The Mayor's Cat.

“Curiosity killed the cat.” The little boy kept chanting and Harry was exactly seven seconds close to breaking his skull when Bob took him aside. “What is wrong with you? He’s just a little boy. Can’t you stay a little patient?” “I have tried being patient with this crackhead. We need to try a different way to extract information out of him. He is the only witness to the murder. And here he is, looking at me, repeating this meaningless line with a smirk on his face, as if threatening me to chicken out. The mayor is getting impatient by the minute. That loner’s life revolved around that bloody cat. What are we even doing here? What did I join the police for? To find a random cat’s murderer?” Bob was more calm. “It’s not a random cat. It was the mayor’s cat.” He spoke, still looking into the distance. He was thinking things through, trying to join the dots patiently. “Curiosity killed the cat.” There seemed to be something beyond the scope of what looked obvious. This little child couldn’t possibly be threatening us, he thought. “Curiosity killed the cat.” Bob’s instincts told him to look at this boy’s statement beyond the surface. He brainstormed too hard. He loved puzzles, and this was very interesting. He also loved kids, and he knew something was off with that kid. Kids aren’t evil. They’re supposed to be pure, right? He went home and tried to look at the case from different angles. Got tired, slept, ate, and thought again.

Six days later the effort finally paid off. The universe gave him a signal and he was vigilant enough to not miss it. Three blocks away, A girl named Curiosity lived on room 212 of building B. She came to meet her friend here, the neighbor of the kid. All her attention concentrated towards her phone, her heel pierced into the cat and she winced with pain before dying a painful death. Curiosity didn’t even try to save her. She was too scared to stay. After all, everyone knew this collar-strap with ‘Mayor’s property’ written all over it. She thought it was best to run away. But Johnny happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. And he got scarred by what he saw.

Over coffee, that evening, the team was being congratulated for having solved such a weirdly twisted case. At the first opportunity, Harry came to Bob and smiled. “Curiosity killed the cat at various levels. The girl killed the animal, mine killed my sense of rationality and patience, and yours killed the conventional way of thinking.” They both gave each other a long hard look, and broke out laughing.

No reason...

We’re always looking for reasons:

Reason to say what we feel.

Reason to do what we want.

Reason to spend time with someone we think we love.

Reason to join a college, or not do so.

We are doing that internship because we expect a certificate in the end. We’re playing that game of tennis to win, or to be fit, or to be able to add it to our resume as a ‘hobby’. We’re aiming at a big-shot company for the heavy paycheck and the fine dining.

We always want to be reasonable, and practical, and sensible.

Today I was walking towards the metro station thinking about the possible turns my life would take in the next few months- or years, when I was stopped on the sidewalk by voices; voices of a group of girls clad in their school uniforms. They came running to me. I was pulled out of my bubble of thought and I didn’t like it.

“Here” The youngest one presented me a little branch of flowers plucked from the roadside bush, followed by all others.

I was too shocked to react. “Thank you. “ I managed to utter and continued walking.

One step, two, three, four, five, six, seven. I turned around, traced the same path back to their spot.

“Why did you give this to me?” I couldn’t stop myself from wondering about the reason. “We study in that school across the road” The eldest of the lot said, pointing towards the other side of the road. “We give flowers to people while waiting for our bus here.” Chirped the younger one.  “Why do you do that?” I asked again.

“No reason. We have to wait anyway. This is fun.”

No reason.

And I couldn’t stop smiling like an idiot for the rest of the day.

 

Beautiful things happen is this world.

You know why? 

No reason.

All by myself.

I loved being all by myself.
When my friends would invite me over for lunch I would cancel,
Make an excuse of work;
Try to catch some quality lone time.
I liked being all by myself.

When someone would call me for chit chat,
I would wonder when they would hang up
So that I could finish my favorite book.
And when I put it down, late at night, maa would bring me a cup of coffee and something to eat.
And I would tell her to leave me all by myself.

When I'd see people talking about moving out to a different city for college,
I'd be all excited
To have a house of one's own; Decorate it the way one liked.
One could order pizza every night.
Or sit on your favorite bench in your favorite park until early morning.
And would not have to bother about curfew limits.
All I dreamt was being all by myself.

It's all come true. The house, the new city, the bench in the park, the pizza.
Everyone's on their own, providing for themselves.
Now I pick up the phone and look at the contact list that has just added numbers with time.
And I look at my favorite coffee mug and suddenly crave for mom's homemade pickle.
And I look at the book lying on the floor which has the bookmark my best friend made for me.

I have all the time I need to spend with myself. What else does one need?

But I have to admit: I hate it!
I hate being all by myself.

Inspired by the song: All by myself,by Eric Carmen. 

Photographs by: Shreyanshi Soni, Yoshieta Gupta

What world do we live in?

Which world are we living in?

Every day, while flipping through the newspaper, I come across various headlines in different fonts. And each one of them gets me thinking, which world are we living in?

So a 19-year-old girl gets raped in a minibus in Bangaluru. How it happened? Well, the same old, girl going to work, boards bus, horny driver, gives bus controls to assistant, rapes her for an hour or so, throws her on a deserted road, speeds away. Oh, and also, the writer mentioned another gang-rape incident in the vicinity just a few weeks ago, just for the record, you know.

There’s another small-font news where a man and his father forced the wife into committing suicide. Why? The usual: incompetent man can’t earn enough to support his own family so constantly forces the wife to bring in money from her ‘paraya-ghar’. 

It’s funny though, how the reporter mentioned leniency given to the father and the son on account of various other people they have to take care of, including a three-year-old son from the victim. Thank god it’s a son, though. She might not even live those three extra years if not for that xy chromosome. So usually there is a lifetime imprisonment under section 304-B (Dowry Death) now reduced to a seven year imprisonment for both perpetrators in this case. Also, I am made aware of the presence of a section 498-A of the IPC which designates punishment for subjecting a married woman to cruelty. Did someone mention ‘marital rape’ to me some time ago?

Oh, but what is the law for? What are PILs for? I’ll tell you. This very noble monk named Swami Satyananda Chakradhari plays his role as a politically aware and active citizen by filing a public interest litigation requesting a 10-year-imprisonment for cow slaughter.

Yes! That’s the solution! A ten year imprisonment for cow slaughter. And a leniency-granted seven year for manslaughter.

And what’s on the super-headlines? A debate on whether Chhota Rajan should be retained in Delhi or handed over to Mumbai Police.

This is the world we are living in.

Source: The Hindu, Delhi, Saturday, November 7, 2015

Fear v/s Embrace

How disturbing would it be to find out that the person who offered you a seat in the metro, or the person you helped cross the road, or the person who sold you those pink earrings at round the corner, or the person with whom you had a very memorable conversation last evening while waiting at the coffee house, or all of them at once-- are dead. No more. Gone to a place which noone has ever seen, yet everyone keeps talking about.
How strange it sounds how profoundly death— irrespective of our relation with the person— affects us, leaves a permanent mark: a wound; a scar.
Some people get irritated when you talk to them about death. It's like the unspeakable truth everyone keeps fearing and avoiding and distracting one's mind from. They know it's inevitable, "but why talk about something that makes you sad?", say most people who are convinced that I am obsessed with the idea of death.
But why not talk about it like one talks about marriage, or further educational pursuits, or dispelling one's virginity, or jobs- which are more or less equally unpredictable. We make a million plans: only a quarter of them work out as we imagined. People dwell over their dream wedding, or their dream vacation, and when I ask them about their dream death—long awkward silence, followed by looks as if you have shoved a knife straight into their gut.

Because we always want to cling on! This desperate need to make things last forever, even human life. We know it's impossible but we like to believe it isn't. So we would close our ears when someone would say the opposite.
What we don't realize is that the only things that last till you do are memories. So why not embrace them, accept their transcendentalism? 
How disturbing it was to think about deaths of those people! And how fascinating it is to know that their last memory of the living world which they would carry to the other world(if any) would be of an episode with a stranger. And the stranger, in so many cases, is you!

Faulty Perceptions.

He had never been so frustrated before. As soon as he saw his mother, he roared, out of anger. The redness of the blood gushing out of his would looked pale before the redness of his cheeks. "They think just because they don't understand our language, we don't understand theirs? Ours is a much older and intelligent civilisation! But sheer arrongance has made these people blind!"

His father tried to calm him down, offered him some food.
His anger was directed at the foolishness of people. They would always see the world through a self manufactured lens, and like to believe it to be the only way of the world!
Such lunkheads!
"What do they know about our daily sttuggles? We are in constant threat of being killed. Our family doesn't know if we'll return home at dusk. We don't even have any cars or helicopters to our comfort. Wherever we need to go, there's a lot of muscular energy exhausted; enough to kill the purpose of reaching the designated place."
His fury just wouldn't cease to flow.
"And then they would say, 'wish I were a free bird, with a limitless sky to explore...'"
How he hated such baseless admirations and fantasies.

If only he could show those humans how much they have polluted the air and induced in this so-called limitless sky an abundance of death and disease, they would know how wrong they are in epitomising the life of a "free" bird.
He would show them that class hierarchies exist in every civilisation, and that flying in the sky isn't as relaxing as getting one's ass onto the backseat of one's superexpensive sedan and signalling the driver, 'home'.

What's freedom to us then, they would ask us, probably; he thought. "And I would beg them to stop polluting our area, and stop flying those kites whose threads are tiny enough for our eyes to miss but sharp enough to wound our body anytime. And I would beg them to stick to the part of the world assigned to them, and not strive to conquer the sky. For if they continue to life their lives(and destroy ours) at the same pace, there won't be any birds left to symbolize freedom; only carcasses to hint upon our existence to the future generation, raising debates on the credibility of those artefacts, just like they do to dinosaurs." 

Cracked up

When she would lay awake in bed at night, this probable incident would always cross her mind. A background setting of a mall or some public space, ten-fifteen years from now. She imagined herself walking 
with her spouse, maybe a child, and she imagined accidentally running into a stranger, or maybe turning around to a tap on her shoulder. And she’d have a whirlpool of thoughts running in her mind at that moment. Strangeness-surprise-melancholy-excitement-dismay-joy.

She would imagine shouting “Hi!” with surprised, gleaming eyes, and hugging him tight! He- her best friend in college. Would he have a wife along? That never entered her frame. But the whole sequence 
repeated itself in her pre-sleep time every alternative night. 
She would tell him about this probable future of theirs, and he would laugh it away. “We’ll always be friends, stupid girl. That’s never going to happen.” He’d say. And she liked to believe it. But this alternative probability never left her mind.
.
.
.
She ordered her food and turned around. “Hi!” she said with surprised, gleaming eyes. It had been so long since she last saw him. He smiled slightly and replied, “How are you?” They made small talk for a couple of minutes while she paid her due to the cashier and waited for her order. She smiled within. No kids. No spouses. “Call me sometime whenever you’re free.” She picked her stuff and left at his affirmation.
Five minutes later, he saw her crying in her car. He thought of going to her, but quickly changed his mind. Cracked up inside, she cried like a baby who had lost his favorite car he took with him to bed every night. Tears would refuse to stop flowing down. She saw it coming, but not so soon.
It had indeed been long since she last saw him. It felt like just a couple of days ago that she narrated to him a similar story and he had laughed at her vivid imagination. It had been a long time since she last saw him. 
A year, perhaps?