Afterlife

I had this severe pain in the left side of my head. My head throbbed. I continued working hoping the head ache would stop. 10 minutes into work, I knew I needed a drive. So I got up and left.

I was 29. Horrible, I know. I need to really start smoking.

I lived alone in a fall-on-your-face-and-you’ll-probably-hit-your-head-apartment, without my parents who found it perfectly fine to die when I turned 18. Yes, they left me no siblings. The aunts and uncles and cousins were all perfectly too annoying.

As all these depressing thoughts passed my head, I found myself near the elevator. As I waited for the torturously polite elevator to finish its pleasantries on each floor and reach mine, the Greek god of my office walked right up to me and said, “I think you dropped these.” As I smiled at him and extended my hand, a strip of anti depressants fell into my hand. I looked down and said, “But these aren’t mine.” I swear they weren’t. But he smiled and walked back.

Asshole.

I mean what does he think of me? Yes, I am not exactly chirpy but come on, I wasn’t on anti-depressants.

Maybe I should take it.

The headache was worsening.

I reached my pityingly small car and sat in it. Seriously, did I look depressed?

I took a quick reverse out of the parking lot and drove onto the main road. After a physically torturous 10 minutes in the traffic, I reached an absolutely empty road. And I drove like a maniac.

It felt nice. The wind in my hair. The absolute freedom of an empty road.

Then crash. Boom. Pow.

Dead as a doornail.

Holy shit. One time I drive recklessly and you kill me!

Okay, wait! How was I still talking? I mean, in my head.

I was dead. I somehow knew it. I was still there on that hauntingly empty road. But just that I wasn’t there. As in my now-should-be smashed car and my mangled body wasn’t. But I was.

This is confusing, I agree.

And as I stood there with a bewildered expression, I realized the left side of my head still hurt.

But they said there was no pain after death. Aw, crap! So they were lying.

I walked on that empty road.

If I had to choose between whether this was heaven or hell, I would say hell, alright. This place was empty except for me. Maybe only I sucked at living.

Then absolutely out of nowhere entered a man. A man with boyish eyes. A man with a crooked smile.

My ears. Violins did start playing. The street did fill with colours.

A man who seemed like he was waiting for me.

“Anya? I was waiting for you. Thank God, you are finally here. Hi, I am Aditya, your soul mate. Sorry, we couldn’t meet in life. I kind of died young” He said.

I knew it! My soul mate had died! I wish I could tell all the people that once mentioned that I was meant to die alone.

Okay, technically they were right. But whatever.

Oh, by the way, the lies about love are all true. All pain does vanish, music does play, and yes, you do start believing in life. Sorry, after life.

Colours

She sold superstition and love. On the streets of Mumbai, she lived, she dreamt, she slept, she worked.

Her mornings began with yellow and green. Scanning the cars and rickshaws, she’d head for the open windows, sleepy eyed. She’d sell them hope in a string. They would buy it. Superstition was too cheap to buy, anyway.
When the sky was a little red and when wants had been ordered for, from the immortal one, they’d hope other mortals wouldn’t hinder the delivery. Hence the nimbu-mirchi.

She’d saunter around looking for the regulars. Hanging the string without a word, taking her change and walking off. With some she’d have to haggle. She always won though. How lower than Rs. 5 can you go anyway?

In the evenings, she’d sell some red. She’d look for the alone man or woman who wasn’t lonely. The ones who had a strange smile on their lips. They were easy to spot. They always bought her roses.

That’s how she spent her days. It seemed there were only 3 colours in her life. Red, green and yellow. When the signal turned red, her work started and momentarily stopped when it turned green. She’d sleep on the street when all the lights were yellow till they became red again. She sold the wares as solutions, as a remedy to problems, as a gift. To the hopeful.

One night, she sold her last rose to a boy. A boy with green eyes. And in the moments that followed, she was the one being handed the rose. He smiled at her and ruffled her hair. And as the rickshaw drove off, she smiled too.

He was what she waited for everyday. A splash of rainbow to end the day with. Suddenly, there were more colours to look forward to.

He came diligently every night, bought her a rose. And some happiness too.

One day he came with another woman in the rickshaw. He was holding the woman's hand. And as the girl sold him the rose that day, she knew she wasn’t going to get it back.

The signal was still red. She turned to walk away but lights of yellow crashed into her.

She fell back on the street, her eyes closed from all the pain. She noticed the street turning red with her blood.

It turns out some people don’t observe colours as closely as she did.

A lesson in verses: Part Three - I believe you, book!

I do not remember when I first read a book but I fell in love.
Head over heels, it was how love was to be. Inexplicable.
Every time I held her in my hands, I’d go weak in my knees
I needed to sit down for some time as I immersed myself in her beauty.
I spent hours looking at her, listening to her complain and rave.
I was mesmerized with her smell, her joyful contours
My hands on her. What more do I need?

She spoke and I was eager to listen, she was shy sometimes.
Slowly revealing her course. Passionate at others,
Passion seething out of her as she explained her views to me.
I would do nothing but listen, listen with my ears, my heart, and my mouth too.
My mouth agape at what she would say and what I would hear.
Its fiction some would say, she makes it up. I would push them away.
They hadn’t held her in their hands, caressed her with their touch. They wouldn’t know.
She was the truth.

She introduced me to my world again. I had seen the grass already, the sky too.
But when she said “Those blades of earthly warmth underneath the canopy of blue”
It was like there was a new grass now, a new sky too. A new world altogether to see.
She spoke of brooms and witches for a few years. Of good over evil. Of oddly numbered platforms.
I went mad with frenzy imagining that new world and nodding at all those new people in cloaks.
And when she spoke of all the pain she had seen in Afghanistan, I cried.
And in solidarity with her pain, went silent for a few days, let her talk and shed her tears.

She was also very funny. When she spoke like Wodehouse with his wit and charm
And asked "why the sudden change in mood?" she’d say in Vonnegut style,
“Why? That is such an earthling question to ask. There is no why. It just is.”
Sometimes suddenly her voice turned a little Indian. She spoke of my issues.
About castes and marriage and harassment and loss. She spoke of solutions.
She spoke of hope. And when I started believing, she pushed me a little, and said that hope was an illusion.
Like God. I cried a little too much that day.

We are lovers in a world where my love for her is not accorded to many.
And for my kind, our love wasn’t accepted. If I had been born 50 years back or
today in another family, they’d snatch her from my arms. But I wasn’t.
I was lucky to have her by my side, I was lucky to be able to have a light to read her by.
There were millions, millions who needed her wisdom. And she wanted to stop but had to pass them by.
But she swears to me that someday, all of those little children will feel her touch.
In their hands and their hearts and their brains.

She loves me. And she can love some more. It’s a weird kind of love.
Where I want it shared. Where I want to find someone who loves her as much
And then recite our stories of her.
How she carved me with her tiny chisel. Cutting away stone little by little
To reveal a form I didn’t know I had.
And today when I talk, I notice she talks through me. The wisdom of a million years.
And when she says “Look Trupthi, that's where wars were fought,
Look, that’s where love was lost
Look, that’s where a little girl one day wrote her poems like you. Look.”
I smile back at her and say, like always I believe you, book.

A lesson in verses: Part Two - The stranger's pat

When the little girl got called names,
She’d run to the back of the playground and dance.
Her peculiar dance.

It was what sent smiles through her,
And it was where the world wouldn’t see,
So she did it with all her might.

Aaah! The pleasure of loneliness
Is all she could seek now, not acceptance
For her peculiar dance wasn’t quite like the others.

One day as she stood at the back alone,
Feeling particularly uninspired to do her dance
Two girls she’d only known but not quite, appeared.

They frowned at her. One said, “I like what you do”
The other asked, “Why would you stop? We all need more”
She stood stunned for this praise was unsought.

She got back on her feet
And her peculiar dance wasn’t as peculiar any more
When two pairs of feet joined her.

A lesson in verses: Part one - The second man on the moon

The moment I stepped on that celestial body
My heart waned and I knew something was wrong,
In the way that no one but I knew it was.

Victory wasn't supposed to feel this way, my mind echoed
And as I walked with my heavy suit, the thought continued
Will anyone remember me at all? Wasn't I here too?

Holding a flag I saw him ahead, and then my mind was clear,
History would not remember me. The books would erase me
from this present and from humanity’s future too.

I reprimanded my heart to feel joyous,
It was quite a thing I had managed I remind him,
He answered back "yes, but second.”

I stood still, with absolutely no noise
And in all the stillness of the silence
I heard myself say, jealously, quite loud.

And in my moment of ultimate glory
When the only thing I could think was
"someone is better than me". I sighed.

I walked to the first man on the moon,
Shook his hand, and when the hand was released
I felt a release on my heart too.

The End.

“Hi.” She smiled.
“Hi”

The most awkward silence they ever had ensued. So she broke it with a hug. They held hands and sat down on the swing on her porch.

“You are leaving today?” She asked trying to make a start. Small talk had never been her forte. But since these were new beginnings, who knows maybe she’d like it.

“Yes. I am. Actually, in an hour. I need to see my room and enrol for classes. Which college did you chose finally?”
“Oh. Great. I am planning to travel before I settle on which college to take. Mostly I’ll take the art classes in town. As for now, too much of this swing and porch for me. Working hard this summer, saving up for an air ticket.”

“That’s great. Where do you want to go?”
“The east. Seen too much of the west on television.”
“So who are you going with? Someone new I don’t know about?” He grinned.

She looked at his eyes wondering how oblivious he was to what he was for her. Maybe having never said was the best thing. At least they could part as friends.

“Alone.” She whispered.
“What? Are you nuts? You have never been anywhere alone.”
“Exactly. I need to find someone new anyway. Now that you are leaving.” She finally confessed.

The kindness in his face turned to embarrassment.

“I will miss you.” He whispered and squeezed her hand tight.
“I will try not to miss you”

And as they sat amidst absolute quiet on that porch, the creak of the swing was all that could be heard. But there was also the sound of distance creeping between them.

And it was like the wail of a dying bird. A dying friendship.

Change

What are we so scared of?

She contemplated as she wrote.
Things were changing. Yes, they were.
Everyone was worrying. Parting was not something they were enjoying. But she?

She wasn’t supposed to feel as if parting is inevitable. She wasn’t supposed to be fine with never looking back. She wasn’t supposed to accept distance as a necessity of a progressive world and move on.

She wasn’t supposed to not be sad.
But she was.

Change was happening. And she was glad. Things had been the same too long. She had been not alone too long.
Now she needed to be. This is how freedom smelt. Dangerous, on the edge, scary but exhilarating.

This is what a country felt when it overthrew a ruler. Moving towards uncertain horizons but hopefully brighter ones.

This is what the child felt when it left the womb. From silence to noise, hoping it was melody.

This is what a butterfly felt leaving its cocoon. Unsafe but able.

And it was a beautiful feeling to hold. An adrenaline rush almost. And she wasn’t going to be sad about that.
She was going to be happy. She heard the knocks. And she knew who it was.

And as she walked down steps that were meant to be the last time she saw the love of her life, she hoped he was the love of her gone-past life.

Not her to-come life.