Despicable Me.

Because in the end, when I grow old, ugly and shrivelled, and you'd be a little less older and lesser uglier still, I'd choose to side with you. It wouldn't be a game of options then, but of choices, and I'd deliberately choose you. But till then, be beautiful, pretty please.

I cannot bear to see my rarest jewel fade.

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I'll be judged for this, and I dare everyone who would, do! For this, You, I am keeping for myself and I would relentlessly seek you out till kingdom comes if need be.

Love, it isn't enough on my plate, and I am happy for it would have made me so weak in the knees that I'd have fallen for Queens while the Aces went for other petty beggars.

Somehow, I cannot make peace with this world. It's skewed beyond recognition, in my eyes, and doesn't forgive. Not that I have forgiven it either, but a few of you and others make it worth living in here. I do need to get out on the surface for fresh air, don't I? I know I've got a problem, but you never receive what you already possess. You've fallen in and out of favour many a times, and yet, look, you're here, with me, still!

Though I pretend and believe, and secretly would want to be, a man of reason; But, I know I've been unreasonable. I ain't apologizing, and I know you wouldn't want me to, that is why I always run back to you, and find another reason to stay. No one understands, everyone pretends to though, but you, you make no such pretensions, and you know that I would return on my own and try to explain. The one little thing that I never want you to do, and yet commit to it myself, again and again, a little hypocritical that I've always been, never explain yourself again.

Beauty to me, has always been something that should be tangible, seen, heard, touched, smelt and felt. Heck, I'd fall for dames, but I'd be damned if I were to be spellbound for long by the hollow vanities of these beauties without brains. Yes, things under the skin, they start taking priority and over-ride the physical appearances criterion very soon, but the precedence of outward beauty in the first place hasn't been compromised much.

Whenever, someone has suited my eye, I've looked for flaws, somewhere, something must be lacking. You were no different either, but look, you've come a long way. Overlooking them was beyond my reason, and living with them was unacceptable. I am no Adonis as such, but as someone has said once, 'Those who look for best, often get it'. You, are the best of them all.

Day by day nothing changes, except that we grow old, and as the treacherous wheel of time spins, more and more we grow cold. People may laugh at me, knowing what I am, and I don't care for their laughters. They are all hypocrites in baring their pearly fangs after being misled by the verses of selfless love written by similar hearts who chanced upon accidentals mingling forays. Most of these lovers died young, while others  who lived long, lived miserable and heart broken.

Love, is not learnt from books and literature, it makes literature, it is literature. I've seen people fall from great heights in the eyes of people who once adored them when subjected to the microscopic eye. I am inclined to failing, I'll make no other claims and promises. I am unsetting all the standards you've set, so that I can come undone. You, I've admired you for your rational opinion, though I've seldom said it.

In my belief, I've loved you sometimes, and loved you too much a little rarely. I've missed you sometimes, and terribly missed you rarely. But whenever I have, I swear to sweet Lord, I know what it is like, the want to snatch you from where ever you are, and, dive in your lap and weep.

A Dirty Mind, speaks thousand pleasing lies, and is loathed for the single truth it spake, one that was never believed until it saw the light.

The world will not matter, it may all die, I'd still be at peace.

Random Wanderings.

(1)

 जलना तो इस काफिर दिल की फितरत है, तुम्हे किसी और के साथ  देख कर जलता है, तुम्हे कोई और देखे, तब भी तो जलता ही है | आज तक समझ नहीं पाया हूँ कि उस घड़ी का रंज करूँ या दिवाली मनाऊं जिस घड़ी तुम्हे देखा था | उसी घड़ी से आज तक दिल तिल-तिल कर जलता बुझता रहा है |  कभी लगता है कि पहले का वह आवारापन ही अच्छा था जब तुमसे नहीं मिला था, जब दिल और नज़र बस किसी पर भी आ जाते थे, और जैसे ही नज़र फेरो, दिल भी फिर जाता था | अब खूबसूरती मापने का पैमाना मिल गया है, बड़ी मुश्किल है | 

पूछता हूँ, "इतना क्यूँ सताती हो?", तब मुस्कुराया मत करो, क़त्ल होते हैं !

*** 

 (2)

Some girls are like Hermione. Some say, they have an attitude problem. While the ones who have been with them for a while know that - they - are the solution box. Like a master key. You don’t look unto them for relationships, or maybe you might, but that is solely your discretion, but you cannot do without them. A friend at workplace, a childhood friend, or someone you just happen to know from a time you don't remember. You may or may not acknowledge it, but it is a fact that there are always some girls around you who inadvertently make your life easy as a part of their nature and not even break a sweat and would never ever talk about it. You just stand back and say, WOW.

Who says good boys end up last, even good girls do. I think it is the general class, ‘good’, that ends up last in these matters. But not for long, they are meant to lead the best lives, and be wonder (full) women, if not super women. It’s such a shame that they find it in the end, when their’s should be the first. 

Hallelujah! I've nothing to offer, Dear Reaper.

Blindfolded by the darkness of a moonless night, I slipped into an unnamed alley in a bid to find something of which, I had never been seeker. It was curiosity, just like the other day when I had heard some people use the word. ‘I’ve been touched/ hurt/… in the soul’ and things like that. It is something that I haven’t quite felt in mine (soul).

So, I lured myself into that alley and made sure I left no trace on the ground, no footsteps. Walked on paved grounds, without light and support of the confining walls. All I could feel was the spiraling of the steps and the descent. I lost count of time and sensation of direction. I was just going down, and down, into a dark place. I sensed liquid down there, flowing, it was in the air. Yet I found none.

After a while I was parched, though moisture was all around, humid, deliquescent, and a melodic turbulence. I found nothing, no soul, no elixir, only tiredness. I backed down. I returned.

But while I returned, I felt light, because if it exists, it is still white. Unstained, too deep for me to seek, for now. And if it doesn’t, I’ve never had anything worthwhile to loose, eh? So, I return to a place where I wear a blindfold of blinding lights.

Being Krishna - 2

Read Previous Part Here. Being Krishna Part -1

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Read in Hindi

माँ दोपहर का भोजन करने के बाद सोने चली जाती | केसर भी थोड़ी देर सोने का नाटक करता और प्रतीक्षा करता माँ के सोने का | कभी कभी तो नाटक करते करते उसे नींद आ ही जाती | पर अन्य दिन मौका मिलते ही घर से निकल आता | गांव के बच्चे अपने पशुओं कों चारा कर इस समय नदी किनारे पानी पिलाने ले आते  और स्वयं या तो नदी में पानी से खेलते, थोडा नहाते थोडा अपनी भैसों और गायों कों नहलाते, वर्ना बरगद के नीचे विविध प्रकार के खेल करते | केसर और कुछ अन्य लड़कों कों पेड़ पर चढ़ने में रोमांच आता |

रोज ही माँ कों चकमा दे कर केसर भाग निकलता | बचपन की मासूमियत भी बड़ी अनोखी होती है | अपनी आँखें मूँद लेने से समझ आता है कि कोई दूसरा भी हमें नहीं देख सकता | छल तो धूर्त प्राणी करते हैं, बच्चों कों अपने खेल और उसके प्रति निष्ठा के इलावा और किसी बात से क्या ताल्लुक? माँ कों सब पता है, फिर भी कुछ ममत्व के कारण तो कुछ सवेरे से काम करने की थकावट के कारण बरामदे में चटाई पर लेटी केसर के प्रस्थान की आहात सुनती है | मंद मंद उसके भोलेपन पर मुस्कुराती है, थोडा अपने कों भी झिडकती है कि भरी दोपहरी में घर से जाने दे रही है | 

वहीँ केसर घर से निकलते ही ऐसी सरपट दौड लगाता मानो उसके अभाव में नदी सूखी जाती हो | बरगद की शीतल छाया और नदी का ठंडा पानी उसका स्वागत करते | आम तौर पर बड़े लोग नदी में पशुओं के पानी पीने के स्थान से कुछ हट कर, तट पर कुछ ऊपर की ओर नहाने धोने का काम करते हैं | पर बच्चे इन सब प्रबंधनों कों नहीं समझते | भैंसों की पूँछ पकड़ कर नदी में नहाने उतर जाते और उसी मट मैले पानी में खेल कूद करने लगते | केसर शहर से आया है, और बहुत छोटी उम्र से ही उसे स्वच्छता के उपदेश मिल चुके हैं | पर गांव में न जाने कभी कभी क्या हो जाता है, वह भी पानी में मस्ती करने उतर जाता है | माँ कों शायद इस बात की भनक नहीं पड़ी अब तक |

नानी कहानी में बतलाती हैं कि कृष्ण ग्वाले थे, ढेर सारी गायें लेकर रोज जंगल में चराने जाते थे, और हाथ में होती केवल एक बांसुरी | बांसुरी की धुन में केवल गाय ही नहीं, अपितु गोपियाँ भी खिंची चली आती थी अपने कान्हा कों देखने हेतु और कान्हा किसी ऊंची डाली पर बैठा, अपनी ही सुध में बांसुरी बजाता | बांसुरी की कमी यहाँ के यारों की एक तकनीक ने पूरी कर दी | उन्होंने केसर कों मुँह से सीटी बजाना सिखा दिया | अब तो रह रह कर पंक्तियाँ याद आती हैं,

यह कदम्ब का पेड़ अगर माँ होता यमुना तीरे,

मैं भी उस पर बैठ कन्हैया बनता धीरे धीरे ||

(-सुभद्रा कुमारी चौहान)

बच्चों की कल्पना पर कोई लगाम नहीं होती | कच्ची मिट्टी की भांति रूप परिवर्तन करती रहती है और यत्र तत्र सर्वत्र गतिशील हो जाती है | केसर भी नानी के व्याख्यान सुन कर पुलकित हो उठता | कान्हा ने अपनी लीलाएं बहुत पैदा होते ही शुरू कर दी थी, पर नानी की कहानियों में न जाने ऐसा लगता कि कृष्ण केसर की उम्र जितने ही होते होंगे जब की यह कहानी है | अंततः केसर अपनी कल्पना में नानी के हर पात्र कों चेहरा देता जाता | अपनी स्मृती से कहीं यशोदा का किरदार अपनी माँ कों सौंप देता, कहीं गोपिओं के पात्र में कक्षा की सहेलियों कों देखता, और आप तो जानते हैं न की कृष्ण कौन बनता? 

क्रमशः ...

Read in English

Members of the family used to take an afternoon nap after lunch. Kesar pretended to sleep, waiting for the time when his mother would be deep asleep, the time when he would sneak out of the house. But sometimes, sleep really did play a spoil sport when he’d wake up only after sunset. Village children would flock their herds from the grasslands to the river at this time of the day on their journey home. While the herds drank and bathed in the cool waters, children played around with water among the animals or under the great banyan. Some more adventurous types including Kesar found climbing the tree more thrilling. A child’s innocence is mesmerizing. He can easily believe that while he shuts his own eyes, the world cannot see him either. Deception and tricking are the arts of wheeler dealers, a child knows none. A child’s only concern is his sport and its fulfillment. Mother knows it all, and yet plays dumb, a little out of affection, and a little out of tiredness from the daily routine since early morning. She smiles inwardly, and simultaneously chides herself for letting her son out at peak noon.

A little distance from home, Kesar makes a run for the river. The cool shade of the banyan and the coolness of the water greet him. Elders generally have a spot a little upwards along the river shore from the place where animals drink water to carry on with their washing and bathing. But children don’t understand these idiosyncrasies. The grab the buffalos by the tails and enter the waters there itself with their herds and play in muddy waters. Kesar, belonging to a town has learnt lessons in hygiene from a very small age. But sometimes, he too sheds those lessons and joins his friends in the little pool party. Mother might not know this.

Grandma narrates that Krishna was basically a gwala (herdsman). He used to take lots of cows and buffalos to the jungle to graze every day. And while others carried sticks to guide the herd, he carried a flute. The music that he played was so enchanting that not only the herds, but the Gopis of Brindavan could not resist their legs from going unto him. Never did an animal go missing. And whilst all this, Krishna (affectionately called Kanha) used to play the flute, on some high branch. The void of the flute was filled in Kesar’s imagination by whistle; he learnt it from his local friends.

There is no restraint on the gallop of a child’s imagination. It can take any form like wet clay in the hands of a sculptor. Kesar found semblance to Kanha in his granny’s stories. He felt that Krishna must have been of his age when he did all what Grandma told. As a result, Kesar put a face to every single character in her stories. His mother was Yashoda, and gopis were his friends from school. And you know who must have been Krishna, right?

To be continued…

Read Transliteration

Ma dopeher ka bhjan karne ke baad sone chali jaati. Kesar bhi thodi der sone ka naatak karta aur prateeksha karta Ma ke sone ka. Kabhi kabhi to naatak karte karte use neend aa hi jaati. Par anya din mauka milte hi ghar se nikal aata. Gaon ke bachhe apne pashuon ko chara kar is samay nadi kinare paani pilaane le aate aur svayam ya to nadi mein paani se khelte, thoda nahate thoda apni bhains aur gaayon ko nehlaate, varna bargad ke neeche vivdh prakeer ke khel karte. Kesar aur kuch anya ladkon ko ped par chadne mein romanch aata.

Roz hi Ma ko chakma de kar Kesar bhaag nikalta. Bachpan kii maasumiyat bhi badi anokhi hoti hai. Apni aankhein moond lene se samajh mein aata hai ki koi aur bhi hame nahi dekh sakta. Chhal to dhoort praani karte hain, bachhon ko apne khel aur uske prati nishtha ke ilaawa aur kisi baat se kya taalluk? Ma ko sab pata hai, phir bhi kuch mamatva ke kaaran to kuch savere se kaam karne ki thakavat ke kaaran baramde mein chattayi par leti Kesar ke prasthaan kii aahat sunti hain. Mand mand uske bholepan par muskurati hai, thoda apne aap ko bhi jhidakti hai ki bhari dopehri mein ghar se jaane de rahi hai.

Vahin Kesar gahr se nikalte hi aisi sarpat daud lagata hai maano uske abhaav mein nadi sookhi jaati ho. Bargad ki sheetal chhaya aur nadi ka thanda paani uska swagat karte. Aam taur par bade log nadi mein pashuon ke paani peene ke sthaan se kuch hat kar, tat par kuch oopar ki or nahaane dhone ka kaam karte hain. Par bachhe in sab prabandhano ko nahi samajhte. Bhainson kii poonch pakad kar nadi mein utar jate hain aur usi mat maile paani mein khel kood karne lagte. Kesar sheher se aaya hai, aur bahut choti umr se hi use swachhta ke updesh mil chuke hain. Par gaon mein na jaane kabhi kabhi kya ho jaata hai, veh bhi paani mein masti karne utar jaata hai. Ma ko shayad is baat kii bhanak nahi padi ab tak.

Naani kahaain mein batlaati hain ki Krishna gwaale the, dher saari gaayien le kar roz jungle mein charaane jaate the, aur haath mein keval ek baansuri. Baansuri ki dhun mein keval gaaye hi nahi, apitu gopiyan bhi khinchi chali aati thi apne Kanha ko dekhne hetu aur Kanha kisi oonchi daal par baitha, apni hi sudh mein baansuri bajata. Baansuri kii kami yahaan ke yaaron kii ek takneek ne poori kar di. Unhone Kesar ko munh se seeti  bajana seekha diya. Ab to reh reh ar yeh panktiyaan yaad aati hai,

Yeh kadamb ka ped agar na hota Yamuna teere,

Mein bhi us par baith kanhaiyya, banta dheere dheere.

Bachhon ki kalpana par koi lagaam nahi hoti. Kachhi mitti kii bhaanti roop parivartan karti rehti hai aur yatra tatra sarvatra gatisheel ho jaati hai. Kesar bhi naahi ke vyakhyaan sun kar pulkit ho uthta. Kanha ne apni leelayein paida hote hi shuru kar di thi, par naani kii kahaaniyon mein na jaane aisa lagta ki Krishna Kesar kii umr jitney hii hote honge kjab ki yeh kahaani hai. Antatah Kesar apni kalpanaon mein naani ke har paatr ko chehra deta chala jata. Apni smriti se kahin yashoda ka kirdaar apni Ma ko saump deta, kahin gopiyon ke paatr mein kaksha sii saheliyon ko dekhta, aur aap to jaante hain na kii Krishna kaun banta?

To be continued…

Raindrops for the sunshine.

It has been raining relentlessly since the past four hours, raining like the skies ran out of storage space to accommodate more water. It is supposed to be mid April, summers reigning mercilessly over the plains. And yet it has been raining today. Such change in weather has been seldom seen, especially since the last few years, when even the monsoons flew past unnoticed, parched skies. The skies had been prejudiced against any color in sky that could bring even tiny hopes of quenching the land and its people below. Fluffy whites had lingered in desolation and dispersed for many months now. Overwhelmed and overrun, the gates had broken giving way to the pent up release. Almost sharp and hard hitting arrow like droplets had been incessantly showering in an attempt to sink deeper into earth’s skin.

Ever since the opera of the skies had started the performance with loud bass and rumble and a crackling shoot now and then, she had been fixed to the edge of her seat by the wide window. She hadn't talked all this time, not even once. Nothing seemed to bother her, and her eyes were attentively seeking something on the mist slowly hazing the entire breadth of the window. Her eyes had been performing a sort of ritual following any random droplet that started to crumble and slither down the wet pane, cutting through the haze. She kept on gazing through the misty panes, tracing patterns with her eyes. She seemed oblivious to the faint sounds of the television that was playing in the far end of the room, nor did she hear the abruptness with which the channels were being switched or the sounds let off by her little boy expressing his boredom in moaning yawns.

She did not see him too, along with the rest of the things; he had been sitting about an hour when he saw her drawn away by the rains. And yet, he saw her. In fact, she was the only one he had been seeing all this time, lost in her, oblivious to the world, just like her, only that he watched the locks of her hair breaking and oscillating for a while to eventually break down into stillness, somewhere over her tender face. His eyes moved with her curls just like her’s followed the droplets. He wasn’t in a very comfortable posture. Arms folded on the thin rim of the chair and the chin resting on his arms, he observed her inquisitively, never minding his tired arms which might have started to hurt because of the pressure of the narrow rim. Watching her at peace mysteriously brought a bright smile on his face of which, even he wasn’t aware of.

Rain on the window and sunshine is her face,

Her gleaming radiances’ such ,am transfixed in my place,

The golden locks sneak out, to glimpse her beauty,

As they gingerly swing, tending to her grace.

A break in the spell of the rains brought her out of her reverie. He had no idea how long he had been looking at her, without blinking. Even if he blinked, he did not remember if he did. When she moved her head and looked at him, she saw his gleaming smile. She smiled back quizzically and that broke his spell too. 

“Even Mona Lisa would have shied away today”, He flirtingly said without recovering from his leaning posture. She smiled slightly and turned to the other side, hiding her smile from him. “And?” she was still listening. “And, and Michelangelo would have surely dumped her as subject for that masterpiece.” It worked! She laughed loud and slowly came to him, never looking away while their eyes talked in mischief. She lovingly ruffled his hair, whispering coyly in his ears, “but honey, Mona Lisa was painted by Da Vinci” and headed for the television where her son was constantly clicking the remote control. 

He scratched his temples lightly in an attempt to hide his face and bit his tongue lightly before breaking out into a wide smile. “Coffee?”

On a parched roadside.

It is March. Onset of a long and hot summer. It is the time when the farms would be at the mercy of the canal laid to the village from the distant reservoir, water supply erratic at best. State government approved the laying of a water pipeline of larger capacity for this village, and the nearby villages too. But it was a long time ago. Only recently has the file been retrieved from some nook or the topmost shelf of the rural development committee office after repeated complaints. There used to be a narrow cart road from between the fields some time ago. Now, the daily wagers have dug it up, put stone and a bit more soil here, and the bulldozer has leveled it off. The only day motor vehicles plied on this road was the day it was inaugurated. Now, it’s pretty much a cart road again, littered with dung here and there, except for the fact that its corners have been dug up again, for that much awaited pipeline. Daily wagers have gathered from this village and nearby villages, under NREGP(National Rural Employment Guarantee Programme).

Among these workers is a boy, who seems to be somewhere around twenty one. Young, industrious, dark, with worn out hands with a few torn blisters too. He and another man take turns in digging the road and shoveling the loose soil into a heap along the brink. He hails from a nearby village family, has two younger brothers and one elder brother. Younger ones go to school, while the elder works somewhere in the city. His father tends to cattle and has gone farming every single day that the boy can remember.

Each day, a few women pass through the site with earthen pots on their heads and another smaller brass pot tucked along their waists. Younger girls need to maintain balance of the pot on their heads with their hands, so they carry only one. Among this little caravan of ladies, is a girl. She might be nearing eighteen. Wheatish complexion, short, has a pony tail and a ‘dupatta’ passing from over her head, along her face where she is holding a part of it in her mouth lest it may become unmanageable, or maybe trying to avoid the sun, and finally making a small coil around her neck before falling over her back. 

And as a daily routine, the workers, some of whom might be having wives in this little caravan ask them for water. It is a brief activity that happens every day, and the ladies quench these workers gaily, although their families would have to make do with lesser amount of water. The girl also lends water, mostly to the boy. It is something inherent that this division of labour ends up each one either serving their husbands or in other cases, men from the same village, or in this case, of the same age group. Married ladies observe ‘purda’ even with husbands here, but unmarried girls have a relaxation. 

As this chore comes to pass, no words are exchanged among the boy and the girl; nothing transpires mutually, but yes, smiles! Smiles are exchanged, and sometimes muffled giggles too. They are pretty much used to this activity as a habit. The work progresses slowly among chatting villagers and their talks of monsoon, drought, the pipeline, deaf government, deaths, farms, loans and little things. He smiles and laughs at jokes cracked by other fellow workers, and cracks a few jokes himself too. But that isn’t pleasure. That is amusement, a distraction to ward off tiredness. But in these brief moments while drinking water after a long day at work, with her, he smiles, he smiles out of pleasure, genuine. No he doesn’t know that, not yet. 

Days pass, weeks fly, it’s about one month, and the digging is almost done, but the pipelines still needs to be laid. It is on the other terminal of the road, stacked, rusting in the open, waiting to be earthed. 

It has been three days since she showed up. He has had a break in his habit. Someone from behind a ‘purda’ gives him water. He cannot even ask where that girl might be. He never asked her her name. And he cannot ask the other women what so ever, everyone seems to be an ace at leg pulling. If he does ask about her whereabouts, they might tease him for being so concerned about that girl. No he doesn’t want that. She might have taken sick, or so he thought. 

Five days. Now he really misses her. He misses that smiling time. I think, now he realizes that it was different kind of smile. He still laughs at jokes, but he knows better now. What he does not know is what happened to the girl. 

She has been married four days now, married off to a different village. Oh she still goes out to fetch water, but from a different reservoir, on a different route. This village has a metalled road, though worn out. Much nearer to the town, it has bus service, two buses a day. The reservoir is also nearer, and less erratic. But now her ‘dupatta’ doesn’t fall around lazily over her back, but helps her cover her full face as a ‘purda’. 

He remembers her, but the memory is fading. Soon, the work would end, and he’d be off running other errands. Soon, he’ll forget that he missed smiling out of pleasure. Sooner, he’ll stop thinking about what happened to the girl. But till then, he will keep waiting, everyday, eager in his heart to smile again, like he used to. Though he does not know this either that he is so eager to do it, but he is eager nevertheless. 

Sometimes I wonder, we all knew what happened to the girl, me, you and even most of the workers from that village must have known this. But an ordinary marriage is seldom discussed among daily wagers, men, when there are droughts, rains, farms, fields and loans to worry about. I wonder what he might have gone through, even though the emotion was momentary, and too small. Had he been told, wouldn’t he be saved from the little letdowns that he had every day when some woman granted him water from behind a purda. Could he be saved from missing things, until he eventually forgot them? Why didn’t anyone tell him? Why didn’t I tell him.

Restlessness.

Never before had he felt such a surge erupt inside of him. This was different than anything else. Frustration? No, he was not feeling anything. Agony?  Regrets? None. But he was disturbed. Something is going on, and he did not quite know. His body was undergoing some new change. It was making him restless every growing moment. But the heart beat was constant, breathing normal, eyes focused, nothing was out of place, yet there was some anxiety. What is happening? There has been just one constant urge tonight. To run. Nothing more. Where to? No idea! Why? No answers, just an urge. As if blood was being pumped into the legs and would spill out if he did not run. It forced him on to his feet. All he had been doing is flipping on his bed after his friends had shrieked at him when he was flipping the table lamp incessantly. No respite, no escape. Quietly he slipped from his bed and out of the dorm.

A breezy night, moon was a crescent shining in some place that seemed to be the edge of the cliff, half hiding in the clouds, diffusing an orange hue in them. Willows were fraying melodiously with the breeze. He felt like flowing too. His shoes now seemed to be a hindrance. The surge was forcing him out of them, out of the steadiness. Something was pushing him.

And so he ran, and ran so hard. He ran until he was spent and could run no more. It was exhilarating, adrenaline pumped through his veins and arteries and he did not know when this would end. He ran into the forest, he ran over the ditches, in and out of the shallow stream, and yet all he wanted to do is, run some more. He started on the upwards steep. His legs were burning, but the urge made him adamant. He did not focus on anything around, just the narrow pathway shimmering in the moonlight like it too was lit up to mark the way.

And then came the fall. He tripped, slipped and fell on his nose. The ground, he discovered was mossy, and damp from the falling dew. He was still burning to have felt anything else, he just flipped and lay there, laughing, like a mad man. A man who had just lost his wits and was laughing with nobody. He had run quite a distance to be heard by anyone. He was feeling awesome, and just when he tried to stand back, he snapped ‘Ouch’, and fell again. He felt the blood from his nose, laughed again and a bit more!

Dreaming wide awake.

He had been dreaming.

Dreaming, that she is sitting by his side, close by, snuggling up into his arms, her head on his shoulders. The lights of the bus had dimmed, but to him, her face was glowing, with purity, sanctity. He had dreamed of her quite often, but this relative closeness was rather absurd. In this dream, he dreamed that she had been accepted into the family, without a hitch. He dreamed that they were headed home, their home. And yet it all felt so real. It felt like he remembered everything. It’s funny how the subconscious plays tricks on a tired mind and body.

So he sat there, in the bus, with her sitting next to him, her head resting on his shoulder. The windows were drawn, and the curtains too. The bus was moving almost smoothly with little shudders every now and then. It was warm. He knew it was a dream, but still wanted to live in it. He put his head lightly on her head. But then, he opened his eyes. Found himself lying in his room, alone, on a bright white morning.

He felt nothing. The date read 13^th March, Saturday; clock said it was about 9 am. No pain, no memory of the dream he had been seeing just before he opened his eyes. But then, we remember morning dreams, don’t we? It was a quiet morning. Birds were chirruping; his mother was busy with her kitchen, father reading his morning newspaper in the garden, and his dog, lazing there in the corner in the morning sun. He brushed his teeth, switched on the television, and yet felt nothing of it. It was being all too normal. Like a memory had been wiped off clean. He wasn’t thinking much, just doing a chore. A quiet nice morning, on a worry free weekend.  

He was having breakfast, on the couch, watching something on the television without interest and eating meanwhile. He just had a hiccup, gulped down water, and it was the same old morning again, smooth and quiet. He was relaxed, totally, surprisingly. He talked to his parents, joked, laughed, spent time sitting on the mowed lawn near his father’s chair, playing with his dog who was rolling near him and then running all around the lawn to come back and roll again. Mother was chiding him for being careless and that the dog would dirty him, but laughed along with everyone else when the dog crashed into him after taking a round of the garden at full speed and then spread out before him so that he may scratch his belly.  

He was on a stroll in the neighbourhood.  Dog’s strap in his hand, he was moving around lazily. Distilled sunlight showered from between the trees along the footpath. People were moving, just like any other day. Known faces, memorized smiles and gestures, and a lively carefree gait. The dog stopped every now and then to smell bushes and then mark his territorial boundary by urinating, every time he had to jerk the dog to move on, it felt like hiccups again. Suddenly, the dog lunged forward and with a snap, he opened his eyes.

There were dim lights, and a faint humming of the engine. The face close to him was familiar, glowing, and pure. She was readjusting the shawl around his legs, it had fallen off some time ago when the bus had hit a rough patch. Seeing him awake, she smiled. He returned hers with a similar expression.

Dreaming, wide awake.