Connect

After a week of unrelenting rains in madras we finally had a sunny day in madras. But it still felt so much like a rainy day with my net practice cancelled in the morning I slept through the day till 4PM such was the laziness. So it was no surprise that this day ended with Vatsan, Vinu, Murali, Gayathri, Srinidhi and me whiling away our late evening at the beach. Such a breezy and beautiful night it was today.

Hanging out at the beach is always a group moment for us I have always thought that when we are out there talking and sitting close to each-other there is always a proper sync, a connect. Today on the other hand was very unusual. We were together and yet there was no connect, no synchronization. It could have been because of me I was particularly unsocial today.

While Vatsan and Gayathri stood on the shore holding each other's hands sorting out some of their issues that arose this morning they were disjointed from us. Srinidhi and Vinu - the more free-spirited people just sat back and were deep in conversation. Murali was completely lost and just running around and I stood back as lost as him trying to figure out what in the world we were doing. The only people who looked connected to each other in anyway was the "happy couple".

Nevertheless, what is amazing with these guys is that i'd rather stay disconnected and do absolutely nothing than stay alone and have a good time. That is what they mean to me. That realization left me awe-struck. I quietly dropped everyone off and left to my house. I immediately get a call and the interrogation began on why I was weird. So it was just me. I was the one out of sync. I was the one who was off-key in the orchestra.

I love them - I can't think of how my life would be without them. They play such a huge part in my world that I find it scary sometimes that my dependence on them is not healthy. But I guess that's the risk that I should take.

Lit

A nearly deserted railway station, two fawn coloured dogs running around playing with each-other, a contagious feeling of warmth and happiness emanating from their games as a young boy with a plain black tee-shirt and denims looks on from the far end of the fairly long platform with a half-finished cigarette in his hand. A gentle breeze blows across his fair, glowing face and he inhales a puff of his cigarette. A rugged man enters the platform with a violin case in his hand. He chooses a spot just beside the vending machine picks up a foldable chair from his heavy bag and lays it down. The fiddler looks at the dogs and plays a soft melodic tune. He tips his hat when he sees the young boy across the platform. The boy strolls across, drawn to the sounds of the violin he drops a cigarette in the violin case knowing that the rugged man will appreciate that later. He also drops some change.

The boy walks towards the dogs and they merrily stroll around him. His phone rings he picks up with a smile on his face and mumbles a few words as his smile steadily radiates in his face. A few minutes later a fair girl with dark curly hair walks in to the platform. She runs to him and hugs him from behind.The violin in the background switches to an even more pleasing melody. The fiddler hits the perfect vibratos. The boy turns around holds her close to him and they kiss. The couple blush at their own lack of self-control. They are in love and it had to be shown. The boy whispers in the girl’s ears and she leans in for another kiss.

A melancholy strain sounds out of the rugged man’s lovely brown violin. The time on the clock is six hours and six minutes with the seconds hand just going past twelve. The boy and the girl walk to the far corner of the platform where the boy was standing before hand-in-hand flirting with each other. They hear the train approaching the station. The sound steadily increasing, the train seems to be accelerating rather than the opposite. The boy runs his fingers through the curly-haired girl’s hand.

The fiddler wraps up his concert. The train hits the platform crashes on to the smitten couple. The now broken clock lays shattered near the vending machine time pointing to six hours six minutes and six seconds. The fiddler is nowhere to be seen. The dogs emerge from the debris and the howling begins.

A cigarette is lit.

Something In The Way...

A buzzing sound emanates from a phone lying on a low, square table. It is rhythmic, constant and stops after a minute or so. The dark room is luminescent by the phone's light. There is a boy lying on the bed in front of the table smiling to himself as he lip sync's "Something in the way she moves..." The vision that the boy sees is of a fair, beautiful girl with black curly hair wearing a short white shirt and he sings the song to her. He feels a soothing heat flow through his body as she smiles at him and joins in. Encouraged, he continues the song and holds out his hand. The girl laughs and they walk. she holds his hand and he stops. She looks at him quizzically. He doesn't understand what is happening. He smiles at her and runs his fingers through her palm. He says that she is beautiful as she blushes. Nervous, both of them are. They continue to walk. Only the crescent moon above them.

There is another buzz from his phone. This one longer and faster. The rhythmic sound disturbs the dreaming boy. He opens his eyes. The room glows from the phone's light. He gets up to reach it. It is just a few inches away from his grasp. The buzzing stops and the room turns dark again. He sighs and gets up to check his phone. He flicks the touch screen on and there are two text messages and a missed call. He opens the first message and blushes. He settles down in a dark corner in his room and keys in a few numbers. He hears that very song he was singing in his dream. A soft, sweet voice says:- "Hello?". He replies :- " I was just thinking about you."

The conversation has only just begun. The dark corner is a very cozy place as waves of laughter rings through the room. The boy is smitten.

.

A Scene On the Terrace

A cacophony of glasses being kept down on the floor. A gang of boys spread over the dusty, algae-spread terrace. Few drops of golden brown liquid still nestled on the bottom of the glasses that were kept down. A dark, starry psychedelic sky engulfing a quiet night only interrupted by frequent murmurs.

A couple of boys out on the corner sitting on a small graphite slab probably talking about the end of the world and its consequences. Their ideas free flowing like the drink that was available that night. On the other side of the terrace a guy laughing uncontrollably at his mate who is trying hard to unwrap a piece of chocolate. His hands fumble and his apprehension steadily rises. The golden foil finally comes off and the chocolate is devoured.

A boy gets up with a glass in hand he goes into the room adjacent to the terrace refills his drink and staggers back. Pops in the idea of a circle. 'twas formed. Minutes later. He enters his happy place.

Time on fast-forward, an illusion of night and day passing every second is created. The boy is smiling endlessly and the sky looks more beautiful than it ever has been. He takes a swig and chases that down with some chips. The crunchy sounds ignite him and he starts laughing. He lets go off the grip he holds on what he thinks is reality. He just lets go. His visions are continuously changing erupting all his emotions. He sees a war, he sees Satan, he sees meadows, he plays with the stars, he walks on the moon, he falls into an abyss.

He sees a girl and the vision doesn't change.

Where Am I Going

I feel like everything is going against me. The positive guy in me tells me to be a trooper, the pessimist is asking me where am I going with my life. I'm torn between them, my morale severely hurt and i'm lost for ideas.

Statistics don't lie. Am i not cut out for this? Throw me a fuckin' bone here.

A Realist

Watching a friend put up a brave face when one of his loved one's is facing death in point-blank distance is a very hard thing to do and to write about it is even harder. As far as my memory serves, I have never met a true realist, until today.

There I was, my right-arm outstretched, a stress ball in my hand and a needle holding a tube stuck through my vein drawing blood filling up a sterlized plastic bag. I walk out of the room a juice box in my hand sipping up through a tiny white straw and he's sitting outside with a smile on his face, not his usual toothy, flashy,mischievous smile, still a smile worth remembering. A five-percent chance of recovery and he goes on to say "I don't think he's going to make it." Words that you never want to hear even if it is for a sporting achievement let alone life and death.

I rode back feeling sad for one of my closest friend, seeing him dull and yet being brave and accepting the reality of a situation that has so much emotional depth. There was a realist, a true realist. I remember a quote from an obscure movie " Bravery is all about acting like you don't have any fear." I disagree with that. Bravery is about accepting reality and finding the courage to move on.

I believe in miracles, but i also believe that they don't happen everyday. I really wish one comes around for my friend soon. The Realist.

Hang in there man, we are all there for you whatever happens.

*Edited on 8th August,2010. Alas, the miracle din't quite happen. But life has better things to offer for you man.

Unfamiliar

The crack of dawn, the fan spinning full speed a small, dark haired boy neatly snuggled between his parents will reluctantly get up drink his daily dose of Milo read the sports section of the paper and will take a shower. A crisply ironed white shirt and navy blue shorts will be ready on the bed. He goes to his mother who helps him with his clip-on tie and hastily feeds him his breakfast. The sight of his white canvas shoes brings an expression of elation. Its "Games" day at school today.

There is a spring in his step and he desperately wants to get to school as soon as possible. He counts down to 'Games' hour. The bell rings the boy re-ties his shoe laces just to be sure but just then an unfamiliar face walks in. He knows that there is something wrong. Following the unfamiliar man is a clerk carrying what seems like booklets with lamination on it. The boys elation drops down to a panic attack. He knows what those booklets are.

They call it the "Progress Report"!!! The education system in his school has evaluated his recent performance in the test he had written. He has a feeling that someone is squeezing the blood out of his heart. His name is called out he responds to the call goes forward to pick his Report Card. He does not want to open it. He is scared but he knows he can't run away from it. He opens it and breathes a sigh of relief.

Cut to the present the boy, now older, stares at an unfamiliar e-mail which reads Progress Report. Nothing has changed. He still is frightened to death, he is reluctant to click the button which will open the mail. He musters all his energy. Clicks. And Disappointment.

Its time to move on!!!