A Short Story

(An article I had to submit somewhere. I hope it came out well. I enjoyed writing it anyway.)

***

An Event That Moved Me

Mirror doesn’t reflect a pretty face. But in this world of pretense, it’s the closest to truth one can ever get. When you are filled with guilt, all you see in that mirror is a reflection of history that you want to escape; the permanent scars of shame that cram and almost disfigure your face.

Hence, the night proves to be a welcome dark; a natural blind from this condemning world. It’s a hide from those probing eyes; an escape from the day; a blanket from the harsh sun so the heat doesn’t burn the skin. But soon the cold silence puts me to sleep. Sleep is an escape for some. It’s also a torture for many. It helps the nightmares to invade my room and I wake up screaming, almost gasping for breath. Then her soothing hand touches my skin and her warm cuddle tries to comfort me. I lay my head in her arms and she places a kiss on my cheeks, “It wasn’t your fault”, she claims. I smile. Her words don’t make things better for me, they won’t change a thing; but there is never a use arguing over the same matter every night and she, my beautiful wife, will never put me in the wrong.

Mirror reflects a pretty face. It helps you hide that scar so the world sees the face that you intend to portray. It helps you in showing the world only that side of the truth that you are willing to expose. It’s the closest to your truth that they can ever get.

***

It always looks like every other day before you find its name in the books of history. The lull before a storm, the calm before all hell breaks loose – the silence that prevails, tends to blind you from seeing the oncoming chaos!

So it was like just another afternoon that day. Zakir and I were strolling in one of those small lanes of Byculla. The summer sun shone brightly and we were waiting for the rains. The sun-filled sky deceived us into believing that the dark clouds were a long way away. If only we could predict the future, we could’ve changed the today.

Zakir Ali Beig - my neighbour, my brother, my security blanket. Zakir - your ideal son. Zakir - your friend in need. Zakir – your God in flesh and bones. Everyone loved Zakir. Just a year elder to me but I felt really tiny before him. Growing up in his shadows, I tried to breathe in as much of Zakir as possible. It’s not about how much of the idea you are filled with, but it’s how much of that idea you have become. Zakir was an idea and we were just dreamers.

We were loitering around the BIT chawls when it happened. Rush of footsteps, smell of fire, crash of shops; within ten minutes we were the helpless audience to a cinema of mayhem and destruction. There never was a warning or we never heard one. The houses burnt in the background and a group of people rushed in our direction. I tried to run but Zakir stopped me – the only mistake he ever committed. Then, just like that, without the rise of the curtains, the drama began, and Zakir and I became a part of it even before we knew our roles.

The blow was hard. When my head hit the dirt, it felt like a million pins were being jabbed in my head. The bleeding was profuse, the pain was agonizing; “Kill me”, I prayed in my head, but death isn’t always your dream-come-to-life. It embraces you just when you start dieing to live. Otherwise, it just keeps playing with you.

In that blurry moment of confusion and intense fear, I looked at Zakir. He was held down by the power of a sword, its blade piercing his skin just enough to keep the blood flowing but not deep enough to kill him. “Your name kid”, someone demanded from me as he drove his sword and fixed me to the ground. Words aren’t your best friend, not when a sword is sticking to your throat. “Amir” I intended and “A.. A..” was all that I could manage. “Amardeep and Zakir. He is Amardeep. Zakir is me.” I heard Zakir’s voice rise sternly above all the maddening chaos. When fear fills you, you become a machine, you cannot think, all you do is observe the world and store it in your memory, so it can haunt you as long as you live. “You? Zakir? And him? Hindu?” The guy holding me down asked Zakir. “Yes”, he said firmly. The day we learn to accept death as a fact of life, we overcome fear. “Good. Kill him.” The man holding me down ordered the one, standing over my helpless God. Zakir smiled at me. Zakir – my safety blanket. Zakir – my life. Zakir – now dead.

As the violent feet moved away, I noticed Zakir’s lifeless body. His head lay besides it, not a part of it anymore, his eyes still focused on me, the smile on his face undisturbed and I could almost hear his voice saying, “You are safe now Amirjaan”.

Lock the doors, switch on that burglar alarm and go to bed. Chances are you will see the morning sun. Chances are the locks, alarms and every other security devices will protect you from the night. Or sometimes everything fails. Nothing works; or in spite of it all, the night enters your home, your room and fills your life.

Dad.... Where is your car?

It’s been two and a half years now since I’ve driven a car. I don’t remember the exact date of driving a car for the last time, but I remember those last moments, after which my “driving career” became a history.

It was hot everywhere that day, on the streets, inside the car and this heat was burning me. It was 5.30 pm already and I was driving home my family from Dadar to Vile Parle and we had to reach home before 5.30 pm "at any cost" as my mom had put it. This wasn’t the fastest I’d driven, in my short stint as a driver, but I really had tried my bit. Okay! Not everyone is comfortable overtaking a vehicle on a highway, at least not when you have a screaming brother criticizing your every single move! So it had taken me about an hour to make the distance from Dadar to Vile Parle, (an experienced driver takes about 30 minutes, but please mark the word “experienced” here). So I am a safe driver and saw to it that my inexperience didn’t cost any losses to my family, what’s wrong with that? But some people are born to be blamed for everything they do or even for everything they don’t do. So we had nearly reached home and I just had to make one final turn, but the traffic was thick and I let a few cars to pass by. Irritated by this, my brother resumed to his yelling, “Do you realize you are the cause of traffic here? Stop just waiting for things to happen and move. This way, we will never reach home.” I really wanted to staple his mouth shut somehow. Then suddenly “Move! Move! Move!” filled the air and I just fired the engine and in the confusion and fury that arose in the car and my head, I couldn't notice the rickshaw to my left and took a sharp turn. The result – there remains a large scratch on the car – the scars of my failure – an answer to everyone who questions my dad “why doesn’t he drive?”

***

It was my dad who forced me into a driving school as soon as I turned 18. But since we had just got a new car back then, I wasn’t allowed to drive the same. I guess its novelty never wore off even after three years as my dad then refused to hand me over the car. His reason being, “Now you have lost the touch, so go join a driving school first before you touch my car”. I was quite stubborn on not joining a driving school again and my dad, was stubborn on not giving me a chance to touch his car. My uncle, who had come to stay with us for a couple of weeks took up the matter in his own hands and started training me at nights, after he came home from work. I enjoyed learning under him and at the end of our very first “session”, he concluded that there’s nothing wrong with my driving and I can go on my own. But that never convinced my dad. Three days later my uncle started taking me on long drives and we drove as long as 50 kms one way. A week later, with my uncle as my instructor, I took my family to Pune and back. Uncle had given me just one piece of advice, “Let him scream, you focus on your driving.” It was the best fun with driving I’ve ever had. I really enjoyed myself that day. My dad went on howling, while I kept on driving. Finally, after 3 hrs, my dad realized, all the shouting was of no use and I wasn’t going to stop anyway. Peace finally!

But it had to end someday. My uncle moved out and it was a struggle after that to get the car on the road again by myself, as my dad would plainly say “NO”! But with mom’s support, I did steal out the car a few times, but the “homecomings” were never sweet. The lectures were getting impossible to deal with and I was finding it really hard to hold back my temper. Finally it happened. I just threw away the keys and “this is the last time I touch your car” came out of my mouth – I think I saw my dad celebrate the moment. He walked away quietly and started enjoying the blasted music that he plays on his headphones. A couple of times after that day, I did drive but it was just for 5 minutes at most as screams again filled the car and I was finding it impossible to keep my calm. And then the “scratchy” moment happened and I completely gave up.

I really feel like shouting out someday that I miss driving, I loved it; the moment I touched that steering wheel, I felt like I owned the world, it was bliss. But somehow these shouts get lost in my head. I don’t see a point in raising a fight.

We aim for everything and we just feel everything is rightfully ours, disappointment strikes when we start feeling we own the world. The truth is we don’t.

I cannot stand it, when anyone handles my guitar carelessly or just picks it up without asking me. A close friend of mine, had had it from me for doing so and I had told him, never to touch it ever again without asking me. I then understood my dad, and what it must be like for him, when handing over his car-keys to a newbie or to a person who doesn’t know how to drive. Well, I have the blessed bike and it’s a sexy machine. I completely adore it. But finding satisfaction is one thing, forcing yourself to stay satisfied is another. Denial is a fact that our pride doesn’t let us embrace. Hence, we drive ourselves in a world of illusions. I really question, are we so proud to handle the truth. Am I so proud?

The Laughing Dolls

Have you noticed the laughing dolls? They are everywhere - on the streets, at your work, in the restaurants; even when you go home, they are there in your room, on the internet. Take a walk, step outside your home, hit the road; do you see that gathering of jesters there, the merry men surrounding the performers? Rush there; go on, it’s not that far from you. Don’t we all need entertainment my friend? Don’t we eventually start living for it? Go ahead, stand in the crowd; watch the jokers; do they ever realize when they end up becoming the joke themselves? Scramble around for room, make a space for yourself; trying to hide yourself in the small crowd of ten millions, are you? Trying to play unnoticed? You can’t get lost really, not from them. Need some air? Go on, breathe, fill your lungs, you’ll feel the need for it later.

Oh, by the way, is the space where you stand, getting smaller now? Are the bodies coming too close too fast? Is the crowd crushing you yet? Don’t worry; death is still your distant dream. Did I tell you to fill your lungs with air yet?

Make some room for your gaze now, look across the street. Notice the celebrations taking place. Do you see those arms carrying their hero? Do you feel their joy? That is you in some other place, some other time. Do you feel them lifting you up? Do you feel the rise? Listen as they cheer for you. Do you feel like a hero? There they go, hailing you. They are worshipping their hero. They are worshipping you. Once they laughed with you, now they laugh at you. Do you see them pointing their finger at you? Do you see them accusing you, condemning you? "Just because you accept your wrongs doesn't mean you are forgiven".

Now do you see that photograph they hold? That's a picture of you. It's all faded now; see them tear it apart and burn it to ashes. Do you see that rape across the street? Do you hear those screams? Do you feel the struggle? Do you feel the helplessness? Do you notice that mocking glare? Are you scarred yet? Do you feel the madness around you? Do you want to scream? Go ahead. But wait, can you? Haven’t you felt that gag yet? Make space, run away. Try doing that without your limbs. Are you maimed yet? Do you feel mutated and fucked now? Are they getting too close? Did you save your breath? Choking, are you? Do you feel the push now? Do you feel the lonesome fall? The crash isn’t far away now, is it? Yes, now you see the happy dolls mocking you. Do you feel free now?