The Beautiful Chaos

What would you do if it all came back to you? All the woes and worries that you had been wary of, the ebb and flow of waves crashing at your doorsteps—would you let it in? Would you listen to the call of wind, or still be living in a shadow? Well, the latter might seem a preferable choice given your tragic past experiences, but the question remains the same: do you have what it takes to go all the way?

A hundred such thoughts flashed by Maverick’s eyes as he lay seated on the terrace watching the beautiful sky. The magnanimity of the blue canvas interspersed with the thick white fluffy cotton smoke would often leave him in a daze. On days like these, his eyes would drift towards the picturesque hues of the setting sun and the varied V-shapes into which the birds flew back home. He would be stupefied by the mammoth concrete structures and the sheer distance that he could see. Never was he disturbed by the indistinct clatter down the street, for he always basked into the pleasures of gazing at people—the young and pretty, the sad and drowsy, the ones pedaling hard and the others, riding fast.

But then, our Mav had forgotten that his life was no romantic fiction that deserved a happy ending. It was only but obvious that the hammer would strike someday: the only question was… When?

On each Thursday, he would pay the terrace a visit and would lose himself in the serene surrounding of silence and solitude. But today, it was different. As he climbed up the stairs, he could see that the Earth was enveloped in darkness. He turned his gaze towards the heavily laden gray clouds hovering over the sky: perhaps, trying to find a resemblance to something symbolic to his imagination. It seemed to ask him something, something that no one else had bothered to care:

“What’s wrong Mav… Why do you tread on such horizon?”

That was it. The sheer timing and the categorical ambiance of that question overwhelmed him to the point of shutting down. Maverick had buried those pain and pleasure moments far down his artery and left them untouched so that they could be forgotten with time; but sadly, that was not to be. We don’t really have total control over our thoughts, do we?

He was frozen into stillness. His heart pumped the blood deep, intermingling it with the emotions galore that laid a complete seize over his body and mind. Not wanting to fall weak at the moment, he made a feeble attempt to rise from his stupor, only to be disappointed. His eyes followed the dark clouds—they reminded him of the days she would excuse his silent affection and ignore the cry of his soul, no matter how loud they might be. Nonetheless, he carried on: hoping against hope that it would be different tomorrow. But then, our Mav had forgotten that his life was no romantic fiction that deserved a happy ending. It was only but obvious that the hammer would strike someday: the only question was.. When?  

It was March the 5th, the day when Maverick was fiddling with his phone and social media that he saw her donning an ethnic wear—she was walking hand-in-hand with someone down the stairs of a historical monument in India’s pink city. Fearing the worst, the immature little kid went on and on to browse numerous other uploaded photos: of her, that stranger, and every other mutual friend that might give some clue to the unnerving curious case. He had lost track of time but found out the thing that mattered him the most.

Though his heart was broken, he didn’t let his composure go downhill for he could bear a thousand needles pierce through his body, but he couldn’t stand her living a life full of guilt. ‘The burden would be too much for her little heart to carry’, he thought and then resolved to stay away from her… forever.

Suddenly, there was a spark in the sky and for a moment, everything became visible to him. He could see the trees swaying in the wind, the empty clothesline above the adjacent building, and a couple alien heads basking in the beauty offered by this unpredictable weather.

And then it rained. It came down hard and fast and heavy as if they were the last drops hanging up in the sky. It seemed as if these heavenly juices were in a hurry to kiss those moist eyes, to soothe his otherwise disturbed plight. He remained seated with his head over his knee and hands wrapped around his leg, letting the torrent wash away his worries—all those salt and sweet moments that he didn’t want to remember any longer.

When the downpour did finally come to halt, our Mav was a new man; or, perhaps that same smiling soul that he was in his childhood. That chill in his drenched body made him realize the essence of letting go. He understood that the feeling could choke himself if he were to hold on to something that was never meant to be his.

“Life is not into confining yourself, but in traversing new horizons”, he told himself as he ruffled his wet hair into the towel.

A Walk Into The Void

Under the luminescence of the munificent moon, I was walking in a daze on my way back home. A drop of rain fell on my forehead and trickled down to the corner of my lips, but not before soothing the eyes that seemed weary of gazing out far into the darkness. Usually, music would be my faithful companion on these solitary strides, often instigating me upon losing to its mood. Today, on the contrary, I was lost into a void, and that too without anyone’s assistance.

I wasn’t thinking about anything—not the Kashmir unrest that I was worried an hour ago, neither the overhyped atrocities inflicted on Dalits nor the alleged political vendetta Narendra Modi-led NDA government was holding against Kejriwal & party. It was as if my soul had transported into some other dimension only to be rescued by that very cold sensation which—prepended with the slithering of droplet—stirred me up from the trance.

I could see the lush green reeds, fresh from the recent downpour, swaying by my side and shining brightly under the headlight of the passing vehicle. The fragrance of sweet mud filled my nostrils. I couldn’t help but breathe a sense of tranquility enveloped my body. A couple of seconds later, another drop followed the trail; this time, it caught hold off my right cheek only to behold an overwhelming coincidence that the tears-from-heaven rested perfectly aligned in a straight line—which was only possible if I had my mouth closed and stretched. Oh boy, was I smiling; or, was it merely an expression that I wore a veil on most occasions? Relaxing my facial muscles, I wiped those pearls off my face… they were sour.

Ever since childhood, I was attracted towards agony. In the novels that I chose to read, I flipped through pages looking for heartbreaks, melancholy, dreams and passion far beyond imagination. “I was afraid of being rejected, yes. I was also afraid of being accepted for the wrong reasons”: this was the golden excerpt that I stripped out from Eric Segal’s ‘Love Story’. But it was Jacques, a character born out of Shakespeare’s ‘As You Like It’, that I found quite profounding: I envied his ability to seek out depressing experiences and admired him, for even I, at times, want to enjoy being sad and mopey.

Has it ever crossed your mind that the people you see every day are just not right—that they are some sort of alien creatures who possess the same nose and nails and eyes and ears like you but are so different—or maybe because you don’t belong here… or anywhere in this world. You’re trapped in a purgatory of the urban and rural divide, of time and generation gap that is soaring it’s depression with every passing second.

Happy cultural failure. Happy emotional failure.

Upon reaching the Noida 16 metro station, I stole a glance at my watch. It was 13 minutes past 10. I waved my hand to an e-rickshaw and enquired: ‘Bhaiya, Hanuman Mandir chaloge?’

 

The Introspection

Hey buddy,

It’s been long since I’ve seen you. I’m sorry, but the last month had been very busy. I had delved deep into the history to bring out my former self—the always cheerful bud who would just laugh out at anything; the bringer of smile and an optimistic mortal who was fooled into believing that it’s the manner in which you respond to a particular situation that makes all the difference, the approach that could even turn a calamity into a blessing. Thanks much, Robin! But I couldn’t handle the positive overdose.

Some 250 kms away from the noise and pollution and the fast moving metro life, Maverick was sitting on a concrete bench gazing at the hills to his left. He was so lost in the lush green environment of Sattal that he forgot to sip coffee from the stainless steel mug he was holding between his fingers; and when the only vapour he could see were the ones coming out from his mouth, Maverick gently placed the mug by his side and went on to appreciate the beauty that had enthralled his senses.

There was something strange about the place, something familiar that reminded him of his home where even now, the rose bushes stood in front of his welcoming gate, whilst the violet vegetable grew beside the water tap. His grandfather still stares out from the window, waiting anxiously to hear the sound of his younger son calling out to him, which sadly, never came in the last ten years. He would attentively read the mythological tales in the afternoon, but with the faintest sound outside, his hopeful heart would force his gaze, but all they see are the desolated path of mud and bricks.

His mother, on the other hand, would often wake up with a smile on her face. She would tell Maverick stories of how a guardian angel was watching over them. But now, the boy has grown up and gone to a distant land. There is a few exchange of emotions, but in their heart, both acknowledge his presence and many a time, pay that anonymous divine soul a visit in their dreams.

Meanwhile, at the altitude of 1,370 m, a westerly wind gently caressed Maverick’s face. Though he had never set foot in the mountains, the air seemed to be calling out his name, carrying a scent that he had known for long. Out of curiosity, he looked into that direction and through the twigs and the leaves—colored in shades of yellow and green—he saw a tree unlike any other on the hills. While the rest were slanted perpendicular to the gradient, this one never yielded; it stood magnificently straight in all weathers. The rays of the sun danced merrily upon its branches and through the leaves, the bright orange and yellow filtered out into a thousand fragments.

It was only when the magical rays fell upon his face that he realised that he had been looking at his life all wrong. Ever since he took his first step, he was talked into being happy, oh! they even named him so that he wouldn’t forget.

If you think only happiness is euphoric, think again! Ask a man who had his first heartbreak. Ask him about the empty walks he takes after midnight; ask those warm tears running down his face; ask those sudden shrieks, the crazy dance under the shower; ask his silence, his sudden lack of company; ask why he vows never to fall in love again; or, in some case, to fall and get hurt again. Ain’t these blissful?

Talking about experience, playing a casanova was a better deal than falling in love. With each new face came the same story; new indulgences, same consequences. Lost and tired, Maverick finally called a truce with destiny.

 

Losing Myself

This is getting hard. I think I’m losing myself; losing to the dark devil living inside me. He’s sailing me into nothingness. The productiveness… ah, the productiveness is all gone. The creativity, the flow, the charm—everything seems to have taken a back seat. This is even scarier than having my laptop smashed, my fingers chopped, and being confined in a cell. I’m straying on the same path I’ve travelled a million times: there’s little food for thought. He’s eating me up bit by bit, pulling me into things that are of little importance. I’m losing my focus, my meaning in life. It was my choice, my escape, my cowardice to have left the space vacant. I thought I could get away with an excuse. Oh, how wrong I was!

I feel like a hen in the grasp of a butcher writhing in agony, waiting for my throat to be sliced open. It’s cold, very cold. There’s not a single shred of cloth covering my body. It’s a shame I had never experienced before, not even when I was found guilty of stealing money in an assembly of a hundred students and teachers. The blood in my veins has thickened. The oxygen: They’re having a hard time climbing up to my brain. My eyelids seem heavy. They want to be rested, to be closed upon each other. Shall I free them from the pain?

“Don’t. Please don’t!” cries my heart.

I oblige. I can’t say ‘No’ to him… No, Never! I can’t debate him, I can’t reason with him. He’s been left broken many a time but is still standing strong with the soul. Oh, you’re a beauty! A true beauty of selflessness. So I force my eyes open. I know that this moment is short-lived but I endure the pain. I’ll fail, yes that I’m sure of! But I’ll make sure my journey gives someone hope. Struggle is all I’ve done throughout my life and struggle is what I’ll do to stay alive. My battle is against eventuality, and I’ll fight till the end.

And as my eyes go weary, my thoughts stride down the memory lane to the days when I was preparing for my Board papers. Waking up till late night—solving math problems while listening to the local FM channel—was a bliss I experience no more. The race against time, the continuous scratching of lines and letters, the world of supposition…. Where have they gone?

I remember cycling down my way to school and admiring the simplest things that I have lost sight of. We—my very dear friend with whom I’ve lost contact—rode on the mud and the asphalt, through the plains and the potholes, and the dust and the rains. We would race to a distance, challenge each other into riding with our hands behind our back. Oh, I never won anyway! The other times when I was alone, I’d see how many counts I could make without opening my eyes. “Oh, you shouldn’t try that!”

I’ve always looked for the motivation outside—into the movies, the books, the people around—but how foolish of me… I forgot to look inside! I find that I’m improving. It’s like the sums I solved into my solitary nights: the more I practise, the better I get. With every drop of ink, with each stroke of the keyboard, I get more power to seize the demon inside me. And sometimes my dear Mav, this is why I pull up my socks and breathe in the silence and serenity offered by the descending moon. Wanna join me for a walk?