The two faced murderer

I met him for the first time in December 2010. He was suffering memorylosses. His name was Kyle Barton. He was an investment banker and asmost of them do, made a handsome salary working at the RBS. He was 25at that time, single, hard working and lived alone in an apartmentalone in Kensington. The first thing I noticed about him was that hewas a big time Arsenal fan. I myself being a Manchester Unitedsupporter, led to a clash of ideologies instantly. But I am aPsychiatrist and I don’t let such differences creep in. The urbanlifestyle brings a lot of such cases in our profession. Young mansuffering from stress in a hectic life starts to develop minorpsychological symptoms like memory loss, hallucinations, insomnia etc.But Kyle was different. He told me that he would sometimes just forgetwhat had happened in the last hour and how did he end up where he was.At first I thought it must be because of depression but how could thatbe possible when the guy was so lively and cheerful. Despite of thefact that he was there for something as serious as short term memoryloss, he just kept blabbering. He was so full of life that he couldmake one jealous.So I ruled out depression. Six months suggested drugs usage to me. Atfirst I thought it was his own notion and I didn’t believe him. I waslooking at drugs usage but each of his tests showed negative which ledme into the direction of Alzheimer’s.It was right about that time that I started to notice his growingfriendship with Keira, my receptionist. But I knew that she was havingan affair with someone else and thus it won’t go any farther. ButKeira proved me wrong as over time I saw their friendship swell intosomething more. I knew this was dangerous for Keira.I tried to broaden my horizons and from a person who wasn’t ready toaccept it as a rare condition, I tried to raise the other person inhim but I wasn’t sure of what I saw. I believed that the other guy wasa seeker of silence. That is mainly because I could take him to theother side, but the guy there never said anything. Just got up,started to walk and went to sit down in a corner. But that issomething I expected. With such a tight schedule that he lived in, hewas a quite wild as a person.Still it was dangerous for Keira. I warned her. She chose to ignoreme, but this time more discreetly. Surprisingly, when I told Kyleabout the Multiple personality disorder, he wasn’t distraught onhearing it. He rather seemed strangely cheerful. That was the firsttime the idea struck me, but seemed too farfetched and so I dismissedit.But within the next two months, I became witness to the growingproximities between Kyle and Keira. Though in the clinic Keira actedperfectly formal, but sometimes I saw them at a restaurant while atother times I saw them buying movie tickets. My fear was getting moreand more fearful.And my fear came true on 8th September when I was called by the localpolice to report the murder of Keira. I went to her apartment to findher in a pool of blood with her face smashed which made itunidentifiable. But there were several other things that gave away heridentity. I couldn’t stand the sight of my receptionist. The policelater found some of her medica reports which cemented her identity.I was called in for questioning where I was asked about her life and Imentioned that she had a lover named Kyle. They told me that the causeof death was a stab from a big knife from which they had picked up oneset of finger prints. I was asked my professional opinion as if whatkind of a person could have done a murder so brutally. I told a highlyviolent or mentally unstable person. The next question was veryobvious. ‘Was Keira in contact with any such person?’ And I told themhow Kyle was also being treated by me for multiple personalitydisorder.That gave a new direction to the investigation. Kyle’s fingerprintsand DNA matched with the evidence obtained from the apartment. Kylewas arrested.And that was how I met Mr.Wayne, one of the most sought after criminalLawyers in London and also the guy with whom I would become soattached that the police would find my last letter addressed to himwith my body at my home.Wayne was flamboyant to say the least. He didn’t mind believing instrange theories and that was something famous about him. A bigSherlock Holmes fan, he kept repeating the famous quote by Sir ArthurConan Doyle, “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains,no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” It was inspired from himthat I myself started to read a Sherlock Holmes at that time.He made a revelation to me on our very first meeting that Kyle wasgoing to accept committing the crime. The strangely cheerful Kyle onthe day I told him about my diagnosis crossed my mind for a second.But I dismissed anything that could have subjected my mindset. He toldme that Kyle remembers going to bed in his apartment and standing withthe knife in front of Keira’s body. It was the other guy who killedher and hence legally as well, Kyle can be subjected to treatment in amental hospital, not punishment. That strategy seemed very logical tome in that scenario and I realized how important that made mystatement in the court.But I said the truth in the court the next day. I told how I think itwas Multiple personality disorder and how subjective the diagnosis ofthe condition was. Besides in my experience, the other guy in Kyle wasa very silent and peaceful person. Still things seemed to be goingKyle’s way when the prosecutor demanded for another confirmatorydiagnosis from a separate psychiatrist.My interaction with Wayne grew in this interval. We seemed to bebonding since we both somewhere knew that Kyle didn’t do it. On theother hand we were adversaries as well at some level. That made ourrelationship more and more interesting. He made another revelation tome the day before the final hearing. He told me that Kyle didn’tsuffer from Multiple Personality Disorder and what I saw was just asevere case of sleepwalking.I have to accept, it didn’t come as much of a shock to me. The nextday in the court, the prosecutor presented reports by three well knownpsychiatrists who converged on a diagnosis of sleepwalking and deniedany chance of a Multiple Personality disorder. After that, Wayne wentforward to conclude and what he said, I still remember word by word.“Your Honor, what we see here is a case of cold blooded murder. Iwould agree with my friend on that part. But it wasn’t Kyle. It was aman who had an affair with Keira prior to Kyle. It was a man who wasenraged to see his girl go away with someone else. It was the personwho made himself believes that Kyle suffered from MPD and thus saw achance in it. Who in Kyle’s sleepwalking, drove him to Keira’sapartment, murdered Keira and left Kyle holding the knife. The guy whosits right here during every hearing, corroborating every fact thatled us to believe either Kyle did it, or his alter ego, but his smartplay never let us into a different track. Your Honor, once weeliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable,must be the truth. And the truth is that the killer is Dr.Smith himself.”I didn’t have to say anything. What he said today in the court wasgood enough for the prosecutor and the Judge to retaliate. Hepresented a theory without any proof and the judge was completelypsyched by how it every time boiled down to one of his fantastictheories.I came home from that madhouse. Man has lost his ability to seethrough the truth even when it is presented to him on a platter. I amvery disappointed today. Wayne took away the only reason I had left tolive. I stand right now in my house, with my old revolver in my handas I get ready to do the inevitable. Yes, I am scared but I know itwill take just a moment. I take it as my punishment for the incorrectdiagnosis. Two more minutes as I smoke my last cigarette. Where shallI shoot myself? Head? Mouth? Or stomach?Head it shall be. My last letter to Wayne shall provide him with thetruth. He may regret losing me. But now it is time. Goodbye………

He, she, weather and people

Wind blew past him. The door and the window were not in parallel. A turbulence soothed his skin that had been almost burnt in the heat of the day. The rain was mild. He picked up his guitar. No, he wasn't very good at it but he could sometimes compose. He had written a few songs. But today wasn't such a day. He strummed the strings randomly and anything he played, became a tune he had never heard before. At that moment, he could control the emotions of music. He knew which notes together would lend dismal tone while which note would make the music perfect for fiestas. Turbulence in fluids cause mixing but turbulence in his thoughts caused separation. A separation of emotions. He gained control which he could never do. Certainly thoughts must not be fluid but then how do they flow so easily? He played for 10 minutes but he never felt like writing those down. So no proofs exist for that moment of genius. He kept the guitar back as spontaneously as he had picked it up. Wind had stopped. So had rain. It was as if the climate realised that turbulence had cooled things down, resolved everything. Now heat needed to prevail again. But his skin won't burn now. He had grown immune to all of it.

The rat race continues. She picked up her notebook and the pencil started to work. People surrounded her at any moment but they kept moving. A handsome guy went past and glanced towards her for a moment and the drawing started to transform into something pleasant. But then a friend screamed and the sketch was spoiled. Her eyes followed the people. She could read the thoughts of people going around and all affected the picture. They say creations are inspired. Her was in so many different ways. The sketch was nearing its completion. Everytime it started to look good, she became careless while whenever it looked bad, she frantically tried to cover up. The problem was that she didnt have an eraser. The night rose. People suddenly disappeared around her as bell stuck nine. The sketch remained incomplete, it was beautiful but it was incomplete and could never be completed.

Climate never knows what people want. It may happily rain, hoping to help the thirsty people but there may already be a flood in the region and it may end up getting cursed. What people desire is sometimes controlled by the actions of weather's predecessors. But weather at that point of time never knows what had happened earlier. Even people do activities that hurts the climate. The temperature is gradually rising. And people now know about it. Though they are trying to curb away from these activities but climate is still getting hurt. The story of weather and people may never be a happy one, but the truth is, they are a necessity for each other. Else his skin would burn and she wont have anyone to follow.

Of a writer, by an author

28th March

“Yes I love her and that is probably the only thing about us I am sure about.”

I want to be a writer. This piece is a step ahead of my earlier attempts which were articles. But even this is not fiction. This is the story of a senior. This is the story of a writer. A person I look up to. A person I adore for his writings. I saw him tearing off a diary today. The above line was written on the first page that came to my hand.

It is an account of his love story. Probably he wanted to weave a story out of it. But now I have got it. It is mine.

Even destiny is toying with me. I gave these pages for binding and didn’t notice that they weren’t arranged. But I have always desired his ability to play with the timeline of a story. So let us take it the way destiny has setup for me. Random it is.

25th December

“Distance is only illusionary. 20 miles from me and I can’t even call her and we could even see each other while sitting a thousand miles far. Technology has certainly reduced distances.”

3rd January

“I reached college today. She will reach hers by tonight. The holidays were a torture. People are still not here. Waiting for life to get here and my life to get back there. Got a bit clichéd and poetic but never mind.”

11th December

“Why have the families be so protective? It could affect if we could meet. She is in my city and still I feel powerless over something similar to destiny. But I don’t believe in destiny.”

28th January

“But no commitment. L”

27th November

“I love Pakhi. I love her. Till now I had been very cautious but at least now I have said it to myself. It would require a lot more confidence about this thing to say it in front of others though.”

14th February

“Another Valentine’s Day spent single. But this was the first when I felt lonely.”

4th March

“Today I met her. I got terrified within 120 seconds when I could not find her but when I saw her, everything ceased. Very filmy and clichéd but it is the truth. 15 minutes on the platform with her became my best moments. I love her.”

27th January

“She said she loves me too. Not exactly but she said she feels the same way when I had said that I love her. And she broke up with him. Joy found a new definition today.”

I feel for him. I guess you forgot me but I am right here. Thank god she feels the same but then what was the problem?

17th December

“She wanted to say yes to me but did so to that bastard and she accepts that it was a mistake but is not ready to undo it. She worries about him getting hurt. What a liar she is. She could have said it at least on my face. Huh.”

What? If she loves him, then why? Is she an idiot? Now I get where this sad poems during December found their inspiration from. Pain does bring out one’s creativity.

24th February

“Things seem to be getting back to normal. Let us hope I manage to utilise this second chance that she has provided me.”

13th January

“It hurts when he posts love songs on her wall.”

26th March

“It really hurts when he posts love songs on her wall. They aren’t even committed. I have no idea what is going on there. Probably distance does matter.”

7th November

“I think I have a crush on her. Well that doesn’t take place very often. Maybe someday I will try to write a story about us. So it is a good option to jot down the events. She is cute and sweet. Pakhi, she is perfect.”

I was right. He wanted to write a story with it. And now it’s up to me to stop this story from dying. I am giving it a voice for people to hear. I feel like a saviour.

7th February

“I confessed lying to her. I had used Megha’s profile to show her the real picture. I lied to her and she is very angry. I deserve it.

15th March

“No, I don’t deserve it. I lied once to her and I had the guts to accept it. How can she say I had lied to her? She may say that she trusts me now but the truth is I don’t trust her anymore.

30th March

“She is toying with me. Says that she does not want to lead me into believing something but the next moment sends me a message saying, ‘The problem with distance is that we are never sure if we will be remembered or forgotten.’ I will avoid her. Let her be at my place and then only will she realise. If I know her, I will get results very quickly. She starts missing me badly within 24 hours.”

20th November

“48 hours is all she can do without talking to me. This is getting serious.”

25th November

“That bastard called her a bitch. She cried today. I felt like burning him down. She cried. But she is still in a relationship. She cried and so did I.”

4th December

“I told her that I love her. She wasn’t shocked but said she needs time. I am getting a yes.”

15th January

“She is in Benaras for a Robotics Competition. I could have gone there to meet her. She asked me to come. Though she is very distant from that idiot, but she is still committed and hence I won’t go.”

5th March

“She said I looked on the station and I am very very sweet. This must be the thousandth time she called me sweet but still it brings a big smile on hearing it.”

10th November

“Nine hours we talked today.”

29th January

“Joy didn’t live long enough. She has lost her ‘best friend’ in that ex and that takes away her smile. I am trying to feel happy about it but I just can’t. I talked to that wretched guy and tried to convince him very calmly to talk to her. He is an egghead but by the evening, he started talking to her. She smiled again and joy found a better definition this time. It was a really really hard job.”

23rd December

“I composed my first song

If my words could convince you now

 I would write pages of what I feel

You can show me the ropes to how

Send you flowers or I got to kneel

When you say that you like me too

My heart skips beating for a while

You can tell me what to do

So I don’t have to fake a smile

And I am dyiiiiinggggg

A death inside my head

And I am dyiiiiiiinnnggggg

My dream inside my death

And I don’t know the missing part

For this mystery to be complete

This is now keeping us apart

Breaking barriers I have to meet

And the truth lies beyond the wall

Neither you nor I can see

Help each other to get tall

Peeking over till we get free

And I am dyyyyiiiiiiiiiiingggggg

A death inside my head

And I am dyyyyyiiiiinngggggg

My Dream inside my Death

She loved it. Mission Successful.”

Today is 2nd April and I don’t know what happened in the end. He tore the diary but seems cheerful right now. He had once written, “The most tragic event is the one after which you choose to smile and suffer in your subconscious,” but he had said similar thing about joy. I really respect him more as a person, lover and writer after reading this. The maximum I can become is an author because I write for others. But he is a writer who writes to make himself happy.

The story of the seven giant watermelons

I was stranded alone in a scorching and sandy desert, looking all around me to find someone when suddenly Saket pulled the blanket back. He expected a revolt from me but was amazed to see me sit up and starting to jot down something. I think he was more amazed at finding out that I actually had a pen with me. But, whatever.

Hi, I am Raghav and I have a dream. It keeps haunting me at night. Every time I wake up, it gets blurred within a few minutes, never enough for me to put it down on paper, leaving only a sensation of aloofness. It reminds me that I am all alone, even in the middle of so many people.

I am getting late for a class so you have to bear with me for some time but as soon as I reach the class, I would start with the story I am here to tell.

I have to walk to the class and I am already late which means another breakfast missed, another sprint to the institute area, another stealthy entry in the lecture hall. It has almost become a routine nowadays.

A watermelon, nine and half feet long and three feet high was smashed by another gilli as kids ran, all in different directions to see Zafar sahab and Sardar chacha come running out of their houses.

“These kids shall rot in hell Zafar Sahab. This is the twelfth watermelon they have ruined.”

“And there are just seven more left. Who knows how many will survive by the time they get ripe.”

It was the summer of 1947, the mid of April. India was finally destined to get its Independence. The wind of Alwar was hot enough to make watermelons red and sweet, but was also hot enough to burn the skin of people. Still people gathered out in the open to discuss politics. Gandhiji wasn’t the hero for a few in Alwar as suddenly a laugh popped out of my pocket as I rushed to silence it. The professor eyed me silently as I understood that he must be looking at me during the whole class. Great, I am the guy who was writing even when he showed pictures of some equipment.

The message was from Purvi, my girlfriend. She wanted to know how the story was coming. She likes reading my pieces as many were even dedicated to her. But I can’t be thinking of her right now. I need to focus.

By the way I heard this story from my grandmother when I was very young. I don’t remember it exactly but I am at least good enough to fill in the blanks. She used to call it The Story of the Seven Watermelons.

Zafar Sahab and Sardar Chacha were two very good friends. Probably because they shared a lot more in common with each other than they did with the Marwaris around. Children as well as their parents, in short everyone called them Zafar Sahab and Sardar Chacha. Every year they used to grow Watermelons together, of the 30 watermelons they grew, there was always just one left in the end which used to be so red and sweet that it became the talk of the small town for some time after that. This year was nothing new. Right around the time when Mountbatten was persuading Jinnah, Zafar Sahab and Sardar Chacha were mourning over the loss of the 23rd Watermelon.

Alwar was a princely state and the Dewan of the Maharaja used to hold regular public meetings attempting to defame the political leaders of the country. The fact remained that he succeeded in convincing many about it. Though Alwar had a Congressman as its Prime Minister, but it was still under the regime of the Maharaja.

The watermelons were still smaller than their actual size. It had just been over a month since they had been planted they needed at least 45 to 50 more days to ripen. Though a majority of them had already been ruined, mainly because of pests, Zafar Sahab and Sardar Chacha had pledged to save more than one this season.

It rained in Alwar on 21st April. A very common rain it was. The rain was falling heavily on one watermelon while the others stayed safe by distance of many feets but the consequences of inner politics of the country wasn’t going to safeguard anyone in this country stretched over only a few thousand miles. At the same time Nehru said to the world, “Those who want Pakistan, can have it” but Indians only dreamt of one thing, independence.

The rain caused the solitary Watermelon to burst. One more down, but the two elderly still kept hope.

Some cutworms seemed to be dwelling on the same farm and planning to strike to hurt a watermelon as Jinnah declined all negotiations that Mountbatten, Gandhiji and Nehru had to offer by early May. Result was the loss of another watermelon. But the rest were saved because of a stitch in time by the two friends as they separated the ruined watermelon. 65 years later as well we still question whether partitioning was a stitch in time or offering the entire field.

On 18th May, Sardar Chacha was reading a letter from his cousin in Punjab when he saw outside the window to find out that separating the cutworms wasn’t the solution as he lost one more watermelon to the cutworms. This time he chose to kill the cutworms.

This class was certainly very boring but the good part is that it is the boring lectures during which I write the best. I plan to get back to the hostel so the writing part shall get postponed for a little while.

As I was walking, I saw a plane flying quite low. I waved to it and as I turned right, I saw a runway appearing next to me. But such was my solitude that the plane probably failed to spot me in a stranded desert with nothing except me for miles as I continued to walk.....

I woke up scared. There was nothing scary about this dream but I find it a kind of a nightmare, the kind of nightmare the partition of India must have been.

Sardar Chacha’s cousin was killing Muslims in Punjab and advised him to join. The religious disharmony was spreading in the country but Alwar seemed to be free of it. Or was it?

During the second half of May, refugees started to enter Alwar. Most of them came via Bharatpur and entered Alwar during night time. On the morning of 27th May, Zafar Sahab found two more watermelons gone from the farm. Obvious explanation was of it been stolen by the refugees. This was probably the ‘happiest’ loss of watermelon for the two. At least someone ate it. But the two remaining watermelons were cut from their roots and stored inside the house. They needed at least the two to fulfil their pledge.

After keeping it for a week, they took it out in the Panchayati where a radio was supposed to make an important announcement. It was 3rd June 1947.

And it is Purvi calling again. She is the only person whose intervention at the times I am writing I don’t mind. She inspires me. But right now she is getting restless. She wants to read what I am writing about. Even Saket and Shrey are anxious to know what I am writing which is keeping me from the Manchester United and Machester City match, though I know neither of the two will read it in the end.

Shyam, the son Hari Singh had returned from Delhi a month back. He was studying there in a college and knew English well. He was made to translate the radio announcement that was supposed to take place in English. Everyone was excited to hear just one thing, the date of India’s independence. The watermelon was meant to be eaten after the announcement of the good news.

It was six in the evening when the announcement started. Zafar Sahab and Sardar Chacha sat holding together the 13 feet long, 50 kg watermelon. Shyam heard the announcement and then announced ecstatically that Britishers would leave and India would get independence from 15th August of the same year.

This sent a wave of glory among the people as they stood up, started to hug each other and dance together but the happiness was short lived as the boy presented the second part of the announcement with a grim face. India was to be partitioned.

The joy shattered in a moment and everyone eyed each other suspiciously. Within a second there were so many Jinnah born in the crowd whom were blamed for the partition without a word being said but the worst of the reaction was of the two friends. They dropped the watermelon while standing up from a height of two feet and it smashed to juices on the ground. A red line now stood between Zafar Sahab and Sardar Chacha.

Shuddhikaran kriya started to ascend the Rajputana and Alwar was the prime spot for it. Every head was shaved off live just a small choti as a certificate of being a Hindu. Zafar Sahab did not give in to the change of religion like many others and chose to go to Pakistan.

It was a tragic day as the communal riots reached Alwar. They were not men, they were beasts and most of them were not residents of Alwar. Zafar Sahab chose the wrong day to leave for Pakistan. He went to Sardar’s house and started to quarrel regarding the possession of the final watermelon. They started to struggle for it when the wave of assassins reached there. They killed every Muslim around. The entire land was covered with bodies. One swift swing of the sword towards Zafar Chacha and the Watermelon started rolling on the narrow path between the bodies, rolling straight then taking a sharp right turn to ascend the steep slope up and after a hairpin turn, the watermelon stopped on high point as looking like the king of the world and just then it sliced open. It was fourteen feet but wasn’t very red.

The second swing of the sword sent Zafar Sahab on the ground in the precise space left for his body between many others. The watermelon got redder. Sardar Chacha stood still gaping. The world had just stopped for him. But the world restarted as soon as he saw the beasts bringing Zafar Chacha’s daughter out. As soon as he moved, he found a sword into him. It didn’t kill him for some time and that time was the toughest time for him. He saw her getting raped and could not do anything. The watermelon got redder and redder.

I woke up. This time I couldn’t even remember the plane but what I learnt was the reason I was seeing this. I can message Purvi that the story is almost complete. The dream reminds me of my subconscious state where this story was stored. Amongst the many stories my grandmother told me, this one stuck and it was asking to be told out. The solitude of my mind is in the fact that the no story of fairies could affect me. The only story that I remember is the one of violence and deaths. I don’t know what it tells about me but I think I may sleep well once I complete this story. The dream seems to be receding already.

There wasn’t a tri colour seen in Alwar except that at its Prime Minister’s office and no one ever heard the national anthem. Alwar came in the Indian rule but still continued to remain a princely state for some time. The family of Zafar Sahab died during the riots while that of Sardar Chacha kept trying to grow Watermelons on that field but due to some reason they were never as sweet or large as they used to be before independence. The very next year of the independence, the cutworms attacked the farm and ruined the entire watermelon crop. They kept returning after every few years. I am going to sleep now. I hope the dream won’t haunt me now the story is complete but who knows what will happen. Maybe I will write another story to scare the dream away towards more lonely people. After all the partition of India is just another name on the huge list of human catastrophes.

The Fear

Something new I am trying (For the new readers, no its not the romantic. I have been doing it for a long time. And please, no speculations about my love life based on that), but I am trying imagery and a poem in free verse. Please I need responses on this one.

A veil behelds the two lovers
and the fear of their thing
falling apart
holds them both still
sitting in the laps of time
waiting for the truth
and truth is not the veil
neither is the distance
Truth is only the fear
That behelds them
fear of being fake
of all this being
just a lie
fear of not knowing
the person without the veil
the fear of getting hurt
which keeps them away
from being happy
Yes, even my dictionary tells me
'he' and 'she' are far far away
but beyond the fakeness
that just 'might' exist
lie 'they'
which is their only way
and though they dont know it
true love can always wait
the mesh may just limit it
but remember
you are still visible.

A thing of beauty

I don't know why but today I am recalling John Keats' poem "A thing of beauty."Keats called a thing of beauty eternal. He said that its something which gives you happiness.
Happiness? True. Eternal? I am not sure.
Everything in this world is susceptible to change. The loveliest flower would die within a day or two. A cute kid would maybe grow up into a hard core metal fan(No offence to the metal fans but I think they may look rebellious but not beautiful). A sky full of stars has to turn into a cloudy or a scorching day within a 24 hour cycle. Even beautiful feelings like adoration and love which can also instill happiness in an onlooker gradually wane with time and then dies with the person.
Then I get the idea that probably Keats was talking about the 'ideal' thing of beauty which may not exist. But unlike 'ideal love' to which we may approach, ideal thing of beauty may just be a myth.
Thus comes my final realisation.
Do we really need a true thing of beauty? I mean look at an undisturbed lake or falling drops of rain and yeah some may like to see a metallic band playing, whatever. The point is these things may not instill a happiness that is eternal but certainly they are so many around to stay happy for a lifetime. Even the odes Keats wrote, neither is the song of nightingale eternal, nor is any autumn. But they gave him a feeling that took him to a world away from all his pain and suffering though not indefinitely.(People who have read Keats and about him may understand better)So final conclusion - find your things of beauty and escape to a world of your own design.

You owe me

The dark doors of heaven were open for him. He had imagined a lot of white light coming out to greet him but there he stood, still wondering how he got there when a voice rose from the dark, “You owe me” and this was always the last part of his dream. He woke up sweating. Even after a year, the voice still haunted him.

Five years back, Nikhil Taneja wasn’t the most eligible bachelor that he is now. He was just an ambitious guy, rapidly rising the steps of success. But unlike now, he wasn’t single. He had a girl who loved him, whom he loved. But as human nature goes, we ignore what we have only to run after what we don’t. But it wasn’t his ambitions that were a problem. The problem was that under no circumstance could Nikita become a priority, even when she needed him the most.

It is said that nothing compares to the ego of a newly successful person. The same ego widened the crack to the breakage point in their relationship.

Though Nikhil didn’t repent his actions at that moment but four years later, at the top of his career, he was ready to give up anything to have Nikita back to him. But she was married for two years now and people said they had a very happy married life.

Today, Nikhil wakes up again from the haunted dream to fight against the people he hated the most. He wants to repay what he thought he owed. Today is the moment of truth and he had an alternate plan if all didn’t go as he wanted.

The phone had rung a year back at his place and as soon as he picked it up, a voice transported him to another world where he always wanted to be. It was Nikita.

The sorrow that the perfect Nikhil wanted to feel didn’t show up when he heard about the death of her husband. Shobhit, her husband was an intelligence officer who was supposedly a martyr in line of work. But Nikita had found proofs collected by her husband that could convict a few politicians in a case of high level corruption involving billions.

“The people who killed your husband won’t mind harming you. I don’t like the idea and I think even Shobhit would not have liked you risking your life for something that he lost his life to.”

“Nikhil, I know you love me and I have loved you since the day we first met but this is something I need to do to get justice for my husband. I know you are the only one I can trust to protect me and I know you would help me as much as you can.”

Though most of the people would have felt elated at hearing the first part but these words instilled shame and guilt in Nikhil for thinking of starting a new relationship at the brink of her husband’s death.

He arranged for her to reveal her husband’s killers on a live TV show the next week. During this time, despite of the guilt he felt, he still cherished every moment he spent with Nikita. He felt complete with her. Every time she smiled, he pledged to do anything to keep her smiling for the rest of her life. He was in love and he knew it was something even more than what he had felt for her in the past. It was something divine.

That dreaded day, they went to a market. Nikita made him try some hats and she was laughing for the first time in these few days. Suddenly she fell into his arms. It took Nikhil a moment to realize that she had been shot. One out of the two was dying but it was the other who let out a cry of agony. Nikhil realized Nikita was trying to say something. “You owe me…..,”  she could not complete. Those were the last words Nikita said and the only words that mattered to Nikhil. That day, people saw the most successful businessman of the year, cry on the footpath with a dead girl in his arms.

Today, Nikhil walks towards court with the file in his hands, on the judgment day.

The proofs were enough for him to prove the politicians guilty but even the false witnesses, setup by Nikhil could prove them to be Nikita’s murderers. But that was all that mattered to Nikhil. So he had an alternate plan ready.

With Nikhil’s fortune, it was not difficult to bribe a few Jail guards to poison her lover’s killers. He arranged for them the most painful death and as soon as he got news of their deaths, he took an overdose of sleeping pills himself.

Before dying, while in sleep, Nikhil heard and saw Nikita dying but only this time she got to complete her last sentence. She said, “You owe me the chance to see you happy. Find happiness for yourself for me to rest in peace,” and that was the moment. Doctors are still amazed how a tear could trickle down a person who is in comma because of overdose of sleeping pills but it didn’t matter to the world as 3 minutes later, everything flat lined. The world lost an evolving business tycoon, or so did the world felt.

The world remember that Nikhil Taneja died on 11^th February 2011 but he died the day he left Nikita, only to be reborn again to die a death that nobody deserves, a death that was painless in the physical sense but agonizing for his soul as he died but he still owed her.

A six sentence story

The World was at his feet when he decided to leave it all behind and then came the moment of revelation. The glow of the first light of the day blinded his senses into believing something that did not exist to a normal eye. Nobody knew what he saw when he decided to surrender all his success to live in a time that was not real. Some say that he had seen the god while others told that he had seen the ghost of his dead lover. A few ridiculed him but the most laughed at his sanity in the world of insane but everyone was jealous of the state of contentment he lived in. Though no one knows how he experienced that bliss, but the only thing that could be established as a fact was the date and time of his death which was quite irrelevant as the smile on the face of the dead transported everyone to that unaccounted world of joy where time ceased to exist, at least for a moment.

My collection

जीत में खुश हो के गम को भुलाना सीख लिया
और गम में झूठी ही सही पर हसी बनाना सीख लिया
पर गैरों की ख़ुशी को अपना बनाना जाना नहीं
हसना तो सीख लिया पर मुस्कुराना नहीं

 

ढलते देखा सूरज को आज, बदलो को ओअत में
राज़ दबा है उस रंग का, कुदरत के नरम होठ में
फूल देखे, तारे ताके, दुःख और ग़म की चोट में
भूल गया मतलब इनका, ढलती ख़ुशी की सौत में
डूब सा गया हो अब से मैं , इस रंग के स्त्रोत में
जलता पाया खुद को मैंने, इस कुदरत की ज्योत में
भुज गयी यह ज्योति भी तोह आज मेरी मौत पे
पर खिले फूल चमके सितारे, आज मेरी चौथ पे
पर खिले फूल चमके सितारे, आज मेरी चौथ पे

इन अँधेरे रास्तो पे जीत का साया नहीं
हारने पे हस दिया लेकिन मैं मुस्काया नहीं
सीखने को ज़िन्दगी से सीख लिया है सब कुछ
पाने को दुनिया से मैंने कुछ भी तो पाया नहीं

इन हरी हरी वादियों का हो जाने को जी करता है
इस खुले आसमान के साए में सो जाने को जी करता है
वोह तो हम बस इस ज़िन्दगी से बंधे है वर्ना
आज सब कुछ भुला खो जाने को जी करता है

पैरो को ज़मीन पर रख कद को बढाओ
कंधो की सवारी तो कोई भी कर सकता है
अगर उच्चाई से ही जीत का फैसला होता
तो आज पंछी भी हमें दाना दाल रहे होते

 

 

 

क्या हुआ मेरे देश को ?

ना देश अपना ना लोग पराये

अब किस चोर को कोतवाल बनाए

अब जैल भी लगती है नेताओ को सुहानी

और जान प्रतिनिधि को पोलीस पकड़ ले जाए

गाँधी का यह देश है मेरा और अहिंसा मेरा धरम

रोक दिया जाता हर कोई जो करता अपना करम

यहा कसाब को जमाई बनाए और अन्ना को मुजरिम

बोल उठेगा देश सारा उबलेगा हर खून गरम

पैदा हुआ भगत जो जल्लियाँवाला मे खेली होली

अब डाइयर भी बोले हिन्दी तो हुकूमत भी यही बोली

उठे हत्यार देश के खुद पे ऐसा कल ना आएगा

पर एक दिन ऐसा आएगा जब भगत खड़ा हो जाएगा

आज़ादी पे बंद गयी पट्टी देश हुआ अनदेखा

लोकतंत्र मे लोकपाल ही लगाएगा सब पे रेखा

फिर से आए नेहरू गाँधी फिर से चलेंगे दांडी

आज़ादी ना देखी तो क्या संग्राम तो मैने देखा

आज़ादी ना देखी तो क्या संग्राम तो मैने देखा

Are we narrow minded?

Today while travelling in metro, I was reading a portrait of the artist as a young man by James Joyce - Perfect combination for someone to get philosophical. It was then that a thought struck my mind. Movement of everything, from as big as heavenly bodies like stars and planets to as small as atoms and molecules, is bound by a certain law. Then lets act the way Heisenberg did and say world is symmetric. So if the movement of planets is bound and so is the movement of atoms, then why can’t we say that our movements are also bound by a certain law which may be too complicated to be understood by us?
Well certainly this theme has been explored earlier also by movies like ‘Pi’ but think of it this way. If such a law really exists, then can things like numerology, astrology, fortune telling, crystal balls, etc etc etc may be various approximations to that law thus ‘calculating’ the future to some extent. Then maybe everything we call superstitions are just because of our narrow mindedness. Should it be called superstition that our mind tends to accept only things that have been proven? Then how are we better than all those people who refused to accept that earth was round and those who denied the concept that earth went round the sun?
A few people who may have read Joyce may say he has got to my head and probably they are right. Maybe I will forget about the narrow mindedness of not accepting future predictions by tomorrow and continue to be a ‘rational’ person but now writing my thoughts out may keep it in my mind for some what a longer duration of time.
Expecting quite elaborative discussions.

The closet of my dreams

I heard a story as a kid

in which the dreams of a boy

were trapped in a closet

but the cupboard was locked

and to fulfill al the dreams

the boy had to empty the closet

this story was my childhood fascination

but i got a lot of scolding

for emptying my cupboard

My mom told me

that the cupboard cannot be emptied

but i continued to empty

the Closet of my dreams

Gradually i realised

Mom was as usual right

All dreams can never be fulfilled

Dreams keep changing

Dreams either come true

or are left behind

But dreams keep changing

And as I was growing up

My cloths kept changing

Old clothes were taken out

As new and newer clothes found place in

I was growing and growing into a dreamer

And everytime a dream was fulfilled

As a cloth went out of

the Closet of my dreams

Now I have grown old enough

but that child in me is still alive

And that child is quite scared

As the closet lies disorganised and dirty

Its hard to find anything

and it has been time since

anything has been thrown out of

the Closet of my dreams.

Where is my God?

My world dies in agony and pain

 What do we miss, I cannot explain

The god lives in a world too far

To whom shall I take my complain?

Training dulled the worthy brain

Escaped is the worst religious bane

Beauty is same as skimpy now

What do we miss I cannot explain

Religion is no more spiritual gain

While bloodshed fills every lane

We fight for who’s god is better

To whom shall I take my complain?

Selflessness is in total vain

Selfishness is wronged in diplomatic reign

Thinking is left to just thinkers now

What do we miss I cannot explain

Beauty is ardent in this world of sane

Imaginations are bound by unknown restrain

We deal off innocence to commercialize the mind

To whom shall I take my complain?

God resides in every grain

Sinners end up in hell’s lane

And sins are decided by our species own

What do we miss I cannot explain

Boiling world and acidic rain

Fear of hell holds the sinner again

Terror is the weaponry of all tyrants

To whom shall I now take my complain?

Beauty is truth and truth is on wane

Religious tyranny is is no god’s gain

But god still lives in a world too far

To whom shall I now take my complain?

The Closet of my dreams

I heard a story as a kid
in which the dreams of a boy
were trapped in a closet
but the cupboard was locked
and to fulfill al the dreams
the boy had to empty the closet
this story was my childhood fascination
but i got a lot of scolding
for emptying my cupboard
My mom told me
that the cupboard cannot be emptied
but i continued to empty
the Closet of my dreams
Gradually i realised
Mom was as usual right
All dreams can never be fulfilled
Dreams keep changing
Dreams either come true
or are left behind
But dreams keep changing
And as I was growing up
My cloths kept changing
Old clothes were taken out
As new and newer clothes found place in
I was growing and growing into a dreamer
And everytime a dream was fulfilled
As a cloth went out of
the Closet of my dreams
Now I have grown old enough
but that child in me is still alive
And that child is quite scared
As the closet lies disorganised and dirty
Its hard to find anything
and it has been time since
anything has been thrown out of
the Closet of my dreams.

Absurd

I was studying Absurd plays in my drama class when a statement by my teacher brought me to a very interesting point of view. A point of view that is possible though improbable but certainly very interesting.

First for the beginners in literature, let me define ‘Theatre of Absurd.’ Plays that are absurd in structure, dialogues and actions but the message that they convey is certainly not absurd. They have generally got a circular structure, that is, they play ends where it started from, gibberish language and no logic to actions and reactions. Absurd plays generally bring out themes like insignificance of life, communication barrier, absurdity of language etc.

Well that was totally textbook definition. I strayed away from it when our teacher told us that the probable irony in plays of Absurd is that the playwrights try to communicate that actual communication is impossible.

That is when this idea struck me that probably they are not trying to communicate at all. They are only trying to prove that maybe even if they present anything gibberish or meaningless, people tend to draw conclusions and meanings from it and probably that is where the absurdity in communication lies, that is, in being ‘over’understood. All words we say sometimes mean more or sometimes less than what we intend to and that beats the entire function of language. Language is meant to present thoughts clearly rather than twisting with it to use metaphorically by one person and then to derive endless meanings by all others.

I do not know whether I believe in this point of view or not but certainly language is not very transparent which makes those Absurd playwrights either ‘over’understood by the world or ‘under’understood by me.

DREAM

I have a dream
Though what it is I haven’t realized
I live my life in its pursuit
What you shall call the pursuit by a blind
What I shall call the pursuit in darkness
Because when light will fall
It would be my rebirth
Life demands meaning till then
Blind are those
Who cannot fight for a dream
Those who don’t dream
Are the blindfolded
Who have to reach the destination
Without knowing the way
Who have to find the way
Without  the sense of light
So is dreaming a way to escape from the world?
Is dreaming a way to see with a blindfold?
Because who knows what you are meant to do
And what you dream to do
Who knows  if dreams are just an illusion?
And its not an absurdist’s allusion
And as some poet had said
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there
wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams
 no mortal ever dared to dream before
I would say the poet would have
 stood peering deep into the darkness
because its not dreams that guide us
its our actions that shall always speak out loud
so let me grow vision instead of dreams
because dreamer is a loner
because dreamer
shall always remain to be a loner

What's reality?

This is going to be short. Well maybe you can say that it is an effect of literature over me but I really am quite confused about the way authors, filmmakers, playwrights present the world to us. On one hand I read Eugene Ionesco's The Lesson today (Eugene Ionesco is an absurd playwright. Check wiki definition of theatre of absurd) and as many of the absurd playwrights present that there is always chaos in the world and our existence in it is totally insignificant. On the other hand, we have all those indian movies and the major lot of novels we get where after all the turmoil, peace and happiness is restored and accept the antagonist (or in some cases even including him), everyone is happy. Then there are the flat good characters ending up into sadness at the end into many great works like Antonio in Merchant of Venice (yeah, mam discussed it in class) by William Shakespeare and the samurai in The Seven Samurai by Akira Kurosawa which is as I would say, a diplomatic way out of the previous two options.
So what exactly is reality? The one presented by most of the people? The one presented by Eugene Ionesco? The one presented by William Shakespeare and Akira Kurosawa? Or the one presented by Shahrukh Khan, "agar ending happy nahi hai to picture abhi baaki hai mere dost" type?
Maybe poets have gone a step ahead of all other forms of literature or maybe they have skipped this indispensible step the same way I did while writing some of my poems?
We need to know what world do we all live in before demanding for another one which is absolute rather than being relative in all respects.
Stuck deep into thoughts, signing off from my way out of reality.

P.S. Sorry it got a bit long especially after the starting note of keeping it short. Saving short for the next time.

It is my own land

The future burns in bits

Our depth is not of the oceans

We all belong to the pits

The rich is flying higher

The poor is dying in slum

Heads above us decide the tunes

What song am I supposed to hum?

The sea of jewels

Is even washing away the golden sand

But I am still not leaving it

Because it is my own land.

The peace of white

shall always exist

but between saffron and green

there is a thick layer of mist

when did fights turn into riots

and riots into terrorism

not even the god knows

hatred can breed in diversity

that’s what our history shows

broken seems to be our tricolor band

but I am still not leaving it

because it is my own land.

Everything can be bought these days

Even conscience hangs for sale

Bribery broke into us through many ways

Anti corruption seems to always trail

They say machinery always needs oiling

So whats better than it being organized

Rate boards would soon be put

Soon a subsystem for it will be devised

And we all are lending a helping hand

But I am still not leaving it

Because it is my own land.

What strength of men

What hidden powers

Resources are never short here

To build the highest tower

Of victory in this show off world

Where developing is the tag we get

And we would remain developing

If abroad is where all our people fret

Change shall come from within

And for that we need a magic wand

Till then I am not going to leave it

Because it is my own land.