The winding stairs of the station had him out of breath. He had just bent down to rub his aching muscles when he saw a familiar silhouette. He looked up. There she was, her eyes closed, her body leaning on to the surprisingly clean station wall—a picture of serenity. She looked at peace with herself. He was glad to see her so unruffled at this hour of the day. Peace came at a price these days; and mental peace was a priceless pearl, which once attained promises never to let its lustre fade away.
He looked at himself and then at her. Seven years had made a visible difference to his visage. They had marked her too, but the markings were more beautiful than his; they had made her attractive in a way she never was at school. He debated whether he should go and break that serenity. Half of him wanted to talk to her—there was so much to catch up on; the other half just didn't have the heart to break her calm—she looked as if she had been painted.
Just then she opened her eyes. Her eyes—how they altered her. Their vacant expression made him nearly cry out. Her person—peaceful once—looked like a withering leaf; a germinated seed which didn't know where to grow and had, thus, become stunted. His mind wandered away, comparing her to the girl she had been seven years ago. He remembered talking to her in school.
“Your eyes have the radiance of life,” he had told her.
“It’s in my genes. My dad had similar eyes.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah. Why do you look so surprised?” Her eyes had been laughing, winking at him from within.
“I don’t know. But your eyes are so feminine.”
“How can eyes be feminine? Maybe you have failed to notice that I’m a girl.” She had smirked.
“You sure know how to talk crap.” He had winced.
“By the way, what’s with my eyes that fascinates you guys so much?” She had asked curiously.
“I don’t know man! They have this radiance, which most of us find attractive.” He had been so embarrassed then, almost wishing he had never broached this topic.
“So, you are attracted to me…” She giggled, her eyes playful.
“Hell! God no! I am not. It was just your eyes.”
He almost smiled at the memory. But even today, he maintained, that he had never been attracted to her; she had never been beautiful, at least to him. But her eyes had always been a subject of fascination, among all the boys. They danced, they sparkled, they had a life of their own—a life which could never have been stunted, could never have been vacant. He wanted to run to her, to comfort her, lend her a shoulder she could cry upon. She was after all his friend—though a friend with whom he had never bothered to be in touch, but had never forgotten. But what had happened?
His brain went into an overdrive. He almost thought he was responsible for her situation. Maybe she loved him and his going away had done this to her. After all, girls can be very stupid. But then, an afterthought hit him. He was being foolish in thinking so much, perhaps, in fact hoping it to be true. That he could have such an effect on a girl. He shook his head tersely to dismiss the thought. That flight of fancy had been too vivid. He focussed on her. She was the one who needed to be thought about. Whatever made him about him and her, and that too together. “Incredible!” he muttered aloud.
He then looked at her, tried taking a step towards her, but then quickly brought it back. What if she didn’t remember him? “So what? She is your friend, isn’t she?” his heart rebuked him. “That she is,” his brain seemed to agree with his heart, a first, he noticed. He took the first step and their eyes met. Her eyes, still haunted, seemed to be recalling his face. He waited for a sign of acknowledgement. It came. A smile broke on to her face. The difference it made to her face wasn't much as the smile never reached her eyes. Nevertheless encouraged, he took another step towards her, determined to talk to her, to know what had happened. And then…the train came.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Barren
"This is a decrepit building... Nothing will ever live in it," He had declared while the building sobbed in the background...sobbed for being cursed to such a deprived life.
Bhagwan Singh was a name synonymous with genius, eccentricity and complexity. His real estate business catered to just him. His buildings were an extension of him, his moods, his whims, his fancies. He had absolutely beautiful creations to his name. But then he had gotten built the most ghastly of them too—as if he needed to balance beauty with ogre. He strove for a balance which no one could ever understand, neither the people who worked for him, nor those who worked against him, or even those who were devoted to him. Nobody asked him questions. Even if they did, they got no answers. It was possible that he hadn't even heard what they had said.
Bhagwan was inert. Inert to everything, but himself. Some of his creations were the epitome of life itself, some of a problem solved, some of a weathered shore which is used to crisis, others of a desert—a polar one where not even cactus grew. And then he had gone out and built this sepulchral, a hideous monument devoted to barrenness—barrenness of the womb of a mother who yearns for fertility. "This is a decrepit building... Nothing will ever live in it," He had declared while the building sobbed in the background...sobbed for being cursed to such a deprived life.
His architect looked at him in wonder. How could someone be like him? What stuff was he made of? He had looked up at the building he had been forced to design; his baby was barren with a life of loneliness lying ahead of it. Why did Bhagwan make such a building? And why, of all the architects he had, did he choose him for such a misery? He couldn't remain silent this time; he couldn't bear to hear the deafening tears of his baby.
"Why sir? Why such a building?" He stammered. Bhagwan was silent. The architect stood waiting for him, sometimes praying to him to provide answers. And then he left him, thinking, perhaps, this isn't the right time to ask. Maybe some other day. Maybe, he'll allow him to improve the building too, he thought, growing optimistic with every thought.
Bhagwan smiled to himself. He had heard what the architect had been asking. But then it was his policy to never answer. Everyone was beneath him. He was the lord. His smiled widened when he saw the building. The architect has done a good job, he thought, even though he cribs too much. But then, so do most of my subjects, he contemplated. He decided to give him a raise. Perhaps, that would shut him up.
The building matched his dark side. Its tears made him feel good. He knew the building wanted a new lease of life, it wanted to feel alive. It was living a dead life. But then, it was helpless. He had made the building; and it would remain in the form he wanted it to be—this was the form. He said aloud, "I cannot disturb my balance. What happened was destined." The building shuddered. And Bhagwan stood there and laughed.
Bhagwan Singh was a name synonymous with genius, eccentricity and complexity. His real estate business catered to just him. His buildings were an extension of him, his moods, his whims, his fancies. He had absolutely beautiful creations to his name. But then he had gotten built the most ghastly of them too—as if he needed to balance beauty with ogre. He strove for a balance which no one could ever understand, neither the people who worked for him, nor those who worked against him, or even those who were devoted to him. Nobody asked him questions. Even if they did, they got no answers. It was possible that he hadn't even heard what they had said.
Bhagwan was inert. Inert to everything, but himself. Some of his creations were the epitome of life itself, some of a problem solved, some of a weathered shore which is used to crisis, others of a desert—a polar one where not even cactus grew. And then he had gone out and built this sepulchral, a hideous monument devoted to barrenness—barrenness of the womb of a mother who yearns for fertility. "This is a decrepit building... Nothing will ever live in it," He had declared while the building sobbed in the background...sobbed for being cursed to such a deprived life.
His architect looked at him in wonder. How could someone be like him? What stuff was he made of? He had looked up at the building he had been forced to design; his baby was barren with a life of loneliness lying ahead of it. Why did Bhagwan make such a building? And why, of all the architects he had, did he choose him for such a misery? He couldn't remain silent this time; he couldn't bear to hear the deafening tears of his baby.
"Why sir? Why such a building?" He stammered. Bhagwan was silent. The architect stood waiting for him, sometimes praying to him to provide answers. And then he left him, thinking, perhaps, this isn't the right time to ask. Maybe some other day. Maybe, he'll allow him to improve the building too, he thought, growing optimistic with every thought.
Bhagwan smiled to himself. He had heard what the architect had been asking. But then it was his policy to never answer. Everyone was beneath him. He was the lord. His smiled widened when he saw the building. The architect has done a good job, he thought, even though he cribs too much. But then, so do most of my subjects, he contemplated. He decided to give him a raise. Perhaps, that would shut him up.
The building matched his dark side. Its tears made him feel good. He knew the building wanted a new lease of life, it wanted to feel alive. It was living a dead life. But then, it was helpless. He had made the building; and it would remain in the form he wanted it to be—this was the form. He said aloud, "I cannot disturb my balance. What happened was destined." The building shuddered. And Bhagwan stood there and laughed.
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