Price

Never ever compare yourself with anyone else. Never envy anyone.

You have no idea of the price they have paid to be where they are.

There is always more than what meets the eye. You only see what they have become today, but have no idea of the price that has been paid by them in the process of becoming. The inner outcome of paying the price is hidden, known only to the person who paid. You, being what you are, may have never agreed to pay that price.

Moving on...

Was reading a movie review of "Ranjhaana", a love story set in Varanasi. I haven't seen the movie yet, probably will this week.

This note is however inspired by the movie review I read here. I quote a line from the review which caught my attention,

"Lesson#8 : “Nobody really moves on in life: This is because of the simple reason that a person molds you into a new being when you are with them. So when they move out of your world, they take away that part of you with them and it never comes back leaving you void from within and too exhausted to walk on the same path again."

I agree in parts - yes, we change with every relationship. We become something which is us plus something when we are in a relationship. This is true for all relationships, in my view. We are different with a parent, different with a son, different with a friend, different with a sibling and so on. I would go so far as to say that we have different selves that manifest themselves, depending upon whom we are with. And in a love relationship, we are completely transformed. We may sometimes not even recognize the self that we become when we fall in love.

However, this post is not about love, but about moving on, having been in love. I disagree that one does not move on. Yes, we never become that person that we were when we were in love. But we do fall in love again, and though we don't become the previous-person-who-was-in-love-with-the-previous-love-interest, we morph into a different human with the person we now have fallen in love with. Yes, every death of selves that we face hurts, hurts really really bad. But we can and are capable of creating new selves even out of the debris that is left behind. For many of us, the debris is small, so some of us can rebuild from it with some help from the discarded self. For some of us, the debris is large, but if we love ourselves well enough to piece together the debris and the smaller self, we can even glue together a bigger self from the experience.

Notwithstanding the moving on, I do think there is always this "what if" question that plays out in in the minds of the "Mover" and the "Movee" - for want of better words. I think both of them, the Mover and the Movee, wrestle with the "what-if" in their post breakup times. Several times. Regardless of who initiated the break up. The mover will wonder what if she hadn't moved on to look for something better, could she have been happier? Was she is the reason, or was it that the movee did not love enough and hence gave up the pursuit so soon. The movee on the other hand, may wonder if the mover was indeed the best, and whether maybe the movee is better off without her. He may also wonder on the reasons why he gave up pursuit when he did. Was it because she really wasn't quite "the" person? Was his pursuit an exercise of being in love for the sake of being in love? Invariably, after several years after the love episode, the mover and the movee will wonder what they saw in the other that caused the affair. Was the other person even worthy of the love? Was it because the person was ready for love at that particular point and the other person happened to be there, and hence love occurred, much like the bards Midsummer Nights Dream. It may happen that they want to fall in love all over again with the same person! (And that what I guess the Reviewer of Ranjhaana was talking about)

However, such what-if reveries would also largely depend upon the manner of the breakup itself, from the time event when the breakup begins, and then the event itself, followed by the process of moving-on. Ah, but thats perhaps for another post!

The Good of Wanting

"Nobody ever became a writer just by wanting to be one." - Scott Fitzgerald

Scott Fitzgerald is a writer I love much and admire. His "The Great Gatsby" is a story I have read again and again, and every time I have been filled with wonder at the exact, appropriate usage of words as he tells the story. Every word is perfect. Every conversation is vital. Every bit of story line is useful. Every character is carved exactly as it needs to be. I run out of adjectives. It is just perfect. I cannot imagine how he got to this level of perfection in his craft.

To the perfection he brings, I look at stuff that I have written, some begun, some done, and some still in the head - and I completely despair at putting my stories on paper. I feel so so inadequate. I want to tell stories. There are so many of them jostling in my head. There are times I can barely hear myself because the characters in them talk to much. I know I will die unhappy if I don't tell them.

I wish I had studied literature rather then engineering. I wish I had started writing when I was 10 or 12. I wish I knew I loved words and stories so much. If I had started then, maybe I could have learnt to write the way I now want to write. With exact precision of words and emotions.

I remember a writer friend of mine telling me that in his view, technique comes later, with the content coming first. He had egged me on to write the story first, and not worry about the style of telling. I shared some of my story ideas, which he thought were capital. I know I want to tell them - and I don't really care whether they are endorsed as being capital or not - as long as I get them off my head. But the style of offloading them is beginning to intimidate me. I don't want to write a story that I would not like to read.

Yes, I can never become a story teller till the time I begin to tell my stories. Wanting to be one is simply not going to make me one. I know. But the skill requirement of writing a story that I would like to read scares the shit out of me. I have begun so many stories, and have abandoned them, not due to the plot, but as I could not but cringe on what I had written.

People have spoken to me about creative writing courses. Perhaps thats the answer. Other people have told me to just write - even if I hate the way I write. Other people tell me to do it when I can completely devote my full energy and passion to it, without any distractions. Perhaps the right time is the answer. My own heart tells me to just begin - but my head scorns at the way I write and forces me to stop.

Whats the good of wanting to be a writer if I have no clue of how to go about building the tooling required for it? Just how do I hone my craft? How can I hone my craft when I have not even begun learning it? I don't know how to learn it. Even if I found out, where to learn, am I not old to begin?

Perhaps if I had taken my wanting more seriously earlier on, I would not have despaired of achieving what I want. I would have then had time.

The burden of guilt

Going through a Gurudutt phase. Something about his insights into the feminine psyche, specially the indian feminine.

Watched Sahib Bibi aur Ghulam yesterday. Saw it for the first time, though I had watched the songs several times on TV, specially my favorite ones - "Bhanwara bada nadaan he" and "Na jaaon saiyaa chura ke bainya".

The movie is a story of a bygone era, of jamindars and havelis and eccentric men. The movie tells the story of Chotti Bahu, played by Meena Kumari, with her quest of being a ideal wife and soul mate, seeking fulfillment in a marital relationship - and the observation of a impressionable young man, who gets acquainted with the feminine for the first time. Beautifully enacted, sensitively told story.

As I watched Chotti bahu, I realized that like Chotti bahu, indian women invariably carry a burden of guilt around their shoulders. An indian woman feels guilty if her husband is a philanderer. She is the one who feels guilty if she can't bear a child, she is one who feels guilty if her husband is a drunkard, she is the one who is demented by guilt if she touches a bottle of "sharab". Sometimes, she is also the one who is considers herself guilty if her husband dies!

She is the one who carries the onus of being pure as drivel snow. She is expected to be a goddess, no less. If she chooses not to be a goddess or the revered mother, she has only one option open to her, of being a slut.

She is not allowed to be human. She is not allowed to seek things for herself, but for the family, the husband, the children. She is defined by her relationship to them, and there she carves out an identity. And if any of these externalities of hers - her husband, her child, her family, her family's health, her family's wealth, her family's honour - is not pristine, it is all her fault. She reminds herself of her responsibilities every passing second, tormented in guilt at the deficiencies, specifically more so when they are not her own.

 Why do Indian Women accept guilt unconditionally this way?

Guilt is handed down to us from our mothers, our aunts, our friends. It is dinned into our ears, and given to us as an ornament, as a sacred robe we dare not sully. We all wear it, like a badge of honor. Refusing to see that the husband's, child's, family's guilt, in most cases, does not belong to us. Correction - it does not belong to us. Ever.

Amazing that it took a 70s movie for me to see that.

Dreams

Some dreams die early. And that's a relief. The ones who die, even loved cherished ones, can be put behind and one can get on with life.

The ones that I am tormented with are dreams that refuse to die. Dreams that hold me in their bear hug and refuse to let me go. Dreams that do not let me accept reality the way I find it. Dreams that continue to keep me awake at night even though I by now know that they can be just that - dreams.

There was a time in my life when I loved dreams. They were visions of what could be. And they were mesmerizing, seductive. I used to surrender to them whenever I was at leisure, and I used to hatch plans of making them real. Some of them did turn into reality - some by those hatched plans, some by benevolence, and some by providence - and they promptly lost their seductive appeal as they turned real. In a way, they died for me, even though they technically did not die.

And then there were the ones who died. Died because they got killed. Some of them were killed by loved ones, some by destiny's cruel turns, some were born weak, and some of them were killed. By me. The ones I murdered are the ones that I sometimes still remember, the rest now have been forgotten, as they were the ones who I had to wrestle with, and kill them before they killed me.

And then, there are these dreams that live with me now. Some of them I think I still cherish, though I am not sure, not all the time, anyway. Some of them I have tried killing at some time. For some, I have fought for them for years, with back breaking passion, with loved ones, not-so-loved ones, and downright evil ones. Some I have fought with - days and nights on end, sometimes with hard reason, sometimes with brilliant harsh reality, but they have survived. If I kill them, and thats only if I could - Lord knows I have tried - they would kill a part of me. Not leave me whole. Or they may just take me down with them. They are too strong.

I am tired of these dreams of mine. They used to be pleasant to me earlier, not anymore. Maybe they have waited for too long for some action from my side - an action either I could not, or would not do, or providence would not let me do. These days, they do not let me be happy. Lately, they been hollering for attention, screaming for action, and worse, have sometimes made me drop perfectly acceptable situations to run after them. They have me work for them, slavishly, desperately, ruinously. They mock me when I see myself in the mirror, they laugh at me when I laugh on small triumphs, they kick me out of comfortable sleep... Oh, they are demons who feed on me!

Go away, Dreams! Go away. Yes, I no longer need you. I don't need to run after your grand visions, your unquenchable thirst and your deep desires. Go away and leave me in peace. I am too old a woman now, and I now just want to be. Just be what I am, and not what I could be.

Please just go.

No longer surefooted

I used to run well earlier.

All I needed was a stretch of soft springy earth - sometimes even a concrete road would do, and my feet would come to life. Break into a swift sprint. I would easily transform myself into being a human powered moving machine. I would exult as I ran, enjoying the steady rhythm of my heart as it beat harder, pumping blood to the extremities, wind running through my hair, and the delicious feeling of blood beating against the temples. And when I would stop and drop on my seat, I would hang my head down, enjoying the slowing down of breath, feeling the sweat trickle down and the warmth settling down, from my heart to finally the tip of my fingers.

Never a marathon runner, I loved running for running sake, and though I did not mind walking, many a times I had to restrain myself to walk sedately as I went around doing my chores and study routine. I would run up stairs, jump down from fences, slide on banisters, simply out of the joy of being a bundle of muscle. I would never ever walk down staircases, one step at a time, I then felt sure of that. I am sure I stumbled and fell down several times, but I don't remember those events. I just remember the running.

Back then, I used to wonder why people walked. Why don't they run, when they can't walk - was one of my Marie Antoinette style thoughts.

I miss running like that. I miss the hot breath and the coolness which would come on the limbs on drinking plain water. I miss the spring in my step.

I am growing old, I whisper to myself, when this desire takes over me. I am now meant for the gentler joys of contemplation and appreciation and applause. Meant to amble slowly, watch the flowers bloom, smell the road side fragrance from the bushes, and watch the squirrels crunch their nutty meal. These sights and smells are better, since they linger much later after the leisurely walk, I coax myself. I never saw them when I was running, did I, I argue. And there are many like me, who don't run anymore, right? So why this urge?

Try as I might, I am not able to shake this need off, of wanting to run again. To once again launch my body into space.

Age, alas, tells me that I am surefooted no more. I don't know think I agree completely, as I know it is not just about muscle, it is really about the fear that has settled down on my chest, of falling down, of hurting my ankle, of pushing my heart over the edge, or some other such nameless terror. Fear of something I could do very easily, with pride in my skill, without a thought of failure earlier, is now upon me, making my heart crumble and my gut cringe.

Surely I can do this again. I want to run.

I won't. I can't. You see, I am not surefooted anymore.

Time Stopped By

Time stopped by today, and stayed for a snuggle. It had been a while since I met him. He was in the neighbourhood, he said, and could not resist dropping in. I am glad he did.

I was in the middle of a call when he rang the bell, hesitatingly first, and then, loudly and insistently. I used to love unannounced, surprise visitors earlier, but not any more. I had half a thought to ignore the bell. Whoever it is, if he/she does not have the courtesy to plan beforehand, perhaps I should give them a miss, I thought, but my old self kicked in, and made me relent.

He came in, looking different that what I remember him. He used to have a lazy, langrous, dreamy look about him, with eyes that smiled and loved. He now looked anxious, almost feverish, his teeth clamped under a determined jaw, and I almost did not recognize him. Just then he smiled my name, and it came back - the redolent look - and blood coursed through me, reigniting the love and fierce protection I had always felt for him. I found myself smiling back, forgetting the call I had put on hold, as I took him by his hands, and sat us down on our favourite love seat by the French window, our breaths mingling, hands barely touching.

“How have you been?”, he asked.

“Er… I have been ok, I guess. “, I quivered, as I devoured the familiar look about his eyes. I wondered if he knew that my knees had turned to water.

He looked long at me, his eyes touching every corner of me. I felt myself blossoming under his eyes, and sighing, stretched out on the couch, enchanted by his presence alone.

“You look weary.” he said, looking me deep in the eyes.

“Ah, yes, perhaps I am. You are not with me much anymore these days”, I had to tell him I missed him so.

“You wanted more of me?” he retorted, his gaze now caressing my lips. “For what? Haven’t you used me enough?”

“Used you?”

“What else would you call doing what you do? Running from one place to other, making money, making investments, smiling at strangers, talking to crowds..”, he accused, his eyes still riveted on my lips, making them burn with longing.

I snuggled closer to him. And ran my fingers through his hair – they felt the same. Curly, thick. I could spend hours like this, I thought.

“Be with me tonight.” I whispered, dropping my head on his shoulders, suddenly aching for him inside.

“I am with you now, just as I have been before. You just stopped noticing me’. His voice smelt of unshed tears, smoked dreams and half-forgotten desires. “But I am going away soon. That’s what I came to tell you. I am running out.” he blurted out in one breath.

“Running out?”

“Yes. There will be fewer tomorrows than yesterdays”, he whispered, his eyes now on mine, soft and luminous, my face reflected back in them. “Do me a favour, will you? Do what you really want with me. And be quick.”

With that, he yanked his eyes away, and in one swift movement, got up from the love seat, wore his anxious look again, and before I could assemble my feet to entreat him, opened the door and walked out.

I continued sitting on the love seat, dazed with what he had said, still feeling his presence warm next to me, as waves of regret washed over me. He had to run out, I knew that, but how did I know that it would happen so soon?

I am glad Time stopped by today. I managed a small snuggle – it is not much, but it is something.

Insignificance

Insignificance. Isn't that what all of us fight against, all our lives? And even if we do become significant, to maybe some people or some animals, would it really matter in the long run? In the great scheme of things? To the cosmos? To the universe?

All Izz Well

This line is very popular these days. My daughter says it to me before going to school, her friends say this to each other, youngsters tap on their chests as they walk jauntily, and yesterday, I even saw a T-shirt emblazoned on it.

The "3 Idiots" fever is upon us. I enjoyed the movie too, immensely. A tale entertainingly told, about the most primitive deep rooted desire of ours - to make meaning with our lives. And this is in India, where making meaning is something that several of our country folks can only just dream of, most managing to just about survive. The setting is the young India, the youngistan, as they call it in the bubble gum kitshcy vocab that goes around these days.

Young people will dream. As they have always done. Always should. Always would. And every generation dishes out these feel-good movies, where the young are told that what they do, can and will, matter. Feeding them optimism and idealism. Thank God I am not young anymore. All this "All Izz Well" chant does not generate a fervor in me.

Most of our lives, All is not well. For most of us, what we do, does not really matter to anyone, except our immediate family, whom we feed and clothe. Most of us do not find what we love to do, leave alone being competent to do it. Most of us just survive.

The odds of finding the one thing that one was meant to do in the world are stacked against one. There are so many things in the world to do, how does anybody know what they are best at? Who defines best? How does one know that one is good at building bridges when one has never built one? Or even seen it?

I am not sure why this is so. There are people who DO find what they love, indeed, I am one of the fortunate ones, as I love what I do - not all the time, but most of the time. But only I know how long it took, the knocks I braved, the search that it took, the work after it, and even when I am here- my moments of doubt. So many of them. When I run into stone walls, barren fields, abusive team mates, irate customers, I despair still, and wonder if it was worth it all. This fleeting feeling of love for what I do -will it matter to me, really really matter, in say 5 years from now? In ten? Would it matter to anyone else?

How many of us really find what we love to do? And how many of us are sure that this is it, the thing that we really were sent to this world to do? How many of us really know what we want? How many of us even know how to go about finding out what we want? And when we do find out, how many of us make a mistake? How many of us make a mistake, and then get stuck there, like a helpless fly in a spiders net? There are divorces in marital lives - but none in the professional life. Once an adult takes up a profession, he can never really shrug it off. Why isn't there a notion of divorcing your earlier-acquired-profession? If people make mistakes in finding mates, and give a name to it (divorce) for correcting their mistake, why is there still no word for changing ones profession?

Oh, don't give me that hogwash of the universe conspiring to give me that I really really want! Just tell me how I can figure out what I really really want, and what I am good at. And that too early in life, in youngistan days... the rest will fall in place.....

Strident Optimism

Watched a wonderful play a couple of days back -"Happy Days", written by Samuel Beckett. Exemplary acting by the cast of two - Patty Gallagher and Joe McGrath, performed in an intimate theater setting, like the one at NCPA I used to frequent at Mumbai, the location Rangshankara, Bangalore - which even has its announcements in the voice of Girish Karnad, an old friend sitting besides me, and a young niece on the other side, watching a play like this for the first time. A rare rare treat, in more ways than one.

The play itself, left lot more unsaid than the narrative itself. I was so intently listening to what was being said, that I could not reflect on what was not being said. Age, me thinks. There were times when I could listen and reflect, both at the same time. Ah, well…... Guess age has its compensations, such as being able to appreciate and ruminate over a play like this. Age is better. Yes, it is.

Coming back to the play - the play was about a woman, Winnie, buried in sand, waist down in the first act, and neck down in the second one. No reason evident on why it was so, the sand being a metaphor for many many things. She could be buried in a meaningless existence, a soulless marriage, a dead-end job, whatever. And the sand was just taking her deeper and deeper into the earth, to non-existence, slowly, inexorably, and presumably, agonizingly. And she has a husband, Willie, who lives around her, maybe due to the matrimonial bond, or some other, who is mobile, and yet chooses to live in a hole, crawling in and out of it, sometimes using his elbows and sometimes his head.

The play is about the optimism of Winnie, of her being determined to have a “Happy Day”, despite her being buried the way she is, and her efforts to reach out to Willie as she masticates over the memories when she was not buried thus, engages in her daily routine which she turns into a ceremony, murmurs half forgotten prayers, and tries very hard to reach out and engage with Willie, urging him to connect with her, terrified as she is about "talking to herself". She does not complain about being buried, but just accepts it the way it is, refusing to use the revolver she has in her bag at all times, which could end it all at one go, that which is any case is ending slowly, excruciatingly. She has her days of panic, when she fears about Willie not being there, and her days of doubt as she wonders what people (Shower/Cooker….or something that ended with an ‘er’) say about her, and resigns herself to existing and surviving, and tries to choose the perfect time to “sing her song”. And in all this, she is perennially gay, thanking her God for the thousand mercies, and once even curses mobility, the one thing she does not have, being buried so.

The play ends when Willie crawls out of his hole, one Happy Day, and reaches out to her, to maybe give her a kiss or maybe to make the revolver kiss her, maybe to end her pitiful yearning for intimacy with him, or snuffing out her pitiful existence- difficult to say, which, and when Winnie finally, finally, sings her song. Lilting, not musical, not good, but yet, her song, the Winnie song.

As I walked out with friends, I could feel a disquiet within me. This was an optimistic play, in a way, as Winnie is so hell bent on being happy, and yet, I felt so sad inside. No, this was a terribly dark sad play, I reflected later. Her insistence to be happy, in a situation which is so obviously an unhappy one, is sadder than everything else.

No wonder, the flyer that came with the play called her a “Strident Optimist”. Winnie is optimistic, but her optimism jars. I wish she wasn’t so, I wish I could tell her, “Winnie, it is’nt getting any better, you are just fooling yourself! Your optimism is sad. Very sad, sadder than the wails that you have throttled inside. Cry, if you must, but don’t smile. You are in a hell hole, and it maybe better to just end it, rather than go on this way, it may be kinder to die than to survive.” Maybe thats what Willie decides to do that after all. Kill her rather than face her strident optimism.

I have no idea of what Beckett meant when he wrote this play, or what others say about it. Maybe after I am done thinking about it, I would look for what others have to say, but for today, I need to think more about what he meant, and what sense I can make of it.

To me, the play typified the pain that we all go through, terrified of being alone, of talking to no one. Just like Winnie, we are all scared deep inside when the day will come with the ‘words will cease’, when our breaths are wound down. Just like her, we reach out to find companions, who would care, who find us lovable, and despite finding that the “Willie” we are with, does not care or does not want to, we incessantly try and find meanings in our relationships when maybe there aren’t any. We console ourselves with optimism when sometimes it is obvious that there isn’t any sense in it. And that’s the darkest hour. When we know internally that we are even faking hope.

It happens. It has happened to me. Hopefully, it wont ever happen again. But it did. Then I survived because there was nothing else to do but survive. It did not make sense to survive. Survival seemed worse than death, but survive I did – as I made the notions of going through the day, counting seconds, counting minutes and then hours, every single day, waiting for the sun to rise and set, willing myself to live the next second, even when it made no sense to, as I struggled with the multiple options that I could use to end it all, and found none to be satisfactory.

I survived. And it wasn’t because of hope. Hope had died. But I could not die even when hope had died. I remember a friend asking me of those days – "Just how did you survive?" And I remember answering him – “What else was there to do?”

Inane reason, but who said truths aren’t inane?

Willie survives, and so do the most tortured lives. Not because survival means something better, but because annihilating oneself is tougher and scarier than survival. So, one takes the easy option - Survives, fakes hope, puts on a cheery smile, and calls is optimism. Strident Optimism.

This is so dark, so full of despair. I recognized it because I have been here. Maybe Beckett had been here too. But wait wait wait….That was then. I am not at that emotional junction today, not today. No No.

Today, I would have chosen to take the other perspective, the other path. Not in its emptiness, not in despair. Not even in hope. But in acceptance - not in optimistic way that Winnie did, but in simple, stoic acceptance. Not in right or wrong, good or bad, but accepting reality the way it is, and dealing with it in a spirit of benediction to myself – not because the universe is kind – I still think it is indifferent – but because it is kinder on myself if I think it that way. Lame? Faking it, you say? Yes, maybe.

But could I sing my song, the way Winnie did, in my acceptance mode? No. I don't think so. I wish I could though. Stoic-ism does not lend itself to songs. Singing songs would definately be better, if I could figure out how to. The way, Rabindranath Tagore did. Where I can believe in the benediction of the universe, surrender to it, and believe that there is a beloved waiting for me somewhere, after this worldly existence, even though I have no means of really knowing that He is there, and sing my song, like Tagore does...with so much certainty.

“The song that I came to sing, remains unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing and unstringing my instrument.
The time has not come true, the words have not seen rightly set; only there is the agony of wishing in my heart.
The blossom has not opened, only the wind is sighing by.
I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice; only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house.
The livelong day had passed in spreading his seat on the floor; but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my home
I live in the hope of meeting him; but this meeting is not yet.”

-Gitanjali, Rabindranath Tagore

Some day, I hope, I can feel the way Tagore felt when he wrote that. And I hope that on no day, I feel like the way I think Beckett must have felt when he wrote Happy Day. No, I don’t want to go on that path again.

The day I feel like Tagore did, I would be at peace with me, my existence and that of the universe, and that day, I would need no “Willie”, nor would I need to fake optimism, strident or otherwise. Till then, stoic-ness is what I will stick to. Try to.

In Silent Sufferance

The heat from your body
hits me in waves
under the shared rajai

I writhe and turn
while you snore
hand on my thigh

I crumble
my knees close
shiver out a sigh

Hunting Myself Down

I hunted her down and killed her. What else could I do?

It was one of those days. A day when she was acting up. Giving me trouble. Holding to my skirts and refusing to let me go ahead. Crying, fitfully sometimes and sometimes with gusto. Holding my chin and forcing me to look her way.

I was tired. I had had a bad day. One of my potential leads had gone bust. I had worked so hard on the account – had oiled my way up to the buyer, dazzled him with my presentation and charmed him by my erudite speech. Looks like the erudition was wasted on him. He isn’t buying, he told me. I wish I could ask him all those why questions, the ones that are mentioned in that celebrated “How to Win Sales” handbook.

But she doesn’t let me. She is too proud. She shrugs, digs in her hands in her jeans’s pocket and tells me “Maybe he doesn’t need it. Why sell something to someone who doesn’t need it. Chuck those questions, forget this lead.”. But I must ignore her. She does’nt have to face her CEO tomorrow, I have to. She doesn’t have to fulfill those targets, I have to.

She takes my hand and sits me down. “Why do you have to fulfill those targets?”, she asks. I am dumbfounded at her naivete. “It is my job, silly! I have to sell these products.”. “Oh, your job. Of course. I guess its not the right time to ask why you have to do this job, is it?” she asks. I sigh “You know the answer to this one.”

“Yeah, sure I do. Money”, she says. “As if you wont get money if you did what you like doing best – drawing”. She is shrugging again. I hate this aggravating habit she has. She just shrugs at everything I do, as if it is not relevant, its not important. I snarl back “We have been through this before. There is no way in hell that I could earn the money I am doing right now if I was drawing.”. A wistful note creeps into her voice “I used to love it so. Do you remember the open window where you would sit? And the smell of fresh paint and the crackling paper that you used to tack on your drawing board? You used to love the effect of fresh sunlight on your subjects, remember?”. Yes, of course, I remember. How can I not remember it? I love drawing. There is nothing in the world I would rather do. I can’t resist her when she talks about drawing, even when the time is ticking by and my targets are getting more urgent by the minute. I am smiling now, just the memory of my favorite craft can make me smile. “Yes, I remember”, I tell her. “I never did manage to get the first rays effect on that darned pitcher! Not the way I saw it anyway”. She nods, she remembers it well too.

“Come, lets do it again!”, she is jumping now. “The sky is beautiful today, and the sun is just right. Lets do it, lets!”. The cold touch of the phone lying on my desk wipes the smile away from my face. I can’t let her make me forget my job and run after some stupid non-paying drawing craft. She has already taken hold of my hand and is leading me away. I stop her, “No, I cant do that!”. She is beginning to take on her ingratiating routine now, “Please, please, lets do it, I love it so!”. Time for me to be firm. I am pushing back for my hand, which is already in her firm grip. She is small, I can pull it away. “No, Gotta work”, I tell her.

Eyes flashing, she is getting into a temper now. “I know, I know. It is for that dirty filthy easy money! As if that money can buy you the first ray of sunlight. As if the money can buy you the comfort of the paintbrush in your hands. As if money can meet that hunger of yours to paint that pitcher!”

She has hurt me bad now, and at a place where my skin is thin. I whimper, “Honey, Painting would not have given me money!”

She is sneering now. I can’t stand her when she is like this, “How many days did you try your craft? When was it that you tried? You think you would not have made money because your dear Raja Uncle said so? You, you sloth, you never even tried! You just gave up, because everyone said so! Pshaw!” I cringe - “But painters don’t really make money. Whom have I known who is a painter and had made money? How do I know I could have been one? What if I was wrong? On the other hand, I knew sales people made money. I know so many sales people, all of them with big cars and big awards.”

Cold fury in her eyes, she stares into mine. “You have them now, don’t you? The big car? The award? Did any of them feel like the little ray of sunshine to you, the way it did, long back sitting on that window? No!” She is shaking now with anger and disgust “You gave up, you coward!. You traded your talent. You decided to be successful in others eyes – the big cars, the big awards. To impress your dear Raja Uncle. You did not even give your craft a fighting chance. You - you prostituted your dreams instead!”

This is enough. Just about enough. Who does she think she is? Just a little chit of girl, all of nineteen years of age. And she is calling me a Vice President of Sales, a prostitute that sold away her dreams? Yes, I wanted those cars, those awards. So, big deal! Doesn’t everyone? I am a successful executive. I worked for all those things, did I not? So what if I could not make some crummy painting? I straighten my back, and look around for a cudgel. I need to kill her, I can’t be a VP if she keeps on hankering on being a painter. She must go. Absolutely must go.

She is running now, the remnants of a triumphant look still on her face, reveling in the hurt she has caused me. I run after her. I am faster than her, and my cudgel is big and strong. There, I am now running neck to neck to her. I catch her, pin her down, hold my knee on her frail chest, and clobber her. I watch her falling silent, her blood running cold.

Now, I can continue being the same old Vice President.

Go Away, Spring!

Spring. That time of the year again. A time I dread. A time I want to get over with quickly. A time when I wince every second.

Spring, the time of the year when I cannot do without you. You, who are my soul mate, my lover, my essence, my being. You, who is not there with me, for reasons not understood by me.

I get by, in other times, without you. Manage to exist without thinking about you every moment. Manage to make meaning with life and work and the crowd that mills around me.

But in spring, when every living creature, big and small, plant and animal, is suffused with love and mating, every pore of mine opens up and screams for you. I want you because flowers flower, birds sing, leaves glisten, fragrance intoxicates, sap rises and skies cloud. I want you…

But you are not there.

And I curse Spring. Why must it come and hold a mirror to my life, showing me exactly as I am - holed in the middle, emptied of your presence?

Go away, Spring, go away! Go away, so that I can live.