent. And everything was back to normal. The great Seer Sibal was awarded a posthumous place of honour in the nonexistent Fidelian government, because after all- it was exactly as he had said it would be.

Conformer

The teenage years are about self discovery. Introspection. About finding yourself-what you’re meant for, meant to do. That is why- the time you spend as a teenager is the most harrowing, energy consuming, depressing time until worse.

Me… I am a conformer. I am a piece of wet clay. I mould myself as per people’s expectations. So naturally, other people, and their expectations mean a lot to me- in fact they shape me. I’ve always cared more about other people’s opinion than my own. But then again- so do a lot of people.

There are a lot of good things about being a conformer. One thing is people generally respect you. How can they not?  You’re everything they look to respect. People appreciate you. They think you’re nice, very accommodating, very easy to talk to, very sweet and understanding. You probably are most of that- so it doesn’t hurt to know that others think the same way about you. You’re admired. You’re liked. You’re called. You’re talked to. You’re asked for advice.

But there are downfalls obviously. People take you for granted. Every mistake you make is counted and accounted for- because you can’t just make mistakes. That’s what humans do. Not conformers. You lose your originality, your individualism. Or you probably just didn’t have any. You’re a blend of good qualities and a hidden store of bad qualities. Of course you have flaws. You’re just excellent at hiding them. Or avoiding them.

I have a ton of flaws. The worst- I cannot trust. I have a mile high walls. I cannot stop thinking sometimes. Sometimes- I am thinking so much and so hard that I cannot wait to put my headsets on and empty my mind. Thinking is a curse-believe me. I have lost touch with myself. The real me. I cannot find her. I don’t remember being her. Who am I actually? I’m like Julia Roberts from Runaway Bride-(stupid film but I connect with her)- I have no idea how I like my eggs cooked.

The thing is- conforming is a safe haven. Its security. It’s like an engineering job in India. You’re well set. And I am too comfortable being a conformer to change. This life- it’s not easy mind you. Its difficult being a different person all the time. But then it’s easy in a very different way. I’m risking nothing by living. I’m protecting myself-the real me-from the real world. I’m safe.

Then why do I hate it? Why am I tired of it? I haven’t the faintest clue. All I know is- I’m nearing the end of my teenage years. And if I don’t find myself before it ends- I’m going to be a conformer for the rest of my life.

So… this was a random post. And I’m bored. So.. meh.

 

On Freedom

There is no meaning to freedom

Not in words, bound by strictures

Not in actions, scrutinised by society

Not in life, described by deeds

And Facebook statuses

Not in death, coffined and cremated

Memories sullied and bullied.

 

There is no meaning to freedom

When a baby is given a name

Without its will.

There is no meaning to freedom

I can’t choose where to be born

And I can’t choose when to die.

 

There is no meaning to freedom

When people look to smoke

And drink and fuck and score

And they do it quietly by the

Back door of the canteen or some

Place in the Ridge, for fear.

There is no meaning to Freedom

If there’s always a Big Brother.  

 

There is no meaning to freedom

And perhaps that is wise.

For freedom is a great power.

And you don’t need to have seen

Spiderman to know that

Great Power means great responsibility

And responsibility is yet another cage

For this free bird.

 

There is no meaning to freedom

If one looks for meaning.  

There is no meaning to freedom

When liking a Beiber song is

Social suicide.

There is no meaning to freedom

If everyone is free and some people

Are free-er than the others

 

There is no meaning to freedom

If diagrams in Bio must always be perfect

If essays in English exams should not

Be lesser than five hundred words and

If Geography answers should always

Be in points and if History students

Must always mug up the dates.

 

There is no meaning to freedom

For the birds are bound to the sky

Their wings beat futilely in an effort

To escape gravity and all that rots on earth

And leap into the non-matter beyond

But that is a cage as well

And the sky is bound to the earth

And the earth is bound to something which is bound

And on and on, some fuckery’s involved

For Freedom is a myth.

A romantic piece of Bakchodi.

 

And Freedom is such a drug, man,

We’ve never even been free,

And we’re already addicts.

 

Freedom is such a high, man,

We’ve never even been free

And just thinking about it is enough.

 

Freedom is such a temptress, man,

We’re born caged and die caged

And live caged and damn,

The grass must be seriously green on the other side.   

 

 

Heh. ‘Night. 

 

(Random translation/notes/stuff that may help you understand)

i) “Bakchodi is a remarkably versatile Indian swear word. I am unsure how exactly to translate it, but urban dictionary says it refers to senseless and baseless gossip. Hmm. 

 

ii) The Kamla Nehru Ridge (referred to as Ridge) is this really forested area where you can get some private space. *nudge nudge wink wink* There are also a huge amount of monkeys. Baby monkeys are cute. :3

 

iii) Big Brother- a reference to the villian in Orwell’s 1984. You should read it naow. 

 

Orwell reminded me of that some people are more equal than the others quip in Animal Farm, so I stuffed that in too. Okay. 

Both Sides Now ~ Joni Mitchell

Bows and flows of angel hair,

She caught my heart with just a stare.

She challenged me to fall for her,

And that I did. I am hers forever.

 

But now they only block the sun.

Her memories, her scent merely lingers on.

Her twinkling eyes I can see everywhere,

I laugh, cry or dream, and she’s always there.

 

I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now.

They’ve rained over me, made me glow.

They’ve ruined me. Made me cold.

Destroyed my dreams. I’ve grown old.

 

Moons, and Junes and Ferris wheels, 

And what more? Love even heals.

I found her when the going got tough,

She comforted me, and loved me enough.

 

But now it’s just another show,

I feign health. I let them know.

I might be broken. I am shaken.

None can see the pain I am in.

 

I’ve looked at love from both sides now.

I’ve felt the highs, and the lows, the blow.

To love is to risk. To love is to expose.

When love is lost, you just explode.

 

Tears and fears and feeling proud,

Disappointments are profound.

To say “I do” before a crowd,

And then bury her with a shroud.

 

But now old friends are acting strange,

They’re always pitying me. They’ve changed.

I am brave. Strong. I don’t want pity.

I want my life again. I want normalcy.

 

I’ve looked at life from both sides now,

I’ve been given pleasures and endless love.

I’ve gotten respect, and yet I have begged.

My dreams fulfilled. Happy am I? No. Dead.

 

_______________________________________________________

Anais Nin:

Nineteenth

Hello readers! I have started writing this novel based on a spur-of-the-moment-idea that I ain’t sure of yet. But to make sure I write the whole thing, and complete it one fine day I decided to post it here in parts. Its supposed to be a mystery. Hope you guys like it! I sure do.

________________________________________________________________________

He was extremely tired. A band was playing a popular item number on the streets. He checked his watch. 2 am. He thought of calling the police. But why take the pain? The Ganesh Festival always brought with it a truck load of work. The bank he worked at was one of the most reputed banks in all of Mumbai. It had been an extremely busy day. He had started working at dawn, just before the sun had set in, and finished only an hour before midnight. His back had created more problems than it normally did. He hadn’t been able to get up from his seat. Any movement made his spine feel impregnated with needles. Ibuprofen had worked its magic and he had managed to drive back home. He found his stash of beer in the fridge. There was no food. Sometimes, he even missed his wife. Although she had been completely useless in most regards, she had at least the decency to cook him two meals a day and count his alcohol intake to safe norms.

Mr. Desai settled his weight around the sofa and threw his head backwards. His eyelids were drooping slowly. His breathing deepened and his paunch heaved with every breath. He was about to fall asleep. Suddenly, he realized the band had stopped playing. He could hear crickets outside. His eyes opened wide. There was absolutely no sound except the crickets. It was almost too quiet. What was happening? The doorbell rang. He checked his watch again. 2:15 am. He tip toed across the room to his drawer below the television. His hand slipped underneath the drawer and he yanked out a pistol taped across it. The door bell rang again. He swore and opened the next drawer. Bullets were taped underneath this one. He nimbly loaded his pistol. The door bell rang again. And again.

“Impatient bastard,” Mr. Desai swore. He walked towards the door and looked through the peephole. It was covered. He turned the latch. His left hand shook and a finger settled itself on the trigger. The right hand clutched the door knob. He took a deep breath. “Rama Rama Rama…” he pulled the door knob. At the same time he lifted his left hand to arm length and pointed it at the visitor. His mouth opened and his pupils dilated in surprise.

At least five torches were pointing at him. He couldn’t see a thing. He looked down to ease his eyes when he noticed two red dots dancing on his shirt. Laser guns? What the hell was going on?

“Mr. Desai put the gun down and slowly lace your fingers at the back of your head,” a voice called out from the darkness. He released his hold on the gun and it fell down on the ground.

“It’s only a pistol,” he called out meekly. He had never been more scared in his life.

“Lace your fingers at the back of your head and spread your feet,” the voice boomed again.

He looked down. The red dots were still there. He did as he was told. A second later, he saw the outline of two men. They were uniformed. He could see the night vision goggles, and army uniform. One of them handcuffed him, the other picked up his pistol and put it inside a plastic bag. One more form came into vision. It was a huge man in a black suit. He looked intimidating. “Mr. Deepak Desai, you are under arrest for the murder of thirteen senior commanding officers of the Mumbai division and for multiple acts of forgery, felony and forty two other cases.”

“What?” Deepak was flabbergasted. “You’ve got the wrong guy! I am a bank manager! I have worked at Ford Bank for the past ten years. You’ve got the wrong guy!” he couldn’t stop himself from screaming. This felt so unfair! Why would he kill anyone? Especially army officials.

“If you do not stop resisting arrest, you will be booked for forty three cases Mr. Desai.” The man in the black suit spoke between clenched teeth.

Deepak decided to follow the instructions. He was taken to a police jeep. The two army officials entered the jeep with him and hand cuffed him to the jeep. They took off their night vision goggles and face masks. Two young, angry faces faced him. They looked murderous. He bit his lip. A policeman entered the jeep and sat next to him. The army officials turned their homicidal gaze at him and his quite visible paunch. The policeman immediately sucked his stomach in and tried to look apologetic. The jeep started moving.

Ten minutes or so later it stopped moving. He was de-hand-cuffed and taken roughly to the police station. Another army official was present there. But he seemed to be of a higher rank. The murderous duo saluted him. Deepak smiled as he saw it. He loved the military salute.

“You have the audacity to smile at me after you wipe off half my regiment?” the senior army official was looking at Deepak in the eye. He shuddered.

“General Singh, we must look into the matters of priority immediately,” Mr. Black Suit impressed. The general did not respond. A bead of sweat rolled down Suit’s forehead and fell on the ground. He looked from the General to Deepak; they were both staring at each other. The general was mentally picturing Deepak’s murder. Deepak meanwhile stared back in defiance. He was being framed. He hadn’t committed those crimes. He could not let himself be afraid.

Mr. Suit could not wait any longer. He seemed to be bursting with pressure. “General, there really is not much time…” the general raised a hand to silence Mr. Suit. He turned on the spot and walked smartly across the room with Suit hobbling behind him.

Ars Poetica

They said coat each word with connotations sweet
Make it bounce off a person, like a sugar high.
Make it mellifluous, and not superfluous
Make it sticky, make it wet, make it work.
I coated my words with honey
And the bees attacked me.

They said string the words lovingly
Weave them like Arachne’s webs
But depict not your words with disdain
But with love, with care, like a mother
Nourishing a new born babe
Whom she knows not.

They said guard yourself, erect
A Ladon for your apples so
None may penetrate, none
May formulate opinions on you,
For true Art knows no Artist,
And you must only make Art.

They said set its sentences to a beat
A tapping of your fingers maybe, so
One may say it out loud with melody
They said give it rhythm
And crows might sing
As a nightingale.

They said make it rhyme,
Two sentences, disparate but conjoined.
Ay ay bee bee,
See dee, see dee.
They said make them rhyme and hum
Like two frequencies resonating.

They said make it echo,
And age as wine, and spread like flu
Through time, through space
Through generations, through death
For Art is ageless, immortal
And you must only make Art.

They said make it short
Simple and true, like Funeral Blues.
Unless you’re writing the Wasteland
Then anything will do.
They said don’t describe the heavens,
When Mother Earth is still large.

They said use metaphors,
Like…, I got you, didn’t I?
They said make a collage
With every piece striking as a whole
But which themselves were luminescent,
Like poets of yore had done before.

Make it pulchritudinous, they said
Mute while still loquacious.
Make it say little but pour
Copious litres of meaning,
In three syllables or more,
But don’t show off your vocabulary.

For you don’t write for yourself, no.
You write for people who know you not,
You mustn’t make it difficult
You mustn’t force someone to Google
For everyone understands true Art,
And you must make only Art.

Words come and go,
And leave only a memory behind,
And you can shrug off the words,
But their memory is like strychnine,
Or like ambrosia, depending
On what they invoke, and
How they linger, and
Who says it.

And I might ignore the darts
The barbs thrown by society,
But the lingering memory
Of what the voices inside me
Say stays, corrupting the fertility,
And unmakes what Art remains.

For Art is ageless and timeless,
Understandable and beautiful,
Melodious and voluminous
Real and transcendental.
True art is frikkin’ awesome
But I can’t make art.

Not that I don’t want to,
And not that Art withholds
Itself from me, for Art manifests
In everyone, in equal measure.
Not that what Art remains
Is curbed, a free bird in a cage
For it flows like the Amazon, like time.
I just can’t.

People will say that this is Art,
My sentences entwine in their brains,
My words harmonise with the universal
Symphony, a quagmire nonpareil.
But for me these words are dead
Redundant, rotten, compost.

“A grenade”

Sleep.

The “balm of hurt minds,”

Temporary peaceful oblivion,

A rhythm of unconscious breath,

An alternative to burdens, life,

An excuse, a reason to forget,

For a few hours, possibly, hopefully.

Devastation.

You fall down, supersonic speed.

Your dreams evaporate. You panic.

You can’t think, breathe- suffocation.

You can’t cry, grieve- suppression.

Uncoordinated, unnerved, shocked.

You break down. You’re lost.

Digestion.

You try to accept. You digest.

“tears streaming down your face.”

Your mind somersaults, wild, free.

You think over and over and over again.

You hear voices. You feel his presence.

Remind yourself repeatedly of death.

Death.

Inexistence. Oblivion. Infinity.

Souls soar. Souls roam. Freedom.

Leave behind the pain. Life.

Abandon the body. The complexity.

Maybe you’re unaware of your past.

You only look forward to what’ll come.

“Death is not the opposite of life. It is a part of it.”

{credits: “balm of hurt minds” is a line from Macbeth, Shakespeare.

“tears streaming down your face.” is from a song Fix You by Coldplay. duh.

“Death is not the opposite of life. It is a part of it.” is a line from Norwegian Wood by Murakami. (thanks Achyuth!)

and lastly, the title is from this book (recommended reading) “THE FAULT IN OUR STARS” by John Green}

Butterfly Hopes

I waited on the platform. All around me there was noise. A baby was crying out somewhere. Three college going youngsters were screaming after a passing interstate train. A small girl moved around with a basket screaming out the rates. The local chaiwalla was engaged in a word match with a local drunkard. The platform was in a mess. I mused as I looked around. The chaiwalla was just adding crushed ginger pieces to his kettle. The aroma spread throughout the platform. People turned to look.  I bit my lip in hesitation. Two minutes later, I had one of the most delicious cups of cutting chai in my hands. My hands shivered in the chill.

One old lady was crying on a bench. Somehow, she didn’t look out of place. Tears were falling freely down her cheeks, and she made no effort to wipe them away. A classic example of acceptance of the worst, I gazed at her and understood. I checked my watch. The train should be five minutes away I decided. Sure enough, the announcement came and I geared up for the usual scuffle. The train came accompanied by all its usual sounds and aches. There was no scuffle, I realized after I got in. Sunday. It is funny how you don’t realize what day of the week it is sometimes. It’s like what Anita Desai said. My life had subsided into the backwaters.

I sat down next to the window and slipped a cigarette between my lips. The old man in front of me gave me a stern look. “You mustn’t smoke in public places,” he told me. I stared back at him. He reminded me of my father. “I’m sorry sir,” I said, and put the cigarette back in its case. I desperately needed a smoke. ‘Later,’ I said to myself.

I looked out of the grill. The city was whizzing past at the speed of sixty kilometers an hour. I felt blank and empty. Maybe I was just bored. The train was like the younger me. Surging through the tracks of life, every step with a burst of energy, meeting people on platforms, taking them on its journey, dropping them and moving on. I was always moving on. What happened then? What happens to trains that stop moving? Are they turned to scrap?

I desperately needed that smoke now. My fingers kept twitching and I touched my pocket to feel the reassuring corners of my case. I looked across at the old man. He was staring at me. I turned away self consciously.

“How old are you?” His voice was a deep rumble. Maybe he was in the army.

“I don’t know… Thirty or something. Why?” I disliked this man.

“And already given up on hope, son? Life is not all hurdles. There are breaks. You cannot give up.” Yes. He was exactly like my father.

“Right,” I replied. I did not appreciate his sermon.

“How long have you been smoking?” he asked.

“What’s it to you?” I expected a row. He really seemed like a retired army general or at least a cop. He broke into a smile. “I’m just making conversation son. It is a long journey. So, how long have you been smoking?” His eyes pierced into mine. He must have been an interrogating officer.

“Five years now.” I relented. His eyebrows arched slightly. Five years was big in his book.

“Are you a retired cop or something?”

“I was in the army, yes. I retired of course.”

“My father was in the army, too.” I couldn’t help noticing that I as the one making conversation now.

“I know,” he winked. “You look exactly like him.”

I gaped at him. So he knew my father. And if he was still in touch with the old man, he probably knew my situation as well. Damn.

He took out his briefcase and placed it on the empty seat next to him. He fished out an old photograph from the first compartment and handed it over to me. Three young generals stood in attention while a Chief awarded them.

“We were promoted that day. The man in the middle, General Sharma, do you know him?”

“Yes,” I replied, my eyes still glued to the photograph. “Father still talks about him,” I continued without looking up.

“Everyone who knew him, talks about him. He was a great man. And do you know why, son?” His eyebrows arched again. “Resilience. That man fought everyday of life with vigor and courage. And he never, ever lost hope.”

I knew where this was going. And I had no desire to talk today. “Are you here to visit my father?” I enquired.

“Yes, he called me. He wished that I speak to you.” His tone had a sort of finality to it.

I laughed. I should have guessed it. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased.” I said.

He shifted forward. His elbows were perched on the corner of his knees, and his fingers coiled around each other. I prepared for the usual, well rehearsed sermon. “Life is all about such setbacks, my boy. Life will always give you hurdles. It will always be a battle for survival. But do you know what makes you win this battle?” He paused for a breath. His eyebrows were knit in concentration. This time, I raised my eyebrows. “Hope. You cannot lose hope. Hope will take you through everything and keep you alive and kicking till the end. Believe, young man, believe. Believe in ……” I was distracted.

I stared out of the window. There was a butterfly fluttering along the window. It gave me relief to look at it. I kept staring. The butterfly kept fluttering. Then it came and perched on the window sill. It had yellow wings with black streaks. The sunlight made a webbed shadow of the creature on my palm. It was a tender scene. I’d never felt more relaxed. Suddenly, it hopped, and flew out. A fast local came from the other direction and hit it. That was my life story as I knew it, I decided. I turned back to the old general. He was looking at me with a strange sort of tenderness in his eyes.

I smiled at him. He did not smile back. “Next station, Sir,” I whispered.

He got up with me and carried his briefcase to the door. Life is full of hurdles, he is right, I thought. But when all the hurdles come at the same time, how do you really deal with it? You just go on, I suppose, till death shows its presence at your doorstep. “The last enemy that will be defeated is death.” Honestly, I’ll probably just welcome him with open arms.

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Two things.. 1> I wrote this story when i was really depressed. So.. No need to worry.

and 2> The butterfly analogy/symbolization is not my idea. Its Suvidhy’s and he’s a mate. A million thanks to him.