Coding is an act of faith.

“So…how do you think we met?” Strolling by the lake side down the bridge, in Paris, he asked her.

“Sometimes you see complete strangers…and there is something special about them. And you think you should really go and talk to them, because you might never see them again, and if you don’t, it will never be done. But it’s all fate anyway. It had to be your room I came into that night in Cambridge.”

“What do you mean?”

“The whole room was familiar as if I had seen that before in dreams.”

“It reminded you of some place you had been before?” He quipped.

“Ah…The mind isn’t a physical thing like your body…”

He interrupted her, “But then if my room was already there…then how could it mean that everything was fixed in advance.”

She leaped to him, kissed fully for a brief moment, and said with an amusingly mocking smile. “You think I was being spontaneous, but I was always going to do that. This desire was always going to win this argument.”
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Six Years later, after the end of World War-2, she was brutally killed by the local patriots (read thugs). In Paris, she was sleeping with a German sergeant. She was accused of leaking information to the German’s; when actually she spied against them…irony!

She left a letter.

well…my love!

I am trying to make sense of things, of how I was and how I am now. I have always believed our first duty is to ourselves, to live life to the full. But, I have also been haunted by another conviction that everything is pure dent, lying and wait and time is running out. I seen to have charged through my life in a kind of panic and looking back I feel I have achieved little beyond our friendship, yours and mine…and Mia’s. And one day I woke and found that I have lost the two people I cared for most. Only then that I began to realize that we can not live alone, aloof from the world and not to believe we can not fight against fate as an act of surrender. You were right when you said that once that I cared for your opinion about me, but wrong in thinking I ever stopped caring.

I love you.

- Gilda

This was from the movie I watched yesterday night: ‘Head In The Clouds‘

A must watch, if you tend to understand the un-understandable, if you tend to hope against the impossible, if you tend to believe in life, in yourself, and in love.

Last night I had it again. Another confused dream. Another torment, another hell. What are dreams meant for? Sigmund Freud said: dreams are the vision of our subconscious mind when it does things that we normally don’t do. Paulo Coelho say: dreams are our connection with the soul of the world, they are the windows to our laid paths. I am confused. Who make dreams? We, ourselves, through our subconscious brain, or the soul of the world?

“Whoever be it, dreams are important, no doubt.”

Yes, dreams do have a connection with the real life, else how would they have made me so uneasy, so restless, that I couldn’t sleep whole night, withering into my bed – waking up every other moment – going by the window and staring out to void – intermittently smoking a cigarette – trying to puff out the helluva gloom – picking up the cell phone and going through all the messages again and again – sauntering across my room – going to the balcony and grope for something in the eternal dark – why the hell would I not have slept peacefully, had it not been to dreams.

“What did you see?”

“A college.”

“And”

“I had gone there for something, I don’t remember now, you tend to lose on links…see…it shows that dreams are unreal…yet so close to life,” I stared at her, protecting my apprehension behind a crafted smile. She didn’t seem to bother. “Someone was escorting us through the campus, and that was a nice feeling, as if I always wanted to go there, and suddenly it was dinner time. But, I don’t know why it was dark there…and we went towards the mess. That was full. We had to wait. Then suddenly we were sitting in the ground before a bunch of students. They were doing something…probably playing some kind of word game. These kinds of games were very popular in my own college. Then suddenly a girl appeared form no where. She had donned a sweater, which had horizontally drawn alternate red and yellow lines…wasn’t it a peculiar color combination?…she had shoulder length slight curly hairs, pulled back and tightened with hair pins, rest of them fell down…and she had a pile of papers with her…she sat in the middle of the play and no one objected…and…suddenly someone from behind us called her by the name ‘Shanti’…she gazed in the direction, past me, at the professor.

“He asked her something about her presentation due tomorrow…perhaps the topic she was going to talk upon. She replied: ‘Whether Indian Petroleum Industry should use advertisements to woo Iran and Pakistan?’…now that topic was interesting…amusing…and suddenly I saw a billboard, right to me, somewhere hanging in the sky that said ‘Mudra Institute of Communication’. I smiled and looked for my colleagues, they had gone…and suddenly Debashish appeared from no where, like a ghost and said that he was going to wait for me in the mess…and he went away.”

“It is like a bollywood movie with few reels missing, but perfectly adventurous, and amusing.” She quipped. She thought I was thinking up all these nuances, trying to buy her time. But I was not. I knew all this was true. But, she wouldn’t believe. She had developed a sense of prejudice that impelled her to think that whatever I was doing was all for her, about her.

Or this sense of prejudice was mine? I didn’t know. Then, there, all I knew was that my dream was a truth; and she thought that I was kidding. Doesn’t life suck this way? Doesn’t it make you too irate to concentrate upon anything particular?

I would not tell her what happened next. I would laugh and wave the stuff away as though it never happened to me.

I did.

But the dream hadn’t ended then and there, something happened…and I went to Shanti.

“Excuse me,” I said. She stopped.

I extended my hands to her, and introduced myself, “Animesh”

“Shanti” she shook my palms and replied tersely.

“well…ummm…I am from Indian School of Mines, Dhanbad, you might have heard of it,” she didn’t seem to pass any clue, I proceeded further, “I did my engineering from there majoring in Petroleum.” That was a lie, I majored in Electronics; I don’t know why I said that, “if you need any information, or insight for your presentation, I might be of help.”

Now that was real foolish. I don’t remember what she replied, but I remember a phone call.

It wasn’t Shanti though. It was from an ad agency. They wanted me to make something new for their new account, ONGC, an Indian petroleum giant. Something similar to what SBI did recently.

“You do everything in your dreams.” She remarked later in the evening.

Samuel Barclay Beckett (April 13, 1906 – December 22, 1989), an Irish playwright, was awarded with Nobel Prize in literature in 1969.

Read some of his lugubrious, morbid, withering, clichéd yet humorous quotes.

• Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

• “Nothing is funnier than unhappiness. I grant you that. Yes, yes, it’s the most comical thing in the world.”

• “Nothing happens twice.”

• “Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.”

• “Habit is a great deadener.”

• “Nothing happens. Nobody comes. Nobody goes. It’s awful!”

• “Nothing matters, but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile…a stain upon the silence.”

• “We lose our hairs, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.”

• “Words are all we have.”

• “We are born mad. Some remain so.”

London and Dublin are celebrating his centenary with festivals kicking off this Sunday: between March 19th to May 6th.

When you talk about life, you don’t take things logically, with rationales and reasons and alibis. You take what comes to you, whatever it might be. You move on with un-fought battles, unheard stories and un-thought persons and un-spoken phases. You just move on. Because there is no reason to stop over, even to mull over what went wrong and when. And there is no reason to move either, but moving is always better, preferable since we are taught that way, we are brought up that way. Every fight doesn’t necessarily teach you something, some fights are purposeless, just for the sake of passing time.

Similarly, every relation is not a relation of life, of eternity; some are there just to kill time.

“The moment you stop to think over them, you are stuck, smitten and you are in love – the un-purposeful love that only drowns you deeper.”

“What you do then?” she asked me.

“Move on.”

“Where?” she pierced into my eyes and looked intently as if to retain everything that we had with the sheer inertia of her stare.

I looked back, thought a while and moved my gaze away. One more moment and the whole story would have repeated once again. Dying once is okay, dying daily is what is really painful. I wanted to inflict no pain to her.

“That is life. A journey, togetherness, a moment and an eternity, all in one, one in all, everything is life.”

“So then what is love?” she was after her own life, doubting everything that had ever happened to her, or would ever happen to her.

“A concept.” I looked past her, through the window, at the moon struggling to show up to me against the dense black clouds.

“Isn’t life a concept too?”

Moon struggled hard, but the clouds were immense in expanse and strength. One tiny star blinked beside the scene, scared of the clouds, looking on to me for help. The struggling moon didn’t give it any courage, it incited only pity. A fight that could have been avoided but it was being fought. For what? … I stretched my hands but couldn’t reach it.

“You can’t reach to them this way.”

“I know,” I turned my eyes to her, “but isn’t it a concept too? That those stars are only a meter away from you.” I faced her. “A theory. An allusion. Abstract.”

“You mean, love is abstract.”

“Why? Is it not?”

“You know, people used to ask me…all my friends did…the closest ones even…what I had in mind about the person I would marry…I never knew it…never thought of it…see…I have some values…and I wouldn’t go against my parents…and their choice…and…so…” she crisscrossed her fingers against the iron railings on the window and fumbled to gather strength.

I put my hands on hers.

“…so I never thought of it…it might break my image…and if I do…I would break my parent’s hearts.”

One worthwhile fight was discarded. And a useless one went on in the sky. The Moon was still under the shed of mighty and bulky clouds, trying to transpire through them, but only feeble light could spread.

“Choices.” I uttered unconsciously.

“What?”

“Choices make things what they are. They make or break the future, the imagery, the life.”

She moved her hands from beneath mine and entwined them together, fingers upon fingers, life between life, glued with sweat and love. A ring in the middle finger of her right hand pleaded to be released. But, neither sweat nor love did hear any scream, busy in embrace.

“You mean life is like a game of ‘snake-and-ladder’. And so is love?…Part luck, part toil.”

“No. Love is game of dice. All luck, no toil.” I said stretching my fingers to touch her. But she was far, far…far away of my reach.

Perspiring, I woke up. She was no where. I switched off the wailing fan and went to the window. The moon was free of blemishes, shining intently with a star blinking beside it, praising and longing and protecting its beauty from all external threats.

I was dreaming. A dream of bleak ends. That’s love.

Few hours ago we stared at the moon together, helped ourselves, and now we both were alone: I here, she there.

Each one of us has something unique inside, something distinct to gleam against the vast blue sky; something, like a belief, a trust, knowledge, belief he can spare his life for; something, like the reason to his existence – The reason to his actions, to his movements – Something, where his soul lies at ease, in peace. For me, that is my writing. It has become somehow my panacea; I write when I am happy – I write when distrait – I write when lone, lost – I write when in ecstasy – I write all the time – sometimes in my computer, sometimes in my brain – but I write, I play with those mighty words that play with me, my life, my existence.

Sometimes, I think -Why do I write? – and find no answer. Do I do it for myself? Or do I do it for others? Am I into charity, or into selfishness? Am I into some hiding or in some manifestation? I don’t know. I write because I like writing, I like the mishmash of words potent of depicting any possible feeling or action or anything under the grasp of human understanding, my understanding, my cognition – the reason of pure selfishness. And I shun off the lurking ‘why’ and start with my allies – my words. And I comply with the one who had said that A writer can write only about himself. True to me. True to everyone.

Though there is another haunting question. Does your job become any easier if you happen to love the job? I guess, no. Rather it becomes tougher, and more difficult, because you become the witness of yours, the judge of yours. And when you prove something to yourself, the responsibilities only increase, the risks inflate, and you tend to lose-or-gain by the inertia of the past, by previous failures, by last achievements. And you yourself stand obstructing your own way. This is what they call writer’s block. I am into something like this these days, something like a black hole.

For last few days my life went eventfully, happening, filled with new things, new desires, new fights, but I kept on deferring my action. Yesterday, I went to Mhow – a place where my maternal relatives live. Yesterday it was Holi – a color of festival named after the demise of shrewd Holika and the rise of his upright devotee niece Prahlad. But I didn’t write anything. I, though sat down to chronicle stuffs that were interesting and appealing, but couldn’t broach the matter properly, instead I languished about translating Chitralekha – a novel by Bhagwati Charan Verma in Hindi. I fooled myself for more than three hours, squiggled around four pages, but tore them off and went to sleep.

Then, today it’s my birth day. It’s past three thirty in the morning and what the hell I am writing here. I could do it away with my today’s plans, party, or gifts, but instead I am contemplating why I am not being able to write something good, substantial.

When I think of writing, I think of rituals, of temples, and no rituals are supposed to be blasphemous, are they? How come I, then, will write something light, something just like any other piece of writing? This sensation of perfection, of making a difference in everything that you do makes your breathe tougher, make your life vile, and endows your with the burden of selfishness…ah! But I love it.

Today, however, I feel like getting rid of this mask, like beguiling myself that I am all a normal boy with a normal ambition of beautiful girls, loads of money, and a Ferrari. Today, I will take the liberty of being normal, just-another-boy guise. I wouldn’t think that there came no calls from the places I expected. That people remembered my b’day no longer, that they didn’t care for a ‘happy birth day’ call or even a sms, that perhaps they have forgotten me as well. Who remembers dates these days, leave alone the person concerned? Today, I will not miss any of them. Today, I will be beyond any past, any future.

Today, I will wish me…myself…something like this…in high crescendo…in grinning smile…in shining new clothes…in a happy-go-lucky gleam in my eyes…

Happy B’Day to meeee.

Imagine rain. Imagine water. Imagine life. Don’t they all come together hand in gloves, side by side, into your imagination? They do in mine.

First drop of rain is like the first moment of life pouring over the dry, arid land, parched in burning heat, marched past under the rugged, tough summer dust. First moment is like a rekindled hope of life when the end seems to reach near, almost at a hand’s distance. And everything starts anew – fresh.

Life is like that.

The moment you find it difficult to bear anymore and feel that in just another second you will lose yourself and succumb to the worldly threats – just hang about for that one more second, that one more bridge, and life would resurrect itself – a whole new world will appear. Don’t lose when it become obvious to lose, one more step and you might knock at your success.

Rain is like that.

In fact, rain seems to be an allegory to life, to me. And I love life. I love the fact that I am alive. I love my existence. For me, everything around me, starts with my existence, that is, I am very important to everything that assumes importance for me. And that is why I love rain. I love to stroll under the water falling slantingly from far above my head; I feel that the tiny drops are descending especially to rub against my skin – I bare myself as much as I could; I feel the intimacy of a virgin, I feel the boldness of a naïve, I feel the reluctance of a newly wed bride, I feel at ease, at peace with myself. I feel alive.

And when on bike, there remains no limit to my joy. I scale each pothole, filled with rainy water, going slowly over each of them. Once in a year, I praise Municipal Corporation for leaving, though unknowingly, so much pleasure on roads. Everything seems to in tandem, nothing is against anything. In order!

Yesterday it rained. The maiden rain of the year to the city, bestowed with lust (love?). I enjoyed like I did when I was very young, in school then, while retuning back home I used to miss my school bus to walk on feet all the way across those tiny canals overflowing with fresh, virgin water. Life was so simple then. It was me, and only me with my dreams and those potholes – cursed in summers, banqueted otherwise. Peripatetic, yet flying in every possible color!

These days, since I am grown up, I never walk, I run on my bike, taking up challenges of life, and kins, fighting their grievances spewed all over my existence, I become complex and weird. I never seem to enjoy life, never seem to live it, rather protect it, prove it all the time. But yesterday, I was given a moment of my past back to present.

Yesterday, I enjoyed the fact that I am alive and a child in me still lived. But I was alone.

Ye daulat bhi le lo, Ye shohrat bhi le lo,
Bhale cheen lo mujhse meri jawani,
Magar mujhko lauta do bachpan ka sawan,
Woh kagaz ki kishti, who barish ka paani…

There is this strange feeling. A feeling of aloofness – aloof from the chores of world. Detached from the mundane universe!

When I was young I thought of myself as a part of friends, family, people, this planet, this milky-way. I felt myself webbed in intricate cobweb of relations, emotions, responsibilities, expectations, loves, career, money, et al. Little did I know then that that was just a trap – an obstacle to keep me from growing, to keep me complacent, to keep me down to earth. I obliged to the rules-and-regulations of the then world I lived in. I felt sorrow when there was a sorrow around me. I felt happiness when my acquaintances were happy. I felt jealous when I lagged behind them. I felt pride when I won over them. Just like that. Simple and straight.

The fundamental of my living then was ‘comparison’. I never saw myself – who was I in essence of myself? – I never thought of such (absurd then) questions – I never contemplate what I wanted – but what others wanted – and what the day’s fad was – and what my parents wanted – and what the society wanted – never what I wanted – never what could make my happy – happy in absolute sense, not in comparison of others or of yesterday’s sorrow – happy the way Iqbal was when he was chosen for Team India – the way Santiago was when he found his treasure – the way Roark felt – the way Shakuntala felt – the way I could never feel – the way I never thought of – never.

I always compared myself asking what should I be – not what could I be.

And I was ruined.

Then this strange feeling came into me, and I found myself aloof from everyone. Somehow I convinced myself that it was I – and only I – that mattered most. If I existed, only then we could exist. There was no ‘we’ devoid of ‘I’. Then I read, Ayn Rand who chimed: “to say I love you, one must know how to say ‘I’”. I started my search of ‘I’ then and there.

And I rose from my own ashes.

I am not at my destination now, but at least I am towards it. How different it is now from then, I wonder. How difficult the whole path becomes when you proclaim to travel alone? How strange your kins and friends treat you, I wonder. But at least I am on my own. I am on my own path. In search of my own soul.

I remember the words ‘Troy’ began with: “Men are haunted by the vastness of eternity and so we ask ourselves. Will our names last for ages? Will our actions stand the test of time? Will strangers hear our names? Will they come to know how bravely we fought; how fiercely we loved?”

And I feel no regret to find myself alone – at least, I am on my own path.

All my life I believed that the right always triumphs. Things happened to me; things that said differently; things that shattered my belief, but I retained. I felt humiliation but I never let my belief go.

Then I thought I am righteous; today I doubt – was I upright or a coward?

There is a small difference between the two.

Cowardice is ‘lack of courage’ and a coward is a timid man – hence he keeps from action. Righteousness is ‘according to moral principles’ and righteous is a moral man – henceforth he refrains from action out of his morality. Both slip into inaction – the difference lies in their reasons – one is scared to act, because he might get hurt – another, because to act is immoral. Dread of scar is okay – it’s physical therefore immediate and visible – but what about morality? How do we define that something is immoral, or something is moral?

Gandhi talked of non-violence – “thou must not hurt others.” India could have won her freedom much earlier had he not withdrawn ‘non-co-operation’ movement in the wake of blazing chaura-chauri police station. Was it moral? During partition when Pakistan government was denied of earlier promised 55 crores, he sat on fast-till-end. Was that moral? Nathuram Godse killed him – in almost the similar way Bhagat Singh threw bombs in parliament – but was treated discriminately. Was that moral?

I dare to ask: what is moral? Who defines it?

Can I not say that Gandhi was a coward – if only we change our perception of morality? Why do I present myself to my perpetrators? Why on earth should I even try to change his heart, that too, at the cost of my own life, my body, physical sufferings, and my self dignity? If someone rapes my sister what would I do? Would I go and kill him, or would I go and ask him to rape her again – because this might change the rapist’s brain as Gandhi said. Or would I simply mourn at home and pray to god for not to repeat such a torment again, like a typical coward? Had Gandhi been alive today, and Pakistan attacked on us, would we have presented our country to them, hoping that this would change their hearts and they would return our land?

Gandhi could not fight back in the train from which he was thrown out in South Africa, that is why, he took up non-violence. And later he defined it moral. And people believed him.

Had it not been to Gandhi, India would have become free much earlier, and today, it would become much better. Merely because Gandhi couldn’t fight back the abuses spewed upon him, we are suffering today.

Few people who understand this assume power and then try to subjugate us, and we, like moral, upright men, submit ourselves. But for how long? How many more times, how many more days would this go like this? Are we really devoid of all dignity? Then, why do we still idolize Shivaji, Tipu Sultan, Mangal Pandey and many like of their ilk? Forget them, of forget Gandhi.

Every man has a right to live, but not at the expense of other’s life. You can’t sacrifice your life to change someone’s brain or heart.

This world is a fucking place, where nothing but power speaks. You don’t believe it…eh? You think that Gandhi did everything on his principle of non-violence? No. This principle only helped him to shed his failures, and hence generated a great support from the masses – which actually was his power. Gandhi took almost five decades in freeing India; Babar took only few years to conquer India. Who was mightier?

This is a man’s world – a brawny competitive world.

Take it or leave it or simply ignore it.

Each love is a new love. Every time it fills you up with new hopes, new dreams, new life. Where is the flaw? Or is it, in any way, a flaw? Love changes. It starts, it grows, it decays, it dies. It has a full life cycle. If not, then how come you fall for one single woman despite that the world is flooded with beautiful women, some more beautiful than her, some less. But, you fall for one. And you promise to keep fallen, drowned in love, with her, with that chosen one. But, then does it mean that you don’t like other women, or you don’t feel any temptation – a similar kind of temptation that you had felt with this woman earlier – for other women? “Love is like a tug-of-war, a game in essence, with protocols of ego, and temptation, and attraction. The more you fall into it, the less you remain into it.” I said, as if I had the profound experience of love, and then looked back over my shoulder at Jatin. He was sitting behind me and I was driving the bike. He seemed to be lost in thoughts. I shifted my glance back on road.

We had just taken our dinner and weren’t sure of going back home so were driving aimlessly. Since there wasn’t any destination to reach, I was comparatively slower than my usual speed. It was thirty past ten in night and roads were quite deserted. In this time, seeing a girl, that too driving alone, was a miracle. “You punk…move fast.” Jatin shouted from behind. I sped my bike to catch up to her. I wanted to see her face. Jatin was curious too.

She looked beautiful. Her shapely, slender, lithesome figure proclaimed this too loudly to resist. She wore white salwar-suit, high heel sandals, and long earrings dangling by her ears. I couldn’t see much of her, part due to bad light and part due to her awesome figure that ceased every effort of minute observation. I raced my bike until I reached hers and drove parallel to her for some time. This gave me an opportunity to scrutinize her in more details. She was in sleeveless, stainless white kurta. She had a Titan watch in her right hand that perhaps meant that she was left-handed, and her palms were garnished with fresh brunette ‘mehnadi’. She sat straight that gave her the commanding position over her bike, stymieing any equation of correlation between her and the machine. She was commanding the machine. The machine roared under her as though even after yielding, it had some vestige of individuality, of self pride. But she was ruthless and her bike had succumbed to her prowess, only growling its grievances intermittently.

I crossed my bike around her to make her notice our presence. She did. She looked right at me, staring right in my eyes, her short but decisive gaze scissored through me, and in a moment I understood that she wasn’t any game there; rather I could become a prey if I insisted much. But I threw this thought away. I respect women who respect themselves, who aren’t vulnerable, who aren’t weak, frail, but I never go after them. Not that I dread this feminine confidence – rather I appreciate it – but because I don’t see any hole to break the dam through. They are the complete women, full and content and at ease with themselves; there is nothing for me to do. They don’t need men of my kind. They dominate, and I hate being dominated.

The moment’s stare was enough to write further story. And I was obliged to pen it down. I followed her, maintaining a sacred distance, close enough to register my presence, far enough to retain the gap – the distance, the nexus, the possible hope, the possible encounter.

We had scaled around a mile or so when Jatin said, “Dost, we must talk to her.”

“Yes” I relied back, still in contemplation, trying to figure out how. “Will you talk? I will stop her.”

“I can. Certainly I would. But I need a place, a good place…you see…this would be my first encounter of such kind…and I don’t want to ruin it…that too…you see…only because I did not choose a right place.” He said more to himself than to me.

“What do you mean by such kind…eh?” I jutted my sudden anger over him.

“Today you multicast a quotation, remember? Women need reason to have sex, men need only a place.”

“But, you are not going to have sex with her, at least not right here on M.G. Road.”

“No. certainly not. I just want to appreciate her beauty. You know…what you feel…you must say.”

“hmmm…good.” I said and raced my bike again to catch her.

She veered towards Rajwada. Perhaps she was retuning home. But this time in night, I mean at eleven o’clock, this was a bit strange. “This is Indore boss.” Jatin defended as if this were a normal thing.

This side of the city was not very urban – at least not in terms of people’s behavior and attitude towards lone girls. Soon two bikes came between her and me. I could see their vulgar eyes leering at her as if they would macerate her soul right there on the road. She sped forward and so did those punks. They chased her and passed few salacious notes. But she wasn’t vulnerable, I knew this. She didn’t move a bit and drove off them with her same decisive command that took over her bike. I wasn’t sure if she realized our presence. But we guessed that she did. Men are unquestionably optimistic, and in situations such as this, their optimism grows leaps and bounds.

“How long would we chase her?” Jatin asked me.

“See. There is one thing you must understand and appreciate.” I said saintly as if preaching him.

“What is that Guru ji?” he quipped.

“That there is one thing, and only one thing, that is absolutely yours. That you are entirely responsible for.”

“What…your dreams?”

“No. Dreams are junks. You hide your failures behind it. You harbor your imaginations in it. You are not responsible for what you are thinking; but for what you are doing.” Jatin went silent, pondering what it might be. I continued.

“Your efforts. They are the most precious among everything that you have got. Never let them go in waste. Harness whatever you can from what you have invested.”

“so…what are you going to harness out of it?”

“Her home.” I said and peered at him. He smiled back.

After a long time, and another two or three miles, she suddenly stopped by a phone booth. I thought the end of the story has come. Eleven in night…and this girl is going to call someone. It was weird. I couldn’t decide what to do and drove past the shop…only to return back from the next lamppost. I had decided that I had to talk to this girl, no matter how, no matter where. But I had to. A decision is a decision after all. And one must respect what one has chosen himself.

There was a pan shop beside the telephone booth. I steered my bike there and parked abruptly on the pavement. The shop vendor threw an alienating peek at me. I stared back at him. Eyes are the windows of you inner soul. They manifest your strength.

I purchased a packet of cigarette, lit one, and stood by the bike while kept my eyes fixed at the booth.

“What now?” Jatin asked me. I remained quite. I didn’t know what to do, or what to think. Soon the cigarette vanished, leaving us at a point where making a decision becomes urgent.

I lit another cigarette, moved its tip up in air, as if proclaiming a solemn word, and said, “If she doesn’t come out until this one, we would go back.”

Meanwhile I was thinking what to do. Suddenly I thought why not to go into the shop and find out what she was doing there. I threw the half worn cigarette, waived my hands at Jatin: “I am going to make a call to your cell”, and paced hastily towards the shop.

The booth vendor ushered me to an empty cabin. Voila! She was in the next one. She sat wearily on the stool, talking to someone with the receiver pressed between her ears and shoulder, while her hands toyed with the key rings. The ring was utterly feminine. A red colored high heel shoes whose back was stabbed with a round key hook. She didn’t seem to notice me. But I kept my stare at her while I dialed Jatin’s number. I wasn’t able to listen in to her conversation, but her gesture told me that some bickering was on. I slipped more towards the glass wall, but the sound didn’t transpire. Instead, her glance did.

As she looked at me, I locked my eyes with her. Her confident eyes met mine. I could feel my own vulnerability then, but fixed my stare nonetheless. I had to make a talk and this was a good ground work. She moved her eyes back. She had recognized me. Perhaps she had noticed me miles back. Or perhaps I was just meekly optimistic. Whatever, our eyes kept locking and unlocking and then again locking, as if they were in a temple performing a sanctified ritual.

She stood up abruptly and left the cabin. I followed. She stood by the counter. I approached her. I paid the bill and stormed out, ignoring her, as if I never chased her, as if I had come so far only to make that stupid call.

I returned back and stood by my bike. She came out too and started dismounting her bike. What you have decided, you must do. Else, what is your decision for? You are as worthless as your decisions are. You must respect it.

I fumbled towards her, uncertain of how to broach my sentences, where to start, how to start. Once you make up your mind to do something, things fall in places automatically.

“Excuse me, mam!” I paused to gauge her reaction. She looked up on me, and retained her poise on the bike, balancing her astonishment against the weight of the machine. I looked deep into her eyes. Mysterious? …I don’t know…but deep for sure. I continued.

“I am following you from Palasia because I couldn’t keep myself from you beauty. I come to say you that you look unbelievingly…disbelievingly…incredulously beautiful.” I stopped for a while, lowered my gaze to respect what I said and what I had felt…and slowly raised them back up to her eyes that were benignly looking at me, surprised, nonplused…and uttered with torn, departed, gasp, “Thank you.”

She was bewildered. Still for a moment then contorted her lips, made a slight awkward emblem, and then smiled. Her smile was innocent, free from malaise or contempt or mockery. That was plain, pure and pristine. She repeated my last gasp, almost imitating me in rhetoric, “Thank You.” and slid her bike past me and scooted forward.

madiralaya jane ko ghar se, chalta hai peene wala.
‘kis path se jaon?’ asmanjas mein hai wo bhola-bhala,
alag-alag path batlate sab, par main yeh batlata hun,
rah pakad tu ek chala chal, pa jayega madhushala.
-Madhushala

One of the characters in Bertold Brecht’s play “The Good Person of Szechuan” tells us about true love:

I want to be next to the one I love.
I don’t care what this will cost me.
I don’t care whether this will do my life good or bad.
I don’t care whether this person loves me or not.
All I want, all I need is to be close to the one I love.

How romantically romantic! Subjugate your life for a single temptation, and cease all other temptations that might appear to you once this one has passed. And people brand it as pure love with all their gumptions possible. Ah…fools.

On one hand, you say, love makes you grow, enriches you with wisdom, enlightens you…and on the other hand, here…love is stopping you, stymieing your growth, obstructing your path. And you endorse it as “pure love”.

I object.