Author: varunvinayan

We walk along the beach,
Hands teasingly out of reach.
Speaking to our feet, our heads remain bowed,
But she looked up to smile, and my heart raced, burned and glowed.

Bright, beautiful, wondrously subtle,
Words fail me- she sent my thoughts a-scuttle.
She said a million things, while never uttering a word,
And it was the sweetest melody that I had ever heard.

Aching legs tell us, we need to take a seat,
Upon silky sands, with the sea just out of reach.
As the breeze carried her scent- my heart skips a beat,
Few would know what it means- to be an island upon a beach.

Flustered, dazed, I try and make a valiant joke,
And spectacularly fail, as I only manage to sputter and choke.
Straight face, brave countenance, I finally catch her gaze,
If seconds became minutes, we lasted days.

Her soft brown eyes, own me at once,
As wispy, slender fingers, twirl around my own long bony ones.
The warmth of her touch puts me at ease,
And in that tiny moment, she brought in perfect peace.

Linking arms, she inches in closer,
‘Til shoulders touched, and pulse rates lowered.
I press my lips, to her soft fuzzy hair,
And together we watch a giant orange orb, sink slowly through the air.

_V. 15/01/2014

Mostly I write, to get it right,

How things seem to me, in perfect light.

Sometimes about angles, shapes and colours,

Sometimes about things, behind tightly bound shutters.

 

Sometimes I write, to get it out,

Of things on the inside, I can do without.

Then there are times, when there’s nothing to read,

And so my words unsheathe tales, to see where they lead.

 

Paper and ink- is all I need to write,

Purpose and vision, to keep that story in sight.

Yet mostly I write, to get it right,

How things seem to me- in perfect light.

 

_V. 25/01/2018

The most difficult thing you will be expected to answer if you are foolish enough to admit that you are in the habit of writing is, “What do you write?” They will always ask you this and you will always have the same answer which is likely to be an awkward shrug followed by a moment of uneasy silence. This is why writing is best done in silence. If you write, you must write in silence. There’s no need to chirp and tweet about it. Writing, if done well speaks for itself. If it is done well, then it will be read by the right people and today, there seem to be very few of those going around. The only thing fewer than good writers are the right kind of readers, and this is mostly because the good writers don’t perish. If there is one thing that really needs to be written, it is an instruction manual on how to read well.

A growing swarm of poor and pathetic writers seem to flourish not because of declining standards of writing but it is rather a reflection on poor quality of readers who flock to bookshelves that are an eyesore at best. The reason for this could probably be because reading is no longer something that is opted for out of interest or curiosity, but as a lifestyle indicator.

One must have a bookshelf. And it must be stacked with books. It is almost unimaginable (the sheer horror of it!) to admit that one does not read. It is sad, of course. But what does not appeal to you does not require your indulgence and that gives you ample opportunity to indulge in something that does capture your imagination. For example: the Snapchat dogface. If you enjoy making dog faces at your phone, then so be it. Just don’t write a paean about how dog faces set you free and unfettered your soul. It probably did. But I don’t think I want to hear it. Worse still- I don’t want to read it.

What I would like to see written is about how you stepped out on a rainy evening to run a few errands. And how, while on your way back you get caught in a sudden downpour and so you take shelter near the corner cigarette store. While there you realise that you may have quit smoking a year or two ago but the old uncle who sits there in the corner shop still remembers your face and how you bought a packet of ultra mild cigarettes every two days. He also remembers you because, unlike many others who stopped by for cigarettes or paan or a handful of those brown sugary, milk-tasting sweets; you would also ask him how his day was and crack a joke or two and engage in some light banter before you stuck the first cigarette between your lips and asked him for a light. You would then finish your cigarette, smile at him and he would shake his happy head and then you would head home while he got back to his job of painting betel leaves.

While all this happens inside you, you realise with a pang of guilt that the reason you made conversation with the old man the first time was not because you were someone of a naturally friendly disposition, but rather it was only to ease an awkwardness inside you. That you had sworn to yourself that you would do all that it takes to cut your expenditures and the best way to do it was to cut out the tobacco dependency. It had only been a week since you took that oath when you found yourself at the old uncle’s paan shop for the first time asking for a pack of white and golds. To allay your guilt and your shame you began conversation with the old man as a distraction. That he was pleased by your interaction was your latest excuse to continue your guilty indulgence. You could quit the habit any old day, but poor old uncle. Who then, would talk to him? Also why would he want to talk to you if you didn’t want to buy any of his cigarettes? The last bit may be partially true only because it’s not entirely false.

So you stand there in the pouring rain and you watch him look at you out of the corner of his eye as you feign ignorance. But your conscience kicks in and you tell him that it’s been a long time since you last met and enquire how he was. In return, the uncle gives you a warm smile and tells you that he is doing fine but he hurt his leg last week so he doesn’t keep the shop open in the afternoon. That it does hurt his sales a wee bit, but at his age it is more important to appreciate his health than the contents of his collection box. When he enquires why you hadn’t been to his tiny box shop in such a long time, you tell him not without a hint of conceit, that you no longer smoke as you finally shunned the habit. This is when the old uncle surprises you with his response as he looks at you over the rim of his spectacles and gives you a grand old smile of approval.

“Very good”, says the old uncle, “very good indeed. I have always felt bad for the young boys and girls who buy my cigarettes. I don’t tell them off because I need to put food on the table. When I was young, my father used to tell me to get a job in a bank, but I didn’t want to spend my life counting other people’s money and end up feeling worthless. It is good that you have quit smoking. It’s a very nasty habit. I sell cigarettes but I never smoke them. I’m happy with my paan. My wife doesn’t like my teeth, but at least it isn’t as bad as a cigarette. The only reason I put up this shop was so that I could send my son to one of those schools where the boys are taught to speak English and dress well. If he wants to sell cigarettes like me, I have no problem, but I want him to have a choice.”

Until this point you were too stunned by his response but now you venture to enquire about his son whom he had wanted to take up a job in a bank if he felt like it. The Uncle shrugs indifferently and tells you that his son passed away many years ago. Seeing the shock and distress on your face he quickly apologises for the tone of his voice. It so happened that his son had finished his degree in commerce somewhere in Medak. He had always wanted to spend a length of time at his grandparents place, so after he got done with school in Hyderabad, his English speaking son decided to study in a college that was close to where his grandparents resided. He had finished college and gotten a job in a company whose name he cannot recall, situated in Vizag. On the way to Vizag, the bus fell into a naala and of the many people who perished, his son was one. At the end of his story, the uncle once again gave you an indifferent look and tells you that he thinks it is important you always do something and regret and mourning is wasteful after a point. This is why he continues to sell cigarettes. By now you feel that familiar yet long forgotten urge to suck on a cigarette and you ask Uncle to pass you one and blame the rainy weather. He nods and places one on the paan making counter while telling you not to make this a habit. You head home, put on some tea and finish your cigarette while sipping it.

Now if you can spin a story like that or simply write like that and have the right kind of people reading your work, then you have what most writers could ever hope for- the required flair and the right fan-base. However, if you can write like that, then people will still ask you what you write about and you are not going to have an answer to that ‘what’. You write what occurs to you and the thing about all good writing is that you just can’t put a finger on it.

_V. 08.07.2017

There’s a purple donkey in the sky,

Scared, lonely, happy and high.

Wandering amongst fluffy white clouds,

Forever seeking validation, of inconsequential crowds.

There’s that purple donkey, now prancing about,

Sad and disgusting, but typically upbeat-and loud.

Zhe speaks of words and metaphors that inspire,

Which sound like wet, sodden dregs of an ill conceived fire.

Tales from the past do rarely make sense,

As they belong to a different time, and a forgotten tense.

And then there are, the self-confessed, book-fiend junkies,

Who will seek and find meaning, in verses about purple donkeys.

What a world…

_V. 12/01/2018

The flight landed at the Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi at 0100 hrs and five minutes after touchdown I learned that I would not have the grand welcome that I had hoped for. Instead, I was to get in line and hire a Meru cab to a destination that was an SMS on my phone. Welcome to Delhi. You will find your way around and you will have enough to reason to drink.

The cabbie is a sleepy yet pleasant man and knows well enough to keep conversation to a minimum when ferrying passengers at 1:15 am. I tell him to stop for tea and cigarettes and take a long whiff of the famously noxious Delhi air. There’s really nothing to it. If you come from a city and you travel to another city then there is very little that is different. The cabbie was especially happy when I insisted that I pay for his chai and cigarette. The SMS address takes me to a gated community and it’s a jungle of well tarred roads and big shady trees.

Nobody is home as I walk into the basement apartment. There is ample space to move about and even more to spare. You could easily have a conversation over cocktails in the bathroom. I was asked to make myself at home and wait for another friend to get home. This friend was on his way back from a skiing holiday somewhere in the hills of Auli, Uttarakhand. He was accompanied by a lady friend. She was tan, tiny, had dark eyes and a mane of dark hair which was swept back to reveal a face that any straight man would feel compelled to stare. She moved like royalty, with the smooth, easy confidence of a cat. The friend was all man. He had always been loose-limbed and spread himself over the sofa like a drunken octopus. Extraordinarily fair, his trip to the mountains had given him a blotchy tan and he now had a face that resembled a tomato gone pale with fright. Sleepy and tired, we made painful attempts to stay awake and keep conversation alive. There was a burst of laughter followed by the sounds of drunken stumbling before a group of four stumbled through the door into the hallway. Our host was finally home.

All through the night many more friends slipped into the basement. Not everyone knew everyone else but that didn’t stop us from getting drunk together. As despicable as it may seem to some, alcohol and cigarettes really send your spirits soaring. And then as mysteriously as they had all arrived, they were all gone. The few of us that remained made vows to catch up and exchanged notes on the people we intended to catch up with over the weekend. Somewhere between standing in the lawn somewhere in the back or front or side of the apartment (it is hard to say which is what when you live in a basement) and smoking cigarettes and swatting mosquitoes, it ceased to be wee hours of the night and the slip of lightening sky above reminded us that it was the cusp of dawn. Turning back to the room, there was now just the four of us. We were back to our lazy, travel worn selves and made plans on how best to while away the rest of the day.

The lady friend and I agreed that we were better off not trying to sleep and rather roam around Delhi after a heavy breakfast and wear ourselves a wee bit more to justify an equally gluttonous lunch and return to base to indulge in a well earned nap. The plan was met with great approval, and while one of our number stepped out on an errand, I stepped into the shower. The luxury of the bathroom was such that I spent too long a time in the shower and when I stepped out, I met the lady friend who now appeared immensely exhausted and she asked me if I would be alright if she cancelled on her plan and caught up on some sleep instead. No one refuses royalty. I was no exception to the rule.

The same evening or the next; I am not sure of the chain of events that followed as my train of thought during my stay in Delhi was anything but sober, the lady friend took us out drinking with a friend of hers. A dainty charmer she was. Long hair, long lashes, a broad shy smile and high on confidence, she had long legs as well. Turns out in Delhi, if you are going anywhere worth going you need to call in a day in advance. This is so because, the practice is such that it doesn’t matter even if you don’t end up drinking in places you intend to drink in, you make a reservation- just in case. And so we all sat a table that our hostess procured through some good old fashioned Dilli charm that she had in abundance. We drank a lot, and then some more, all the while making plans about where else to drink. There was some talk of how it was hard to procure any alcohol to take home as it was a dry-day. I didn’t dwell on it as much as the other people with me as I was quite engrossed in the drink that was before me. All the plans that we made fell through and so we headed back to the basement and smoked some more and lounged around the apartment. Then I received a call from the host saying we were to head out to another pub in another part of the city. We had little else to do and nothing else we would rather do, and so we happily took leave of the Lady Friend’s friend. We saw her off of course. We were drunk, sure. But that doesn’t make us mannerless savages. Once at the pub, we drank some more and kept watching out for one another lest one of us should tip over the rooftop railing and fall smack onto the parking area three storeys below us.

Once again the night played out like the night before and before I knew it, I was too tired to stand, too stuffed to care and too drunk to be awake and this being the case, I headed to the big bed and quickly fell asleep. The next morning I missed my flight, stayed back for a few more hours and caught the evening flight out of Delhi and was back in Hyderabad. Drinking in Delhi is pretty much like drinking in any other place. With the right people and the right spirits, there is little else that can go wrong.

 

_V. 08/05/2017

It was a wintry December morning as he stood outside in his balcony and watched the street below, still lit by the silvery white light of the solitary streetlamp and the leaves of the gulmohur yet to gain discernable colour. As was his practice (off late), he sipped on crisp, cool water that he poured into a whiskey glass. The water was cooled by leaving it outside in the balcony in a steel bottle which, he thought, allowed the water to cool ‘naturally’ without gaining the frigid texture of water that is left overnight inside the refrigerator. As he drank, he recalled that it had been a while since he recited out loud, “The Law of the Jungle” as Kipling had propounded it and listened to the isolated sounds of the early morning. The lazy protests of sleepy dogs awoken by the bored buzz of the paper-boy’s scooter, the soft even rhythm created by the brooms of the municipal workers who wore bright orange vests over their sarees, scratching dirt and muck off the surface of the tarred street leaving it broader in their wake, and the soft swish of clothed bodies that walked swiftly–arms and hips swinging as they walked in rapid circles around the parking lot of the building that the balcony overlooked, hardly breaking a sweat and barely having a clue as to what they needed to do. The maidservant’s little girl had once come up to his balcony while her mother did the dishes and wisely observed, “Bhaiya, they are not going to lose weight by running like this in circles. They need to stop eating. Then they will lose weight.”

The watchman of that building was walking the terrier pup of one of the residents. The pup was a new acquisition and an ebullient little fellow. He walked in bounds and ran in leaps. At least that was his way two weeks ago. Between then and now he had a rough time of which Rupert had seen a little. The pup was tied to a tree and every time he could see his master walk around in his pointless circle he would get up barking wanting to join his papa/mama on the pointless run and pup would be rewarded with a resounding whack. This was how it happened: man/woman (in expensive gymwear) would turn the corner and pup who had been sitting on his haunches softly whimpering with his head sunk deep into his chest would rise up on all fours. His tail high up in the air, whirring like chopper-rotors, he would begin to pine and then let out excited little yelps. The ‘pet-parent’ would slow their pace, glide off their imaginary track and land a resounding slap across the hapless animal’s face leaving it momentarily stunned. By the time he got back up, they were gone and he sat there alone and hurt wishing to be let off the leash. And they would turn that corner and the same excitement and ugliness played out unfailingly, quite literally, on loop. Today, pup was a different person. The watchman had taken off his leash and repeatedly rubbed his head and belly goading the little chap to go on and take a run around the lot, but pup just sat there at the feet of the watchman and both of them stood there in that silver-lit cold morning looking at one another not knowing what to do.

It was then he heard the sound of flip-flops floating through the morning air, and it was a surprise to him as he knew by instinct that it did not belong to that hour of the day. Still faint, it came from the darkened end of the street of which, except for the feeble night light of someone’s balcony, all else remained invisible. His suspicion that it was signal of some kind was confirmed when he noticed the figure of a man appear from behind his building and slip into the shade of the darkened tree. No sooner had he dissolved into the darkness, he turned on the flashlight of his phone and the slip-slap sound of slippers paused for a second and half. When the sound resumed, he could now make out the faint outline of a woman-she was wearing a thick sweater, and possibly a stole wrapped around her head like a bonnet. Walking in quick, small steps she walked a straight direct course for the tree. She dipped into its darkness and came out holding the man by his arm and placed him under the direct light of the solitary street lamp. Rupert recognised that man. It was the boy who worked the restaurant where he had his evening punnugulu and vada. His was an easy face to recognise. The boy was dark and had big buck teeth that stuck out a good foot from his face. Deeply tanned and maybe a few shades short of being black, he had a cheery disposition and a ready smile for just about everyone. He also seemed like one of the more popular lads in that eatery as he did just about everything that required to be done. Mixing chutneys, chopping onions, fetching fresh batter, packing parcels and counting the cash. He did everything and was never seen to complain. It also once occurred to him once that maybe the kid was always seen smiling because it required quite some effort for him to keep his lips pursed. Nonetheless, he was a hardworking lad and he never complained. All he did was smile and shrug when anyone acted out at his workplace.   

Now as he stood under that light the girl spoke to him softly and swiftly and through short hand gestures that clearly indicated an agitated state of mind. She was definitely angry. Rupert suddenly realised that he was the involuntary witness to a lovers’ tiff. He could only see the back of her bonneted head but the look of seriousness on the boys face told him all he needed to know. The boy had a slight frown and lips were pursed. His eyes were fixed on the girls face and he was looking for that pause where she would draw breath and he could begin speaking. When at length she did finally stop, she looked up at the boy and he looked down at her. It was now time for him to speak and he did what he did best. His big brown shoulders loosened and he flashed his famous smile and turned his palms upward indicating utter helplessness. The girl grew even more agitated at this and this was when he gave her a broader grin and shrugged his shoulders for good effect. This seemed to have an oddly calming influence on the girl and her taut back seemed to loosen and she now looked down at her feet. His hands now in his pockets he spoke cheerily to her and then indicated that he get back to work. She seemed reluctant to leave, but then slowly turned to walk away. The boy stood there for a moment, let out a chuckle, shook his head and walked back to his restaurant which was at the front of the building that Rupert lived in. The girl now walking slowly, seemed lost in thought as she dragged the heels of her now silent feet and then when she reached the edge of the light, she turned around. There was a slight movement on her face, which seeing that no words were being spoken, could only be a smile. She stood that way for a moment or two and then walked away towards the darkened end of the street. All was well.

Now sitting down in his chair and pouring himself his second glass of water that morning, it dawned upon him that time had indeed stretched on over the last five minutes. He always hoped to see nothing of interest when he woke up at that absurd hour and yet it now seemed to him that if there is time, and if there is life, there is always something happening. How foolish he had been to think otherwise.

 

_V. 12/12/2017

I remember being all of 8 years and staring out the window in the spare bedroom of the huge apartment we lived in, wondering why I had to be in that room staring out as I was. There are plenty of reasons to do what we do and over time you end up having no reason at all for doing what you do. I’ll take you a little further into my head now.

Sitting there in that corner atop a well worn spring mattress, I wondered what I looked like staring outside. Did my eyes take on a different colour? Did my features seem even more refined? Was I in that moment where I would have an epiphany and realise that I was nothing of consequence once you took into consideration the concepts of time and the artificiality of what we are taught to acknowledge as the real world? I was very worried but mostly about what I looked like if someone walked into the room and saw me staring out through the window lost in my thoughts. They’d probably scare me and then laugh about it and how I sat there in that room thinking that I was too good to get back into their midst.

I still stare a lot. Sitting at the table in my office where I do not have the luxury of a window, I stare at the tiny cup that holds my pencils. Any stationery is good target that way. Erasers and pencil sharpeners are preferable. I think I picked up the habit from father. I used to watch him sit in silence and look straight ahead for hours on end. Even when he was driving it sometimes felt like he was never there because he had found a way out. I don’t spend much time around him anymore, but I think he still might do that. When I was little he would call us over and look at our hands and make observations of the size of our palms and their creases and what they told him about our personalities. He didn’t have anything great to say about me. He told me I would be a spender and I would find it incredibly hard to save up any money. I don’t understand how he could be so accurate, because even to this day, I find it easier to spend than to save. The agony of money lying limp in an account kills me. But I must save. Even if it is only for myself.

The other thing he always said to me was that I had beautiful fingers as they were exceptionally long and delicate. He always let go of my hand with a final warning that I was never to pop my knuckles. But pop my knuckles, I did. It’s the other thing I didn’t pay heed to. I did a lot of it in great many places. In the exam halls, in the playground, in the office, at the gym and just about any other place you can think of. In fact, the first girl who really had a hold over me did this wonderful thing where she would place her thumbs at a point below the proximal phalanx of the thumb and apply gentle pressure until there was a pop. The relief that followed was similar to the rush of caffeine on a rainy morning.

I remember this one time we were driving down to Abu Dhabi from Ajman. That was a two hour drive or more. We made the trip every once a while. We would all be woken up early morning and hurried into the bathroom (there was only one that had no issues with the plumbing), and brushed, washed and dressed in great haste. We would then shovel breakfast into our mouths and chew faster than fast. This is probably why I now have a distinct preference for foods that are easy to chew. People think it’s because I am lazy, but it’s only because I am habituated to believe that I don’t really have the time to eat. We can talk later, but first let’s eat. When we were all dressed and fed we would all line up with bags and wait for father to lead the way to the parking lot. There would be a great deal of restlessness and loud chit-chat while we were still within city limits.

To get to Abu Dhabi, we would first pass through Sharjah, then Dubai and then there was an endless stretch of desert that went on and on until we reached Abu Dhabi. Abu Dhabi always struck me as a strange city. It was peculiar in a way that it seemed too perfect. The roads were clean and the buildings were tall and a bit too straight. Like one of those guards you’d see in London. So stiff and polished, that they had to be hiding something. And most strikingly, the tall buildings stood watch over roads that scarcely had any traffic. There was always something amiss about Abu Dhabi. It was like staring into space.

The drive only started once we left Dubai behind and the desert began. It was one straight road with the desert on either side. Inevitably we would all fall silent and get lost in our own private world. Outside bigger cars would whiz past us. Some of them had dogs, some others had one too many kids all quashed into the back like sardines. Once my brother and I insisted that we wanted to ride in the trunk but then we got too busy kicking at each other’s legs and so we were soon back in the backseat like we should have been in the first place. My sister once even spotted a car that had a tiger riding in the backseat. She got so excited by the sight that by the time I rushed to her window and she allowed me enough space, the car was far ahead of us. She then told me all about how it was a cub with furry paws and had its face pressed against the window pane and it was clearly very exciting, but I couldn’t help thinking that it still would have been better to catch a glimpse of that cat.

My sister always got first preference when it came to picking her seat. She was the oldest and the wisest and hence she always went for the seat behind the driver. I was the youngest and the scrappiest and hence I always willed my way into getting that other seat with the window. Always stuck in the middle, my brother fell asleep once we pulled out of Dubai. On a few rare occasions he protested and got the seat with the other window and then I would sit in the middle and get full blast of the AC and having little else to do, would quickly fall asleep. I don’t recall my sister ever enduring the agony of the middle seat. She was also the tallest and because her head would block the rear-view mirror, she would be relegated to a window seat and my brother and I would once again squabble over who got to stare out the window this time. Even when he did get that seat, he would still fall asleep and I would be the one craning my neck to get a look outside the window.

That time when we were driving to Abu Dhabi I sat behind mother and was looking out the window into the desert. I had read stories of the nomads and their camels and I wondered what it would be like to be a nomad. My sister had once read to me a story of a nomad named Abu who was travelling in the desert with his camel Ahmed. At night, Abu set camp at a spot which he estimated was not too far from the desert town that he was headed to, fed and watered his camel and resigned into his tent. It was a tiny tent with very little. Abu was poor, but when he made it to that tiny town with the stash of premium spices that Ahmed carried, it was all going to change for Abu, and for Ahmed. But things are never that easy in these stories that appear in children’s magazines. During the night, there is a great storm. The wind whistled and wailed and when it finally stopped, Abu stepped out of his tent (it is not advisable to step out during a desert storm. It’s alright if you have never tried it. If you have, then you know what I am talking about) and saw that the entire topography had changed. The dunes were bigger and the night was colder than it was and his blasted camel had escaped. The rest of the story is as one would imagine. Abu loses his way, has the skin of his feet burnt off by the boiling desert sand and by the time he reaches that tiny town he is badly sunburnt and dehydrated and dies a short while later, and then a few days afterward, Ahmed turns up at the town with all the spices intact. I felt like shit when I heard that story, and hoped to God that Ahmed felt just the same.

When I was done thinking about nomads and their camels, I turned around to look at what was happening inside the car. My mother was fast asleep, as was my brother. Sister had her forehead pressed against the window pane and was looking far ahead and I think, if I remember correct, she was humming a tune. Father held the steering with one hand, something he did only when he was relaxed, and drew vague patterns on his thigh with the fingers of his free hand. There’s a blue-green vein that sticks out on the back of his hand. He is a handsome man and that is how I see him even today. With a barely there smile and the hand gripping the wheel. Firmly in control.

Meanwhile, my eight-year-old self continued to stare outside the window and wonder why he was sitting there. It wasn’t his choice to be there, but there was a turn of events and he had to be where he was. He wondered if he could turn his back on all of it and simply walk away. He didn’t owe it to anyone to be nice to them or be compassionate and kind and understanding to the people that he knew. He could be without them, and he was certain they would get on fine without him. Why did they have this hold him? They sure didn’t earn that right.

Looking out into that vast stretch of blue outside the window, I realised how temporary it was. That moment and that situation with its people and their baggages. No one owed anyone anything and yet they chose to remain obligated. I felt smaller than I already was and I felt a shame for thinking the way I did. It seemed so easy to run away from people who choose you and give a part of themselves to help you define yourself. It’s the easiest thing to do and that is probably why people who run away are never happy because they are only running away from themselves. It might also be the reason why to run away, even when it is for self preservation is deemed an act of cowardice and the brave are always the ones who stay back and fight. The truly courageous are probably those who have taught themselves to pick their battles. This last bit is definitely true because I have been told this enough times and I have learnt through the fine art of listening and testing, that it is important to pick the right battles. Whatever be the case, I had opened up a Pandora’s Box inside me and I did not have the words to make sense of it all. I did the best thing I could do. I ran. I ran to the kitchen and asked mother what she was doing and she told me that she was cutting fish. I asked her if I could help and she told me yes and that she would teach me how to cut fish.

To this day, if someone asks me what I love to do in my free hours I tell them I read and watch movies and cook. But if I had to be completely honest with you, my answer will be simply this:

I love cutting fish.

_V. 01/06/2017

When the sheets of water rolled up into my head, I could see my adversary clear. He was sharp around the edges and everything inside and outside that was fuzzy. His voice rang sharp and clear. It cut through the empty air that separated us and touched me like a soft pink tongue lapping at my nose.

‘What is it that you hold?’, he asked

‘Nothing’, I mumbled

‘What does it do?’

‘Nothing. It’s a toy. It does nothing.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, toys don’t do anything unless you make them do something. And the lazy ones need you to stick a battery in them before they do anything.’

‘So you don’t have batteries?’

‘This doesn’t need a battery.’

‘Is that why it does nothing?’

‘No. It does plenty. It is an intelligent toy. It doesn’t need a battery or two to be stuck into its belly. Look at it! Don’t you know what this is?’

‘I don’t know. What is it? I have never seen anything like it before.’

‘This son’, I said pausing for dramatic effect, ‘is the model of an animal. Not just any animal, mind you, but a reptile. A lizard. This is a dinosaur.’

‘What is a dinosaur?’

‘It’s a lizard, son. A very old and big and bad lizard. A mean, mean bandicoot if there was one.’

‘The lizard is a bandicoot?’

‘No. I just said bandicoot because it fit in well instead of something else I’d rather have said. You’re too young to be impolite with. When you’re older, you’ll know what I mean. And if you remember this then, you might even get a good laugh out of it.’

‘You must really like lizards.’

‘Not all. Just some. This one is a favourite.’

‘What is so great about this one?’

‘Well, he’s the greatest, isn’t he? He is the baddest. He’s the strongest and the fiercest. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of him before. But you know him now, so that makes you better than before.’

‘I can’t say I know him. What’s his name?’

‘Ah yes. I forgot that. I call him Big X. He’s a T-Rex. That makes him a king of tyrant lizards. A Tyrannosaurus Rex. I’ll show you how to spell that when this train stops in a bit.’

‘Ok. Why do you call him Big X?’

‘I don’t know. I like the sound of that name. And you’re saying it wrong. You write him Big X, but you call him Biggex. There’s second ‘g’ in there that you say but don’t see when you write him.’

‘Biggex?’

‘Right! That’s right!’

I look at the kid and now notice his sharp face for the first time. It’s a clean face. White with dark brown hair parted at the side and plastered to his skull with shiny odourless oil. His shirt is crisp and white and the trousers dark and comfortably stiff. He sits back in his seat such that the back of his knees press against the rounded edge of the seat. His soft brown eyes held me in a steady gaze. I lean back in my seat and return his stare.

‘Where’re you off to?’ I ask the kid

‘Chennai. My aunt lives there. I am travelling alone this time because my father thinks I should learn to do things on my own now. Where are you headed to?’

‘Same. I’m travelling onward though. Once I get to Chennai, I’ll head to the beach and get some rest and take the train out to Ariyalur to meet some friends there. Chennai is a nice place though. I wish I could stay there longer.’

‘So what about the lizard? Where can I see more of him?’

I held up the toy for a bit and then gently placed the model on the side table between us.

‘Not really. This is just a model. There aren’t any more of him running around anymore.’

‘What happened?’

‘They died out. They got killed. And just like that, now they’re gone.’

‘Who killed them then? You said that they were big and bad. What went wrong?’

‘Everything. Just about everything. And that’s just the way it is when you get too big and strong. It makes people around you aware of their own smallness and then they want you out. Or they want you down. They want you being small like them and they want you to want less because their flimsy little hearts wouldn’t dare to dream a dream that scared them. They are pitiable little things- the rest of them. They tell the world that they aren’t afraid of a thing in it and yet they run scared of themselves. Walk up to the bravest guy in the room and ask him to spend an hour without his phones and tablets and coterie of screens and the guy will lose it. The thought of being by himself will wring him dry. That confident swagger crumbles like stale cookie and he is just a weakling like the rest and when that happens, take a step back and look around at the others in the room and you will notice how the ones- the weak and insignificant ones- are suddenly cocky and happy and you will know that it is because they are content knowing that everyone in the room is now mediocre and there are no standards by which they can fall short of.

That’s what went wrong with the T-Rex. They got too big and too strong and that got under everyone’s skin. There wasn’t a fight they couldn’t win. Their prey knew they were just lucky when they got away and knowing that, they always lived looking straight and over their shoulders. The ones that weren’t preyed upon hated that they were of no consequence or of any significance in his mighty world. They were passengers passing him by and he didn’t care enough to take note of them. They wished he would, but he didn’t and that ticked them off. They were safe. But they wanted some of his adventure. Yet when they wanted it, they woke up and realised that they weren’t fit enough to match their step with his. So they got around doing the one thing that they did best. They hated him. Now if he cared enough he would have known better and acted wiser. But if there was a flaw in him, it was that he didn’t care. He didn’t care enough to learn what the others were thinking. He didn’t learn that knowing what others thought of him wouldn’t change him. Instead he got so busy looking forward and leaning into the future that he forgot to pause for a moment and look at his own hands that had grown weak and small. He didn’t need it, but they could use it. They used it to tell him that he was the problem that they couldn’t help him when he needed it. That quite literally, when it came to him, he had tied up his own hands and that is why they couldn’t pull him out of that bog that he was drowning in. His biggest weakness was that he kept his own counsel and wanted little of mediocre companionship. And if there is one thing that the large majorities have hated, all throughout the course of life- human and otherwise- it is that one guy who can think and act for himself. Nothing is scarier than the self reliant soul, for if one cannot discern one’s own purpose and walks into a world not being needed by the self reliant ones, all ambition becomes recipe for immense solitude. And this, as I have mentioned earlier, is something few can handle.

Now here’s something you need to know. There is a lot of truth in what I have just said. And there are a whole lot of factual inaccuracies. I’m not sure if you will remember all of it because it came out in a rush and you might want to sit back and mull on it a bit. Read up on it as well. But you must remember this much. The most clarity you will ever find is going to be shapeless and vague. You will know it is there not because you see it, but because you feel it. Not because you heard it, but because you have known it- all along. And everything you are ever going to be will be what you make of the truth that you have known all along.

Now I’m starving, kid. Hold Biggex while I get out there and get us some grub, wont you?’

_V. 04/12/2017