Yellowing Whites...

He had called her. It was her birthday. The first one since the song had broken into its notes, and remerged as a discordant disharmony. From conversations that lasted for hours in the nights, till the moon blue morphed into cloudy pink and melted in the sunny orange; now it was for the few minutes that seemingly stretched into uneasy silences.

Then it was a bouquet of Red Roses, red for passion, red of love. And now white roses, of fading emotions and the white sands drying after the tide has unwillingly retreated. Then her voice seemed to drown in ecstasy. Today it was like a beach that had seen the tempest pass; like the times when you thank the waiter for bringing you the bill; customary.

He had called her twice. Both time said the same customary lines and then hang up. She had called him back, in the night and asked him why did he do that. He had said nothing, for he had nothing to say. What does a bird say to the storm that has taken her nest away? What can a candle say to the storm that has taken away its flame? Somethings gotta give, it was one of those things.

'Things have changed a lot havent they, ? Last year on my borthday it was so different, and this year...?'

' Well it is a different year...'

'Maybe when you come to days like these, when you can actually compare the way things are and the way that they used to be. Then we actually know. Isnt it?'

"Something like relativity?'

'Cant you talk in simple terms?'

He thought, 'are we actually talking? Arent we carrying the sham of a conversation? Trying to console ourselves that even after the tsunami has gone the life goes on. Losing touch with reality in a conjured world of fake foundations and presumed facts, a living rhetoric.'

'So did you celebrate my birthday?'

'Did i...? Celebrate??'

'So were mourning instead?'

'Well i wasnt mourning.. why would i mourn? But the one who has a birthday is the one who celebrates... Isnt it so?'

'Yeah.. okay bye then!'

'Bye.'

Later he called her back, just before the watches reached the 12:00 of the night and calendars made up their minds to take another name and face. He tried to put things into perspective. Told her that how he always ends up saying things like he did, and that she should not let him spoil her moods.

'You also know na, that i cant help my mood fade on hearing such things from you...'

'Yes, I know. We both know...'

'Thankyou so much for making this call...'

'Okay so long then. Once again Happy Birthday before the day ends. Have fun. And take care.'

After hanging up he thought. She who used to get angry when he didnt call on the not-so-special days; had actually thanked him when he called on her birthday. What hurt him was that ease had turned to disease. And natural was now mass manufactured. But what hurt him the most was that she had meant it when she thanked him.

He thought about the way things had changed themselves in the months that made the recent history. He could see the textures morph, the colors change. He could see those peach and white roses that he had sent, wither and wilt in the window sill of her room. The peach turning brown, the whites turning yellow...

You...

It was just the beginning, though i didnt know it then.

I still remember vividly the exact moment you walked inside that frosty glass door. Into the humdrum of a bunch of strangers that over the year to come were to be batchmates; you strode. Maybe you were the last one to enter, maybe not, i am not too sure because after that i didnt see anyone else. What i do remember is you in that sleeveless orange cotton kurta, and a faded blue jeans. It was an everyday dress, nothing very special about it. But it was you who made it look so beautiful. On your slender neck, i remember a golden pendant shone; the speckless glow of your skin brought out the shine of gold like a ray of mellow sunlight does.

As the rituals of induction took place, i felt myself retreating. There was a time when all the voices seemed so distant. I am sure, i saw a thousand desires rise themselves from the sea below the horizon, and tear the wooden flooring to rise up towards the sky like a million stars gleaming in the daytime. They rose, soared higher, but the moment i touched one, they broke into an array of tiny white blossoms that lined the wooden flooring like snow.

I saw myself on the edge of a precipice beyond which the clouds rose up like bales of fresh cotton, i could hear your voice come across the distance that was between us. That was the moment i died again, if there was one thing that i wanted; it was to come alive with you. And so i plunged my lifeless body into those gaping clouds, hoping that they turn out to be cyanide vapors, within which i would dissolve.

I saw you calling out to me, telling me about those million dreams that played their own symphony beneath the nadir of redemption. I knew i had to finish this chapter so that i could start another.

But then i heard someone call my name, and hold me by my arm; in the last living hope, i turned to look at what i thought was you. And it was that lady in blue saree, the one who was taking our attendace and registering ourselves for the course. I dont remember now, what her name was, but i remmeber that she too had those white blossoms lining her azure saree. Its border laced by the crystal stars.

I didnt know then, that it was not providence. That things like this are not plain chance, that some souls have their soul-less destinies carved out for them. They just wait for the pieces to fall into their places, till the final picture emerges from the jigsaw conundrum. But as I said, it was just the beginning. I didnt know it then...

His Story...

Some people say that he was mad. It is not an urban legend spread among a few scattered here and there, this 'some' is a fairly large number. As an exercise, just take his name in between an ongoing conversation; and then listen to a barrage of words, all meaning the same. Insane, whacky, crazy, loony, and all its counterparts in Hindi, English, and other vernacular, they would pour out in between the pauses between the lip and the cups. With the Cups of tea, cups of coffee -Ceramic, plastic, paper, glass or steel- but the general opinion would assure you that he was mad. On further probing everyone will have a slightly different story to tell. But the common threads are quite conspicuous.

He had come to Delhi to study. Well, that maybe on the plans of a thousand other students coming from faraway places to study at this place. But that was among the first things on his list; a long sheet made of cream paper, with weird pink and green lines. Something he referred to as the “Things to Do”. And what made him weird was the scheme of things that followed. There are many stories about the exact contents of that list too. But empirical evidence has it, that no one saw it through his or her own eyes. It was always, a one of those, 'My friend saw this, that and the other many things in there'. So we don’t know about the order or the total contents of his master-plan. But we do know for sure, that the last thing- he told people that he made chronological lists- he had planned to do was, 'DIE'.

He could SEE; things that other people never did. He cared for things that were generally immaterial. He claimed that he could hear spirits talk. And sometimes he was often seen talking animatedly to someone who was not there at all. He had an endless number of fascinations, including scrawling absurdities on his skin, with his pen, during the course of lectures. But his greatest fascination was death. He never performed very well in the academics; he liked to say that it was the teachers who did not understand his points. 'Megalomania', yes that word comes to everybody’s mind, given that he or she are familiar with this word. But popular beliefs apart, He really believed he was God, maybe a little one. But he was sure he was a God of some sort.

Before his last days, he was heard to be talking about movies. Not just watching them, but making them. And given to the flights of fantasies that he took like a frequent flier; it was no wonder that, his notions flabbergasted people and their sensitivities. One particular fancy that almost everyone who knows about him recalls, is his hypothesis about movies being a part of a huge jigsaw puzzle that is suspended in the infinite dark of consciousness. He believed that every muse was one step closer to the completion of the puzzle. On the consummation of which, the 'players'; would set out to play another one. Of course no one had the patience to hear him expatiate his theory.

He was found dead. In broad day light a lorry ran over him. It was supposed to be an auspicious day for the Hindus, when the Gods were supposed to be quenching their thirst with milk. Tonnes and tonnes of it. On lookers say that he was hastily crossing the road, seconds after the traffic light had turned green; when suddenly he stopped abruptly and bent down to pick up something. After the lorry had crushed him, the people went to check him out. He was found with eyes wide open, and in his hands was a cardboard matchbox, totally intact. It was an obscure brand called TRUCK. On postmortem doctors were unable to ascertain the exact cause of his death. In fact a report said that, when they cut him open for autopsy his heart was still beating. But rest all was in rest.

No one came to claim his body and so after the customary 7 days in the morgue. He was sent to the electric crematorium, when his pockets were being shaken to be disposed; a small yellowed piece of paper, cream with green and pink lines, fell through. It was torn to an unpretentious dimension, and all that remained was the word 'DIE', against which he had scribbled in his dreamy scrawl, 'today'.

The coffee cups have been emptied, and refilled. The dhaba-wallah boy gathers the oily devoured plates, garnished with pink and yellow paper tissues rolled into rough balls. The plastic chairs move and the occupants, like conversations give way to the new ones. And the gnarled tree readies itself for another story. While life as usual goes on; and days like always, go by...