Unfinished symphony. (second blog story)

31^st January, 2015

“We’ll go to Prague one day!” Devi remarked, slumping back into the armchair near the window, lighting a Dunhill cigarette from the new pack. Playing a pizzicato note on his Stradivarius, Rudra looks up questioningly. He always refrained from talking when his fingers moved over the strings and the bow swayed over, composing something new or just reciting a chord from Brahms or Mozart or Beethoven for that matter, so he kept looking at her for an answer. The winter afternoon of 2015 had a bright sun that day, which lit the apartment in warm light, basking everything around it. Tapping some ash out of the window, Devi went on, “Prague! Now that’s a city to be in, you know! People are always speaking about Paris or Italy, but Prague is somewhere one shall find actual romance…”  Devi kept looking out of the window, while Rudra continued playing his violin. Apartments in Delhi have one advantage of people not disturbing each other. Once a door is closed, no one even bothers to find out what is going on in the very next door.  It doesn’t matter if one is getting killed; well frankly because no one knows and none cares.

 Being slightly a dissocial person, suffering from somewhat social awkwardness, Rudra always had found it very much soothing, to be left alone, he got nervous when bothered, at times he became rude and clumsy, movements conversations went out of the window if he was asked something in public, but when he looked up at Devi, everything went from bleak to blinding bright. Even now when she sat on his armchair by the window, bathing in the winter sun while he fiddled, he could not help but wonder on his fate. A feminine silhouette which sat in front of him, surrounded by such light, as a streak of swirling smoke raised from the dangling cigarette between her fingers, no one else was as fortunate as him right then, and his state of mind reflected on his violin. Devi wasn’t unaware of his heart’s condition too, her head swayed along with the mysterious melody, like a maple leaf in a springtime wind, the lipstick stained cigarette end still dangling on. Devi never knew what he played on his violin, she never even asked. Sometimes, it is much better not to know something, and rather just savor its existence. Sometimes, the questions are much beautiful than the answer, as an answer may spoil its subtle enigma.

“Will you come to Prague... only the two of us?” Devi exclaimed, as if it was really not a matter of joke but a serious issue!  “We’ll rent a car; drive around the city, a blue Cadillac will be so fun! Will you come with me to Prague?” she asked like a child asking for a new bicycle… keeping his focus right on what he played, Rudra looked at her and smiled, said nothing, and he needn’t to say! All he did, and all Devi cared about right then was his violin and the music that was smearing that winter afternoon with a angelic hue, the colors were the sound, the brush were the strings and the painters were two people in an apartment, who were in a relation of soul. "I love you, Rudra..." Devi whispered. His fingers stooped on the strings. Breaking his focus, Rudra replied... "I love you too, Devi."

“Rudy! Rudy! C’mon man, wake up, its Showtime! You’re up in 5 minutes!” said a booming voice!  Opening his eyes, he found himself on a chair in front of a dressing mirror. In front of him stood another man, much older than him, peering on his face, shaking his shoulders gently. “Wake up sonny, the show’s about to start!”

Running his fingers through his thick mullet hairs, Rudra stood up, picking his Stradivarius. “Singh ji!” he looked confused for a moment! “Where… where are we again?” Rudra queried, looking around, he tried to ascertain his whereabouts. If any random person had entered the room then, he’d have surely mistaken Rudra for some odd guy at a very odd place. The 5 o’clock beard, the unkempt hair, was entirely in contrast to his Harris Tweed attire. None would’ve believed that this man was one of the most prodigious names in music, a violin maestro who had the talent that had him share stages with people like De Hass, or Ravi Shankar and Anushka Shankar, given his rather odd dress and looks. “Where are we?” he asked again, lighting a Dunhill. “Why at the Narodni Divadlo of course! Don’t you remember?” Singh asked. As his manager, Singh had spent almost 15 years with him and is perfectly aware of Rudra’s antics. Always lost in his own world, creating masterpieces from that little wooden instrument.  “Oh, yes of course, Prague, isn’t it?” coming back to this world, Rudra asked, with a sardonic smile. “Yes it is, and you better suit up! And gimme that shit you’re smoking” Singh replied, snatching the cigarette out of rudra’s hands and throwing it in the waste bin, “how many times are we going to go over your smoking habit before your performance? Now get up there and make magic!” Singh said. Rudra laughed and stepped out for the stage.

2032, Prague… the National Theater or the Narodni Divadlo, which is a dream theatre for artists and only the people with magic are able to perform here, was swarming full with people. Rudra’s social awkwardness had long gone, but his heart fluttered today with all anticipations. Filled with music lovers, critics and journalists, the theatre was going to be a dream world, and he, he was going to the ruler of his world. At times, Rudra thought himself as the pied piper, only with a violin instead of a pipe and humans replacing the populace of mouse and rats, though never in a degraded sense. All he ever wanted was to create a bit of magic and taking the people around him to a land of stories and dreams and memories, in which he was the best, or so the world said. Prague wasn’t meant to be much different only if…

The spotlight was on his persona as he took the centre stage. Thunderous claps rallied from the last to the first, from the balcony to the down, followed by a complete silence.  Rudra waited a moment. If someone was an attentive and observant audience, he or she would have known that Rudra wasn’t just standing still; his eyes were jumping from face to face, searching amongst a faceless crowd.

It was a monsoon of 2021 when a letter arrived to rudra’s address. The paper eerily seemed familiar and an unmistakable jasmine scent was not hard to miss. Reading it once, twice, a hundred times, he couldn’t figure out what was the reason, and finally, dejected, the letter was stapled with a music sheet that was being composed that morning.

Pulling out a piece of paper out of his breast pocket, Rudra was still standing. The audience wasn’t totally unaware of the behaviors of this musical genius, owing a gratitude to the newspapers and critic reviews; they felt their heart beats when he struck the first chord on his violin. What followed was a journey to a land of pure musical magic, a new, raw, unheard melody. The chills that went down the spine of those who worshipped music was indeed a treat, but Rudra wasn’t inclined to that.

The letter had a simple content… “I am leaving…try and forget me. All the love… Devi!” Every other attempt to contact had failed. Rudra had no answer to any of his questions. All he was left with was a hope and an unfinished symphony that he intended to play for her. Endless mails and messages were sent that were not replied. Calls died after ten rings. Though there were some news that popped up every now and then, Rudra lost something that wasn’t going to be back.

The performance ended well, as it is expected. The theater might have come crumbling down if claps had such power. Applause and buzzing “brava!’’ were the other sounds. Rudra’s eyes were still scanning the crowd, searching for something, or rather someone. Along with the music sheet on the stand, there was another piece of paper, both as old and yellow, with some faded ink and maybe a jasmine scent. “I am in Prague… where are you?” a whisper escaped his breath, unheard by the euphoric audience… “Please… where are you?” another whisper. People in the first row might had noticed a trickle in the corner of his eyes and must had mistaken it as the tears of joy… mark of a artist!... “WHERE ARE YOU DAMMIT?” a loud, shocking wail that silenced the whole theater… the strings resembled to springs out of a broken toy, splinters of wood lay around… an expression of disbelief was stuck on everyone’s face as they saw the magician of music on his knees, shivering in pain and agony.

Someone in the first row picked up a paper of some musical notes…an unfinished symphony called “Devi’s Song” with a stapled letter.

                                                        

                                                               END

a note before leave

25^th January, 2015.

Yesterday was saraswati pujo in school of which I had no intention to attend, but some serious persuasion was able to make do otherwise. I might have explained what is it in one of my previous blabbers, so I hardly think it is necessary anymore. Or perhaps I do not want to indulge in a long, arduous anthology about one occasion, there is a plethora of information on the internet, you might as well use that instead of looking for porn or cat videos or stuff.

I have learnt something yesterday, death is always around us! (before you read further, my stupid blog followers, no, I am not having suicidal tendencies!) Watching us, smirking at our futile attempts to conquer her (I say ‘her’ for a reason, read the sandman by vertigo comics) and when it is time, she will grab our wrist, and will lead us out. To speak more logically if i leave the romanticism out, imagine sleeping one deep sleep, and multiply it with infinity!

 I might just know it better than most of my friends. Though I really do not want to insult those who had “near death experiences” by stating a false comment, neither do I have the intention to initiate a stupid sense of sympathy among anyone for me, I shall say, I too met death. Though there was no humane personification, no black top and jeans wearing punk girl was there, no one smiling at me, but there were a series, which I call “stop events”, when I almost died. And if I believe my mother, it started when I was 4 days old. Since then, there are a number of “stop events” and I remember them chronologically. And since I am typing shit, I might as well let it all out.

I know my readers by now might have already gone “aawh shit! Again?” and must have moved on to other greater things, but do wait and be still my hearts; I might not get to say it again. I know this too that an auspicious occasion as saraswati pujo and a horrible truth as death are really not something one might relate together, but sometimes, some revelations are too random.

Chronologically, I was 4 days old and my parents had to make a journey from my ancestral home to my mashi’s house, 80 kilometers away. A night time journey in a taxi on a road to nowhere, it was my first meeting with death. I don’t know what happened, my mother refrains herself from letting the story out. She just smiles and changes the subject. Secrets she holds in her bosom, it reminds me how strong she is! But I can assure one if asked, color drains from her face when she tries to remember that I almost died.

It was some summer; I was like some 5 or 6 years old. Watering the garden plants with a long green pipe and jumping around was all very fun until one jump became fatal. Next thing I remember, my head is stuck to an open window, red warm blood gushing through an open wound, I was shouting in pain until mother came running. Faint memories of my mother crying and begging for help, her sari turning red, a bearded doctor approaching with a crooked needle is all the fragments I get in dreams. And that similar accident occurred again, at the same house, same window almost 5 weeks later. The doctor was amused that I lived this time.

Villages in west Bengal are a hub of small ponds, thus the people there are basically water insects. They know how to swim before they know how to speak (a bad example, I apologize). My father did too, and had a fatherly expectation that I will learn swimming as he did. He went crazy when I wasn’t resurfacing. It will be suffice to say, drowning clears your head. It makes you blank and you feel like floating into an endless after your lungs are filled with water, it is painful though.

I was playing with my pals in my locality, running wild and stuff kids do. While playing it is normal for kids not to pay attention, I didn’t paid attention too. It was a bloody bike that skidded after hitting me blind on the streets. Well I was lucky again.

Apart from these, I was electrocuted twice, had a fatal fall, had constant blackouts on the road for a while due to a nervous issue that led to some serious problems, got high, maybe it was opium or something, a muddy ball that tasted like dirt, I was walking alone and believe me, if you are so high that you don’t see an oncoming lorry, you’re marked for death, and are damn lucky if you don’t die. Well, these were some stop events of many I had encountered. The last one was on yesterday, when I was returning home. I won’t tell you what happened, let it be for sometime else.

This brings me to the dots I want to connect between yesterday’s pujo and the accounts I just typed. I am in no position to ascertain or predict when will be the next ‘stop event’ happen for obvious reasons, and whether I would be able to say this or not again and the pujo ‘stop event’ was more like a calling bell. I might or might not die soon and I really don’t have much expectation on people turning up when I leave. As I said, I wasn’t going to the pujo but there are some idiots around me who mean something to me. I met them yesterday. Two of them are bloody stupid bitches and are adorable. Then there is this old mate of mine of whom I talk not-so-often I met after almost 8 years (not counting the other meet, it was slight and irrelevant), along with his better half (no pun, she is better than you, the balance of yin-yang is complete, not to mention you guys are adorable). He was a complete wise arse but even more, a greater friend.

So, here I am, raising my glass to all of you who read it now, for I may not will be able to speak again. To you all, I thank you. To Dishant and Veenu, for acting like those elder brother and sister to me which I never had. To you, my mate, for getting me out of bullshit storm or at least trying for make things passable by your practical mind (reminded me to find my coldness back again) and congratulations to you and your better half once again. To you, dear doctor for standing with me hoping (no I didn’t forget, I can’t forget anything) and understanding stuff. And to all others who had the misfortune of meeting me.  It is perhaps of no use to speak of certain things right now, and I know somehow that there is a major chance that my death will hardly bother anyone in particular, but thank you anyway (again, I am not going to leap off a building or ingest pills or slit wrists). I might love you all, but don’t hold many hopes!

I wrote enough! Now I need a bloody coffee! I think my readers are tired too! go watch some cat videos or the girl with amazing eyebrow talent!

Ta!

Through a Kaleidoscope

16^th January, 2015.

Hello there my incessant readers! People with no good thing to do in a fine Friday evening, who are scrolling away their frustration! Well, I assume that since you are reading this, you may not have anything better to do, so…

What’s the first thing comes to your mind when I say “kaleidoscope”? The beautiful enigmatic patterns enclosed in a triangular tube filled with small beads and stuff? Something in which we can look into for hours and yet it won’t be boring for the slightest?

There is an order in that, isn’t it? Perfect order. But what will you say if I tell you, there is no order but an enormous chaos inside that glass tube? That you are just looking at an illusion? Think about it, you revolve the tube at various angles, the stuff inside gets stirred, getting messed up. That is the epitome of chaos; things get messed up. But then, wouldn’t you agree that a kaleidoscope creates order out of chaos, letting us mesmerized by just some silly concept of textbook physics of light and reflections?

A few days ago, I read a blog written by a guy I respect. ( link ) A good friend of mine, and far better a writer than me. There, quite amusingly, he spoke of being dead for just one day (that was quite interesting brother). I know, one cannot find the relevance between a kaleidoscope and being dead, but be still!

I don’t know much about life, so I will let it be answered by people with superior philosophies. But I do know about chaos. I know, sometimes, life is hell bent on giving us lemons, and the sourest ones! Things go apeshit, bat-crap crazy, in one fleeting moment. One slight miscalculated word you speak, step you take, and everything turns into one nasty mess. The established order we think there is gets upset and et voila!

Now, I can try to make relevance between dying and chaos, and it might not make any sense to anybody. So apologies in advance. We all are going to hell, believe me, we are! And I don’t think it’s necessary to speak of the obvious about death. It is not in our power. But chaos is! The kaleidoscope is in our hands. It always was. The small colorful beads inside that glass tube are in our power, and thus, the order is too! Or rather the illusion of order, as I said, chaos is always there.

Believe me when I say this, chaos is beautiful, if you know what you are looking for. Some memories in past flooding your nights, a slight flutter of your heart when you see someone, the restless mind when you face disarray, when things go out of control, let it be! You may not know, but you are looking at a life size colorful pattern. We always try to control, to “handle” stuff instead of letting it be. Sure, sometimes we must take certain steps to make thing easy, but always controlling stuff is shit! We are afraid of our hearts to be in love. We say “I want to fly” but the moment we face the chaos of winds, we screw up! We are afraid of getting hurt, which hurts us more, scars us, and turns us into nothing but pathetic existence. We crave for things to easy, we are looking for peace, but we are looking at all the wrong places. Remember, for a kaleidoscope to work, look closely, very closely! Peep inside the eye-hole! You’ll find your lost order. And if not, well, keep looking, and let it be. It is far easier.

As far as death is concerned, well, we can’t make it out alive, but we can live, creating our own chaos and order. So, let’s look through the kaleidoscope.

Regards.

p.s -  I know it is late, but happy new year to all!

All the Broken. (first Blog story)

10^th January, 2015.

                                              All the Broken.

*the sleeveless white floral skirt was billowing along with the blowing wind, as she stood on the railing. The twilight color of the setting sun seems to be reflected off her bare skin, back into the burning existence from where it had arrived, maybe with a taste of a phenomenon inbound.*  

“How does it feel to fly? To touch and soar the highest clouds and return?”  *she asks, resembling as a griffin, riddling the unfortunate traveller of far destinations. Only thing amiss here is she is no mythical entity, and there is no valid answer right now*

“Okay, just come down, get the bloody down from there!”  *he says, taking measured steps towards her. His arms are stretched out, trying his best to outreach his physical limits. He really hasn't been much of an athlete or anything ever.*  “let’s just talk, okay?”

“I think, falling is much like flying, only with a more permanent destination. You just let go, and everything else takes it course by itself!”   *she says. Sometimes it is hard to ascertain where does the delusional find their last limit? Where do they stop? The sun’s getting much closer to its refuge, the horizon where it shall leave the world in the arms of night, when the most of all will delve into slumber, and a few nyctophylls will be awake, their tongues out to taste the falling dew*

“Just stop this, stop this bloody sodding stupidity and come down.. COME DOWN!” *He screams on the top of his lungs. His heart is fighting its way out of his chest, the wind is helpless in drying up the constant bullets of perspiration. The t-shirt is losing its color, growing darker and darker, like the sky losing its light*  

“Down? Yes, I've had enough” *her face stiffens, signs of contemplation appears on her visage. He too stops. Slight relief, slight doubt, and a whole lot of complicated surge lights his face*  “I shall go down! There’s nothing to do, none will make sense…*she looks at him, a wry lost smile gives away the final unsaid remark. Uncertain fear clouds his heart, the time made its halt for that one fleeting moment, the sun wasn't going to set.*  “you be good! I love you”  *she speaks, her tone isn't what one can ever say normal*  “I will miss you, goodbye!”… “No, NO!”

*gravity had done what it is meant to do .Centuries ago, someone stated that nothing can endlessly move in the physical plane; something else will be there to stop what has started.  She was right! Sometimes you just let go, and everything else takes their course all by itself…

A dull thud on the concrete surface below. Some horrifying shrieks and a swarm of shocked, curios people gathers in, like ants near…*

It took Mrinal a few seconds to realize that he is still on his bed. The heartbeats feels like that someone has let loose a jackhammer inside him. The digital clock on his bedside table with its green light victoriously shows 03.15 am in the pitch black room. Sleep has left for long and wasn't going to return, yet he kept on lying, waiting his dismal heart and racing breath to calm down, staring in the darkness.  The bed is in a complete disarray, the pillows are a mound of old cloth and cotton, drenched in rancid sweat, the bed-sheet hanging down, on a brink of fall like a last leaf on a tree, waiting for a mild wind maybe.

This has been a regular routine for him for a few months now. Endless nights of insomnia or the horrid nightmares plaguing his sleep. He is yet to meet the psychotherapist referred by Arjun, his friend and employer, even a month long vacation was advised. Mrinal stood adamant, he can’t leave; or won’t.

Mrinal kept staring in the dark. Maybe beyond the dark, at the wall in front of him, where there should be a photo frame. 8x10 inches, grassy green wooden frame, with a black and white photo in it, he regretted the frame’s color choice though. He knows it is there, he can almost see it. He knows because he hung it there, 2 years ago, when none of these nightmares were there. He, them, no one had ever anticipated that there would be…

The past few months hasn’t been easy for Mrinal, it wouldn’t be for anybody who might have witnessed such trauma. But against all the better advice from his friends, he stayed. Sometimes he wondered, leaving wouldn’t be a bad idea after all, from all this bullshit, but then, he knows too well that these episodes, nightmares won’t leave him alone. People never recover; it may just get suppressed, but not recover.

“I was late… only if I was there!” words echoed in his vacant brain. “I was fucking late! I wasn’t there!” the echoes grew, larger and clearer. It wasn’t an echo anymore; it was a voice in the back of his head. Getting off his bed, Mrinal staggers his way to the bathroom. A sick feeling rises from the deepest of him, and the gradual rise is much more horrid, unbearable. “It was me… I failed to be there”; picking up the Jack Daniels, the staggering continued, toppling a glass into shatters.

In a false hope, Mrinal takes a long swig off the bottle, hoping that the bitter alcohol will press down the rising feeling. Desperation always gives a person ridiculous hopes, despair is always a bitch in its own way. The mouthful of the drink burns his throat, but instead of washing things down, it acts like a catalyst in a chemist’s beaker, following a failed reaction… The bathroom sink was floating with the food from his dinner, the drink and a resented chunk of self disgust. The bitter taste of digestive enzymes and bile along with failed drink left a trail of disappointment, anger. The man in the mirror is a stranger to Mrinal, disgusted at him. The void inside him takes turn. There is a point where people break.

The cold jets of water from the shower-head burns through is skin in a cold night, but then, when one is scarred in the inside, does it really matters? Painful shivers cracks his bones, his spine aches due to the cold water in one of the coldest night, but the one who’s broken in the inside reckons these as banal and vanity at their best. The broken pieces of mirror glasses glints, the shattered reflections of Mrinal mock him, as he empties the bottle of alcohol with a stoic face, hoping that the night would end now. Small pool of discolored blood from his busted knuckles gathered around the drain, looking for a way out of this. “I am sorry… I wasn’t there… I…” a deep dark surrounds him as the sky outside gains its first light. Alcohol, if anything, gets lost sleep back, or at least a moment of solace.

Around 250 telephones buzzes and rings in equal pace, vying to be answered first. Some are answered, some die away after helpless waiting. Multiple voices, tailored and groomed to sound as calmer and reassuring as possible are trying to keep up, answering the calls, stationed like soldiers in a warfront, as if lives were at stakes. And maybe there were lives at stake. The 15 inch flatscreens were glued to the eyes in front of them; light fast fingers ran over the keyboards. A complete unavoidable singular baritone kept in continuity.

Through the window blinds of the cabin across the office area, Mrinal kept staring at the off white office, or whatever was visible of it. It looked like machinery with different minds, individuals united with differences. “Ironic” he wonders.

The watery green tiled cabin was completely a contrast to what was outside of it. Instead of vocal baritones and tenors, here the sounds were distinguishable in each of their own. The ac’s deep wheezing tried it best to dissuade the silences, as was the second’s hand in the table clock, ticking from one eternity to another. The scribbling pen on paper stopped, followed by a tearing sound.

“Here’s your month’s pay!” Arjun spoke at last, sliding the paycheck towards Mrinal. “Thanks”, a curt but polite reply. A moment of silence prevails, awkwardness wasn’t intended…  “Look, Mrinal, um, I know it’s all up to you, but being as a friend and not your employer, will you please listen to me? Take the leave! Of all the others in this agency, you deserve a fucking break! I don’t know why you are doing this, I mean after Maya…” Arjun chokes. Mrinal, Maya and Arjun were college mates, and it was since then that the romance between Mrinal and Maya was open and outright. It would be unfaithful if one assumes that Arjun had no feelings for Maya, but he knew it was stupid, Maya had a clear heart and that was for Mrinal only. Even then, it never affected their friendship; the three were inseparable by unsaid promises.

Maya committed suicide, jumped off a roof 4 months ago. Schizophrenia. Mrinal was going to marry her.

“I am fine, Ajju!” Mrinal speaks, his eyes drifting from the bookshelf at the back of the cabin, to the aquarium near the glazed window, the high raised buildings outside and back to the dancing girl statuette on the table. “I am good”, he says.

“The hell you are!” Arjun explodes. “You’re like my brother Mrinu, I know you better than anyone! And I’ll be damned if you’re alright after all this! After Maya’s suicide! Just stop the bloody lies! For her sake…” Arjun jerks Mrinal by shoulder.

 “Ajju”, Mrinal looks up, Arjun’s face contorted with grief, patting his arms assuring him, “Ajju, whatever I am doing I am doing for sake only. I lost her because I was too late to act, by the time I was there, the damage was done. I let things go too far, she was gone long ago; the jump was just the destination. She always said, her destination was permanent one, it wasn’t her delusion speaking, not always.”

Silence prevailed, silhouettes of a man brooding at the corner of his desk and another man slumped in the chair through the glazed glass panel door went unnoticed. Mrinal stood up, folding the paycheck neatly, “I shall leave, there’s work…” Arjun nods slightly, “if you need anything, Mrinal…” Mrinal was out of the door already, towards his desk.

The telephone on his desk rang hysterically, like the other incessant phones in the office.

Among the other stuff on his desk drawer, there’s a small photo-frame, a smaller version of the one back in his bedroom, a black and white photograph…

Conforming to the patterned tailored voices in the office, Mrinal picks the phone, “this is New Life Suicide Helpline, and how can I help you?” a slight silent second passes.

“I…” a girl, maybe 20-23 years old, “I, I want to live! Please!” disappointment hangs from her voice; she is losing a fight that everyone else is fighting.

“I want to live”.

“Then I won’t let you die. Trust me.”

Maya keeps on smiling in the photograph. And in his heart. 

                                               End

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