And I let them flow..

It was a Saturday. My afternoon siesta got prolonged till early evening. By the time I woke up from my dormancy, the sky had already hidden itself in darkness. Streetlights at the other end of our neighbourhood were glowing bright. Bereft of the luxury of being decorated itself with street lights, our sector had a composed bearing, shops lining up the street help keep the area illuminated. I got up from my bed with a shudder as if I had a bad dream. But I could not recall the faintest of impressions left behind by it, as dreams in general do. Perhaps it was too good, or too bad. But what was it? I asked myself. I had already started feeling weak, restless and hated the darkness enveloping the room. As a manifestation of that uneasiness, I ran to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. In between, I lit up the entire house by switching on the electric bulbs. I wanted to murder every sense of darkness residing in the deepest corners. The milk came to a boil on the stove and spilled all over as I was trying to recall my dream. Cursing myself, I started wiping the mess with a plain piece of cloth. That is when I could feel warm tears rolling down my cheeks. My eyes soon turned into a river and the vision blurred. The darkness within and light outside fought a mini-battle. I watched them with a sense of detachment. Nothing belongs to me. I am an intruder with limited time. I have nothing to do with either darkness or light. But tears, warm and frosty at the same time, are mine. I cannot deny their presence and something that I had released from my self-imposed imprisonment. It is not easy to give away your own possession, especially something that you have guarded so passionately for a long time. I wondered, are they mine? I started cleaning the sticky salty trail of tears from my face with the corner of my blouse sleeve with the same vigour that I had utilised a few minutes back to wipe out the mess staring at me from the stove. It was a strange feeling — the freedom to cry. I remember it well, it has been ages since I last shed tears. I somehow developed this stoic self, not intentional though. I don’t know what triggered the icy-cold behaviour from me, but it stayed with me for long, till that Saturday, which was just another regular day before the evening, until the embankments guarding my inner fear broke free. Like there is no answer to my stoicism, similarly there is no explanation to what caused sudden ruptures in my eyes. The days preceding that Saturday were usual ones. Nothing striking happened that could be used as an excuse behind the sudden outpour. Was it my past that was still haunting me? My past experiences, where I had cleverly hoodwinked myself to believe that nothing has gone wrong. “It is just a matter of time, all would be fine," is how I kept myself fooling for so long. But nothing changed much. I kept on encountering one hurdle after another, one mishap after another, one heartache after another, one gloomy day after another. However, that adamant smile in my face remained fixed. I thought I look beautiful with my smile. Now, in fact, looking myself closely in the mirror, I look more grotesque. Like the pale shadow of my own image. In the game of survival all I did was pretend and deceit, no one else, but myself, my soul, my whole existence. Realisation dawned late. During winter you cannot ask your body not to ache in pain, and that too, when you are audacious enough to step out naked in the open, ignoring a high intensity blizzard that has already created havoc in your town. Is this ignorance or high-level of understanding which almost translates to self-destruction? “When in pain you should cry." I remember how Montu with his crimson teary-eyed face had once told me about the benefits of crying. "But boys don't cry," I had winked. "Come on! Your feminine soul needs that balm, no need to cross dress," he wasn’t smiling while saying that. I am sure he would have remained the same till today. Even on the day I came to know Montu died of alcoholism, I did not cry. Strange, isn’t it, Montu? Now, when I look back, I feel I behaved strangely. I know, you, too, would have expected me to react with shrill cries. After all, nobody reacts so detached when one’s childhood friend dies in such horrible condition. I heard that you had almost lost your mental compass months before you died. Alcohol did that to you. You had lost your charming self. But they told me that even when you were dead and lying in that coffin, ready to be buried forever, you carried that inimitable smile of yours. All I did after learning your demise was to say a prayer. I still sing that prayer, Montu… almost every day, something like a ritual. I remember it well, how popular you were among girls in school. You had a host of girlfriends… end of one affair would be quickly followed by another. I can’t remember a single day when you had spent without the company of a woman in your life. You used to almost brag about your conquests in front of us, something that would invariably make a few turn red with envy. I used to laugh it out. It was you who told me that love letters are to be written from hearts and not with the help of a dictionary that lies open in front of you. It is the purity of heart that does the magic in love. Every "love letter" written by you, even if for your friends, never failed to do the trick. A host of desperate guys and gals struck by that menacing cupid arrow would turn up at your doorstep to help them write that "perfect" letter to win their love. They used to be hilarious, with lines borrowed from Bollywood flicks, "If you are the moon, I am the moonlight, if I am the sun, you are my sunshine....." A few I heard were written in blood, as lovers took their ultimate vow in the name of love and slit open their arms to let a stream of blood ooze out. Those were rivers. They still flow beneath the mountains of my childhood. It was again you who told me that love and hatred should always be kept apart from each other. We should never try to mix them. To prove your point, you would cite political harakiri committed on part of both Pakistan and India to have peace talks, and border skirmishes going on at the same time. "Either the political leadership thinks we (citizens of both the neighbouring countries) are fools to trust their efforts, or they themselves are fools," you had commented like an expert. "We should know how to love and hate grandly. Otherwise, both turn meaningless," you giggled. Hey, do you remember that girl? I’m sure you do, I have vivid memories of her — the one with curly locks and short gait. I thought she was the real love of your life as you had skipped many a meals to save money to buy the most beautiful and expensive birthday card for her. I thought she, too, loved you honestly, which you often demanded from your sweethearts. But then she failed you. She left you for another guy, a topper and good looking guy from our school. It was a massive blow to you. That is perhaps when you started drinking. I don’t blame the girl for deserting you, leaving your heart all empty, forcing you to take to alcohol. She is what the norm is — to love and admire the best. After all, you were the poor Romeo of our school who often used to flunk in his mathematics paper. I guess you could have been better, putting a little effort in your studies and making a life out of your little-know skills. It is no grand affair to die an alcoholic’s death, Montu. You know I was very critical of you despite being grateful to you for introducing me to so many beautiful things about life like that of the flamboyant game of legendary tennis star Andre Agassi. That time he was known more for his style quotient than his game. But you were convinced, like you were convinced about so many other things, that the long-haired guy with watery eyes is a legend in the making. "Watch him out. He is a true stylist of the game and would change its grammar," you had admiringly told me about Andre. It turned out to be true like a prophecy after a few years. I hope Andre comes to know about you some day. At times I behaved mean. So much so that I didn’t even greet you the last time we met. You were in an “inebriated” state near the town library. I was appalled to see you like that… a few friends were trying to hold you and help you find those staggering footsteps. I gave you an angry stare. But you still did not stop smiling. Why did you do that? I was expecting the same anger and hatred for me in your eyes as I had for you. But, all I saw was innocence of days gone by. I would have appreciated had you shown me some kind of malice in our last meeting. Today, I could have been guilt-free. Guilt has chiseled itself into a stone in me, Montu. It is the same guilt I encountered when I saw my beautiful aunt turning into an apparition of her earlier self, as cancer spread across her body. In her last days, she was forced to wear a wig that had replaced her long tresses. I would go and sit beside her as her son would try to feed her in vain. She would throw up every spoon fed in double the measure. The helplessness in her eyes still follow me everywhere. It has made me a prisoner of myself. All these and many more episodes just piled on me, left me what I thought is the making of a home of an alien inside me. He first came as a visitor, then without any reason decided to stay back. I did not raise any protest against his audacious behavior. Rather, made him a part of my existence. Slowly, he grew more powerful, almost overpowered me, like the tiger overpowering a fragile deer inside a deep forest, where probably human footsteps have never fallen. I just remained a witness, like those crowd that surround a dead body lying on a road, interrupting the traffic flow. Most likely the stranger in a pool of blood is an accident victim. Nobody knows, so curious onlookers make a beeline like flies over a rotten piece of flesh. They are the witnesses to the vulnerability of human existence. But the same witnesses turn into voiceless spectators who quickly return to their world, easily forgetting that a gruesome accident had killed another life. I became one of those witnesses, to witness my own life, as it moved two and fro. I never made tea I so hurriedly got up to make that Saturday evening… there was no milk left for it. I discarded the idea of having black tea as well. Strangely, tears swelled up again in the corner of my eyes. But this time I did not resist. I didn’t make any effort to wipe them off. I went ahead with my chores, washed the stained utensils under the running tap, and clearly saw both my tear drops and soap foam getting mixed and flowing down the gutter.

The train that I never took

Long, long ago in a distant land near the river bed of Brahmaputra, my mother gave birth to me. Since the time I started learning to walk on earth, all I did was till the land and sow it with seeds. The seeds bore us fruits and rice and we happily ate it till the time a hoard of aliens marched into my land. They slowly spread across everywhere, took my land, my fields, my home and of course my luxury of eating freely. I was threatened in my own homeland, and my hungry belly cried in agony. It was in those moments of hunger and deprivation that I decided to leave my land and came to Bangalore with a group of friends. They called it a dream city. I too dared to dream here. My dream turned into a reality and I got job as a security guard in a palatial office near Outer Ring Road in Bangalore. Happily I toiled, saluted all smartly clad English speaking men and women and pretended to protect everyone from any immediate danger. Though I knew it well that with a mere stick in my hand, I would not be even considered as a first line of defence from any prospective threat to the company. I also knew it well I would be the first casualty if any untoward incident happens. But, I know death well enough, so the idea of dying in a freak accident never bothered me. I carried death everywhere, I dared to breathe. It was my familiarity with death that the factor of sharing any kind of repulsion against death never occurred to me. Death has always been a revelation to me, a constant reminder that tomorrow everything might come to an end. Why tomorrow? Maybe, now itself, the very moment we are interacting and sharing our thoughts in this chaotic space of life. I have seen and cried in great pain as my brethren died in bomb blasts and army encounters with constant regularity. I tell you, when one dies, the body looks no less than a huge chunk of flesh soaked in blood. Eyes would be always looking at a distant land. Perhaps in those unreachable track of land lies death -- silent and shy -- as it devoured my innocence in the wake of the killing of people whom I had loved and lost unabashedly. Death could not stop my hunger for living. I am thick-skinned, just greedy enough to complete the cycle of life I am blessed with. I have intelligently packed my losses and sorrows in a suitcase of agony. I never dared to open it, it carries a storm. And I know once opened, it would leave behind a trail of death and destruction. I fear not death, but yes, hunger creating storm in my belly and frowns in the faces of my loved ones. That is why I travelled more than 2000 km to provide security and safety to strangers, when I have never known or experienced the idea of a protected life in my own homeland. Farce it is, farce it was, and I feel like a joker in the entire act. So, when I was offered the job of a security guard, the absurdity of the task entrusted to me hit me hard. “Am I the right person for the job?” The shadow of doubt never ceased to leave me. It kept clouding and clogging my mind and heart for long. “Me --- defenceless, vulnerable, unprotected --- can I protect others?” I knew the answers well. I am and was not the right person to watch over others. But options were few and far between. So, I decided to listen to pangs of hunger devouring me. And, gladly accepted what was offered to me. That day I adorned the uniform of a security guard. I was given a sky blue shirt with the name of the security agency which hired me embossed on it with black and a pair of black trousers. I was also given a stick and a whistle, as accessories to highlight my poor bearing. I managed to stand out in the crowd. After all, the crowd entering the campus of the office could not afford to ignore my presence. That gave me some importance. I too basked in the glory. All of a sudden, people started acknowledging my reality. But deep in it embedded the reality of my existence. I was just a face — a chowkidar, a security guy who was supposed to get up from his creaky wooden chair every time people would enter and exit the building. They addressed me as bahadur, bhaiyya, and at times oyee too. And, happily I acknowledged them with my smile. Here I stayed, remained glued to my job, which fetched me Rs 10,000 every month after a decade-long loyalty. I was doing well, sending money to my ailing mother and two brothers for whom I was the only support system. That was my only motivation and pride that pushed me through all agony and hardships. In my dream city, I had a shack too. Not so long ago, I shared it with my friends. We used to cook, eat and sing songs of land left behind in unison. Occasionally, my lover would visit me. Her sweet notes of love would always impregnate the four walls of my dilapidated structure with a sticky aroma of desire, even long after she would leave behind my naked apparition with a renewed longing. My home had a leaky roof with a few holes decorating it with systematic regularity. Those gaps turned me into a stargazer. Up there in the sky lie the stars and nebulae. The universe was a fast expanding phenomena. I too was part of the growth. I might be the tiniest of the tiniest, but none the less, part of the greater life and its never- ending saga. In my confined life, I would always find excuses to make it meaningful in my own absurd ways. Nonetheless, I tried to survive and I deserve the credit of being a survivor. The monotonous existence almost made me believe that things would remain same forever. But change is perhaps the only constant. I experienced it again and again and I won’t deny that would happen to me again. That day my friend called me, and told me he was leaving Bangalore. The urgency in his voice was palpable. He insisted me to pack my bags immediately, as hundreds and thousands were leaving. All he said was the train would take thousands to Assam. “We would be safe if we can manage to catch the train.” As soon as my friend disconnected the line, I got a call from an old relative of mine from my homeland. All he did was cried. It was a cry filled with mourning. He was mourning the death of my mother and two brothers. The hut in my village had been burnt down and the fire devoured three of them. All they could manage to collect were a few skeletal remains of the dead persons. I remained silent. He too asked me when was I coming back home. I went to the railway station and waited for my friend to arrive. He arrived with a group of 20-odd acquaintances. They were all set to board the train. The train looked like a slaughterhouse packed with some clueless animals for the journey they had no idea about. In the melee as I was pushed inside the train by force exerted on me from all sides, I gathered all my strength and jumped out of the train. I cannot travel to collect the ashes of those whom I had left behind long back. I decided not to board the train. “If death has to come, it can come anywhere,” I told myself. “A displaced soul like me can never have a home. I have to make home wherever my destiny would take me. I just cannot leave my space in Bangalore which I have won in the past 10 years,” I repeatedly told myself. (This is the story of Surjeet Brahma (name changed). I met him at Bangalore City Railway Station, the day when thousands of people belonging to various parts of Northeast India left Bangalore. I was there to find out if any of my acquaintances were boarding the train. Like Surjeet I, too, did not board the train. Like him I, too, had my own reasons. Not all are lucky enough to find shelter in the safe confines of their homes. Some people don’t have a space called home, they are homeless. And we both have accepted that in different ways.)