animesh kumar

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Archive for February 2006

Love Traps – II

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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.

Written by Animesh

February 21, 2006 at 12:54 am

Posted in Diary, Stories

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Love Traps – I

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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.

Written by Animesh

February 20, 2006 at 12:54 am

Posted in Diary, Stories

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I stare

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I stare,
and she stares back.
I see her, transpiring through me,
I feel her in my blood.

she is me,
or I am her?
she answers not
and throbs, in me, like thud.

she is in me
my part,
like lust in love.
like fragrance in little buds.

I wink,
and she winks back,
deifying my love,
defying her heart, she scuds.

a moment ago…
life stayed here,
a moment later…
life was nowhere.

Written by Animesh

February 16, 2006 at 12:53 am

Posted in Poetry

(The) Valentine’s Day…!

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I wonder how and when the commercialization of love had begun. I tried google with “valentine day history” and – voila! – There were 22,300,000 results. Good god! This day is utterly popular.

Long ago, there was a king Claudius – II, in ancient Rome, before the advent of Christians, who believed in pagan religion and had outlawed marriage for the soldiers of his army, in belief that single made better soldiers. Valentine, a priest, didn’t conform to the idea and helped lovers to marry in secret. Discovering this, the king ordered that Valentine be put in jail. There the saint fell in love with the blind daughter of the jailor and sent her a letter, in the evening of his life, that ended with “from your valentine”. Some people say, the tradition begun from there.

However, this is not the only school of thought. “The History Channel” has sumptuously opened a special enlightening section upon it.

Whatever be the history, the present of saint valentine is glorious…never mind the clashes over his past.

People are exchanging tokens of love, all in the name of him. Does it bother us? Or does it hinder the growth of our society in any way? This is the matter of concern. Not who was saint valentine.

How many kids in India know why do they celebrate ‘diwali’? Instead they look forward to lights and crackers and sweets. When we don’t bother about it, why are we making so much of fuss over the festival of love?

Is it only because we have to oppose westernization that we do it…eh? So, that means, we as a society are not yet matured, not yet opened up, not yet ready for the globalization. Isn’t it?

When I was in the sophomore year of my engineering, something ridiculous had happened. I, with my Valentine (or say girlfriend, or love, or spouse, of anything you want…we are no testy about nomenclature) went to a restaurant where after a while Bajrang-Dal guys stormed in. They picked up a random couple from the lounge. They made the couple stand in the middle on the hall, and then, the boy to prostrate in front of a Goddess image, and the girl to repeat loudly – “boys of my age are like my brothers, including Naresh”. (Naresh was the boy.) Then, they called few more couples and soon left for other rendezvous-points to infiltrate their so-called-moral-preaching-and-political-power over lovers of tender age, and of inchoate understanding. How good was that?

Fine, they say that this is a kind of westernization, but do we not wear “underwears”, “briefs”, “trousers”, “shirts”, aren’t they too belong to the western world. Why don’t they fight for their kid’s (westernized) school uniforms? Why don’t they order every man to wear “kuccha” and “dhoti” and women “sari”? Aren’t they dubious and parochial in their approach?

The more it is suppressed, the faster it grows.

You suppressed sex – now see around you, what have you made our society like? Every one is after it. On roads, at homes, everywhere. Men have nothing but sex on their minds – why? – because they are forbidden to practice it, because sex is bad, because sex is perversion, because sex is dirty. Had sex been so dirty, why the hell your gods have created it in the first place? They would have made us beget the way mosquitoes do. Females would lay her eggs, and males would spread their sperm over them. And – hurray! – you have a kid. But no. we actually enjoy sex. There is a pleasure in it. The way they present sex makes sex what it is deemed today. Sex itself is divine. Why not then Bajrang-Dal fellows burn Kamasutra? Why this text is commemorated with such holy piousness?

There is a conspiracy behind it – conspiracy to make the pursuit of happiness an evil exercise. And the similar is happening with lovers today. Come this 14th February, they would again venture onto streets punishing every person they find endorsing love.


Why have they forbidden us for everything that we enjoy, or might enjoy? Why such interdictions?

Alas! I don’t see any reason but a tinge of cowardice. They are scared of opening up. They fear that they wouldn’t be able to stand. So it’s better to defer the rain than building a roof over their heads.

Anyways, you guys continue with your plans. Nothing much would they be able to do. Remember, they are the cowards.

Written by Animesh

February 13, 2006 at 12:51 am

Posted in Diary

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Spicy tales!

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There is a difference between ‘myth’ and ‘rumour’. Though both traverse generations mostly by words of mouth, ‘myth’ is accepted as an authentic story – traditional history, and rumour as a plane – sometimes baseless – gossip.

Lately, I was wondering why we rumour around. And what do we get from it?

Psychology Today writes an interesting article upon it. It says: rumours dissipate because of repetition. People repeat shocking stories only to see whether they can be confirmed, and this very act of repetition adds credibility to rumours.

The deduced result is that rumours are here because we love shocking, non-conventional, rebellious things. The profligacy of rumours needs spice. Only to act as a fuel, keep up the interest, and attract more and more people inflow. This spice can be anything from violence to perversion to satyriasis to plain salaciousness to anything. As far as it raises brows, and shock, it is all right. Contrary to it, myths, and legends, are spread intentionally to keep the conventions, traditions intact. Myths need righteousness, so-called morality and stooge obedience. It appears that both are contrast to each other.

Anyways, there are few interesting things I came to know while dabbling in it. Like: Hitler was not impotent, though he had only one testicle. Caligula wasn’t a prurient sex-maniac, though he had incest relationships.

The rumours around these stories sold like anything. The point is, all of them were related to sex – because sex sells.

It sells because we feel shock in it, we feel current in it, because it’s suppressed, because it’s a taboo, because sex is today’s spice.

Is this all good?

Written by Animesh

February 6, 2006 at 12:48 am

Posted in Diary

Mr. Dithered

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Don’t read it. This verbiage of mine is verbose and profoundly sinuous.

Abstract. But so is life. Isn’t it? Correct.

Isn’t it strange? You hardly know the person; you have hardly spent time with her; and now you are sad that perhaps you would never see her again? Yeah, that’s strange. What causes you miss someone, or something. Is it some kind of emotion, or something else? Is it some kind of camaraderie, bonhomie, or just a flimsy stupor? What do you actually feel when you go smitten and the object of interest is not around?

It tore me apart as if I were a frail, brittle, fragile piece of silk. And I stood there condoning to the beguilement of the destined situations. Amazing. I tolerated that. With all my conscience, heart, brain, with my every nerve and notion, I tolerated that. And now, I feel confused: did I tolerate or did I actually survive the forecasted barrage. To hell with it.

Why am I writing all this? Who am I trying to fool? Myself or the world? This world has no interest in whatsoever matter I deal with, or I am in with; it’s always indifferent, disinterested, always…then what is this I am into? Perhaps I am playing with myself. Ah! That’s not new. I have done it all my life.

Whatever…sometimes you can’t find a reason to do something because there is no reason, at least not any valid, society-accepted, moral, ethical and all those bullshit kind of reason…and you do it precisely because there is no reason for doing it…sometimes reasons go backstage, you have to come forward, because if you won’t, never again would you be able to stand for anything else…sometimes you need to stand straight, firm, in spite of the knowledge that the fight is over, the winner is announced, the crown is gone; because if you won’t, you would never be able to stand up again…sometimes you got to lose yourself in order to find yourself back…sometimes life puts you in such complexity that you need to believe that ‘everything here is essentially very simple’…sometimes it happens like this…there is no one, absolutely nothing, but you want to see something, you want to believe that there is something, you want to hear voices, you want to hear your name, you want to hear strange words, strange silence, and there life goes all strange. Strange. Isn’t it? So whatever was the reason, I don’t give a damn to it, I am going to write it.

But who am I writing this for? Who would read this crap of mine? Can’t say. Does everyone write for others? Do everything you do, think, imagine are meant for others? Is it like that you live for others, you die for others? What is then your life, my life, huh… – a kind of vicarious life? I will be happy by seeing others happy; I will be sad by their sadness. What am I doing – it’s dangerous. Good god! It’s perniciously dangerous. Why can’t I live for myself? Why must I be selfless, why not selfish? They say: ‘if everyone make every other man happy, the whole world will become happy eventually’. It’s crap, I say. An easier way would have been to make yourself happy and if everyone is happy, the world would become happy someday. I should make myself happy; you should make yourself happy. Why should I bother for you? Why…? It’s my life after all and it is for me, why can’t I write something that’s storming inside me only for my sake, my own bloody sake. No…I will. I will become selfish. I will become self-centered – an egotist. I will write if for myself.

Hell… yes…I will write it because later I would read it.

Because later I will see my pain; because later I will see how I conquered it; how did I traverse that impasse; I will see everything in hindsight and will laugh over my own decision to write it.

Written by Animesh

February 5, 2006 at 12:43 am

Posted in Diary

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