RIP Anthony

Another day ends.

And with that another life.

We gasp, choke, sigh and post our tributes.

And then get on with the day.

And the next.

And the day after.

Until the next person dies.

A suicide isn’t a normal death.

A suicide goes against the natural human desire to survive. To exist.

A suicide is born out of pain and despair. And the feeling that there is no other way.

It’s the final step in a series of unrelenting steps that pleaded for help, screamed to be heard.

Did no one hear Anthony Bourdain? Or Kate Spade?

Or Chester Bennington?

                                                                                                                    Courtesy: Fortune

Not even their families, their loved ones?

Did we have the wrong idea about their personal lives?

Or perhaps, no matter how happy a person looks, one can never be sure what’s eating them inside.

How hollow do you have to feel, how hopeless to take such a drastic step?

I can’t imagine.

But tonight, my heart cries for Bourdain, Spade, Bennington and those millions of lives we have lost early. And those that we will continue to lose if we don’t do something about it.

Depression is real. Suicides are happening every day. You might not like it; you might think people should be stronger. But you can’t change reality.

What you can change is the way you are with people. Even a few kind words can mean the world to someone.

Empathy is a gift. You don’t know what someone is going through. You might not even understand at first. But be kind. Be patient.  Be persistent. Don’t do it for that person to thank you but because it is the right thing to do.

And if we all try and be a little kinder to each other, perhaps, we can make a small dent in this harsh world.

And that’s a start.

Things People Say

'Oh you are so negative.'
'Oh you are always pissed.'
'Oh you are so depressive.'
'Oh you are so boring.'

'Oh yes, Neanderthals like you make me lose my faith in mankind.'
'Oh yes darling, because I suffered through an overdose of moronity, courtesy, you.'
'Oh you need to not use that word so lightly, it offends the actual depressed people.'
'Oh you need to start hanging around with 'your' kind of 'fun' people. What does it include, btw, half baked fb rants and selfie postures?'

Don't expect respect if you cannot show it. :-)

Bread Omelette

The bread omelette stared at me, like the disfigured face of a burn victim.

Its wrinkly white pores resembled an old man with no teeth. The omelette hung limply from the sides like the limbs of a cancer patient.

I sank my teeth into the rubber.

I hate bread omelette. So I had asked the guy to get me a plain omelette. It was a simple enough instruction. But what arrived was a sallow egg sandwiched between two resilient pieces of bread. I told him I did not want the bread. What made him get the bread?

He told me I should have specified.

Only I did.

I told him off, a bit rudely. And then realized, may be this was why people thought I was obnoxious. I left the sad bread omelette as the lame kitty nobody wanted. A desperate desire to throw away the pathetic excuse for food rushed through me. The nerves in my palms leaped in joy.

I could throw the plate in the kitchen and make him cringe in fear. May be the resounding noise would wake him out of his carelessness. A thousand such scenes flashed through my mind. It was worth a try. The act would be obnoxious enough to get his attention.

Or I could ignore it. Let him know I didn’t care for his substandard service. He would get the message.

Or I could just rescue the omelette and eat it. Ignore the distorted bread.

But there wasn’t any evil in that.

I patiently waited, looking to create maximum impact.

And as I pondered over the next course of action, I slowly ripped the bread to shreds. Along with the omelette. The elastic slice badgered my teeth. Amidst mouthfuls, I thought. This time, I’ll let it slide. But the next time, I drag him to hell.

Walking through the Bylanes of Memory

As the S9 bus started to grate its way through the pebbled road, the roar of its ancient engines deafened me. An unknowing smile lit up my face. Of course. How could I forget the 5 years of riding through noise to the university? It was the same bus, the new ones they had purchased 7 years ago. Even the passengers were the same. I recognised the conductor.

A shy lad looking to learn the ropes of a government job, he had first joined the service around 2007. I had noticed him instantly; he stood out, a quiet, humble voice amidst rowdy conductors. But today, as he went about the rows of passenger seats, his brazen attitude made me realise that he had after all, become a pro. He walked towards me, a little heavy-set (as are most Bengali men), wearing the same moustache and good-boy haircut (another Bengali specialty) I had first seen him sport almost 7 years ago.

'Ticket?' He asked, betraying no signs of recognising me.
I immediately handed him a 100-rupee note, being the first in a long line of passengers to do so. If you have been to Kolkata, you know how difficult it is to get a change for Rs.100 here. It occurred to me how easily I had asked for change of 500-rupee notes from auto rickshaw drivers in Gurgaon.

'Jadavpur, toh?' He looked at me, as I handed him the note. I looked up at him and smiled. He had after all, recognised me. I sat behind the driver's seat, watching the green plains of the Eastern Metropolitan Bypass give way to luxury high-rises. The metro plan that had been on hold since 2006. The traffic jam. Everything was the same. How was it, that the conductor was in the same post for over 7 years? Didn't he want anything more from life? How was he happy?

As the bus inched towards my university, he came back with the change. I had never spoken to him before.

'Bhalo achhen? (Are you well?)', I asked him as he handed me the change.

He looked at me, surprised. Generally, passengers aboard public buses only speak to conductors to either ask for some change or to halt the bus between stations.

Embarrassed, he smiled and mumbled a, 'Ei cholche (It's going alright)', and rushed to the bus door to reprimand the passengers who were trying to get off in the middle of a traffic jam.

I got off and walked through the smoky 8B bus stand and into the crowded lane filled with food stalls, mobile recharge shops and Xerox counters. The lanes where I had spent 5 valuable years of my life. Everything was the same, even the people. There had been no change in this part of town, except in the number of food items that had increased to include more delectable fares like momos and chicken pakodas.

As their heavenly smell hung in the air interspersed with smog, I inhaled deeply. Not everyone wanted to be part of a rat race. Perhaps, the biggest ambition some had was to come home to two square meals a day and a loving family. And that was okay.

I met my friend, and to my surprise, she hadn't changed at all. Still petite and crazy, she entertained me for hours. We chatted about life, our old classmates and the university. As I boarded the returning bus from 8B, who else should be there but the driver-conductor duo from the morning! Some things never change.

As the citylights kissed the dark Kolkata sky, I realised the biggest complaint one had against this city was also perhaps, its biggest strength. Kolkata didn't have ambition, they said. And that's okay. Perhaps, it was fine just the way it was.

Returning by Metro

Crowded Metro. A girl sits cozily turning a page of Sheldon's Angel of the Dark. The woman beside, puts her mobile inside the purse. Hoping she would get up soon, several weary legs near her seat perk up in position. Non chalantly, she takes biscuits out from a lunchbox and begins chewing.

A girl wearing a bright yellow woollen top stands casually by one of the poles, speaking on her phone, 'No, but you have to see what kind of dress I wear to office'. A few feet ahead, another young woman wearing a navy blue sweater lined with feathers, observes her intently.The girl standing next to me is whatsapping some Abhinav Sir. Me?
I'm just trying to read her message.

Cold Love

There is that familiar sting in the air. The cold bites on the lips; the chill tucks at the heart. Windy memories rush past as time moves anticlockwise.

Suicide

Tapping his feet restlessly, Roy waited for the Google results of 'Ways to commit suicide'. Minutes passed. Nothing.

Annoyed, he decided to go for a walk in the park. By the time his page loaded, Roy had already decided life was beautiful.

No Questions Asked? Not Really.

I usually ask a lot of questions. Mostly, out of genuine curiosity. Sometimes, to test the patience of the listener.

In school, they called me 'Question Bank'. Once in tuition, my Math tutor said exasperated, 'You ask too many questions.Just learn the theorem, you don't have to know how'. I stared down at him, as if I had seen a chimpanzee in suit.

As a kid, I'd take things apart, just to see what was inside them. My sister's mobile, for instance. Or the radio. Whether or not they could be put back together was left to the capable hands of the lesser mortals. I was busy pursuing a higher goal, one that could potentially save the future of mankind. At least, that's how it seemed then. Luckily, that's how it seems even now.

Life Crushed

Engrossed, she hunched over her tab, trying to figure out the best way to place candies. Those delightful coloured cells, bathed in stubborn problems, beckoned her to be their saviour. She was there, almost onto the next level.

Suddenly, the client stormed in. 'We've figured it all out! We just need to work the night.'

She looked up. Her life died.

Eaten Up

Slowly engulfing the whole city, the monster grew in size. Soon, all that left of the capital was its monstrous landfill.

Retirement

Trampled upon, worn out and torn apart, they gave Boss the best years of their lives only to be replaced unceremoniously by a dapper younger team. 

Heartbroken yet free, the pair of old leather shoes decided to embark on a new journey of self discovery, to see the world alone and for the first time, without a master.

Noise

Clobbering utensils
Like the high school bell
Ring in my head.
One after the other and another
The cacophony continues.
The Universe expands
A man shouts, a child cries.
Somewhere, my sleep dies.
A mother begins singing
The child joins in.
Mellow laughter
Interspersed with utensil-smashing
The only way to get some peace,
Is to go deaf.

Evening Breeze

The warm evening breeze kissed me fondly, like the memories of first love. The leaves whispered restlessly as the streetlights muted to a dim glow. My heart began humming a distant melody. Evenings like these made me want to dance in the street, without a care in the world.

Then, three men sprang up from the corner of my set, and jumped up to pee by the side of a house. So much so for a romantic evening.

Sad Job

He had all the requisite credentials for a job.
A Certificate of Innovation in playing pranks.
An A+ in mending shoes.
He was even nominated in the 'Best Dressed' category. Twice.
He knew that soon, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow would be his.

But in post-recession Europe, times were tough even for Leprechauns.
Shattered dreams and endless bills forced him to become a cobbler.

But even now, he gets up every morning to brush his dense red beard and dust his ragged green coat. On St. Patrick's Day however, he gets up an hour earlier, puts on his best green graduation coat, and runs about playing practical jokes on unsuspecting drunkards. This is the only day he can be his true self. The only day, that makes the remaining 364 days bearable.

The Murder

"Wait..wait, please don't kill me", he pleaded.
"I'm sorry, I have no choice". The murderer's voice was impassive as he grasped the weapon.
"There's always a choice", he cried.
The murderer went quiet.
"You can give me a happy life, a happy family, everything I have dreamed of...", the prisoner begged helplessly.
He paused, thinking for a moment. His readers wouldn't like that.
Then, with a swift stroke of his pen, he pushed his character off the edge.

He sighed. Time to begin the next chapter.

Lose Weight Now!

Do people sneer at you for taking up extra space in buses? Is your life spent roaming from mall to mall trying to find clothes of your size? Are you worried that you might end up becoming a football? Not to worry, now lose weight in just 4 weeks. No medication, no exercise, no operation. Register at my PG today. The food is enough to put you off eating for a long period of time.

Tahir Shah in Haryana!

I saw Eye To Eye - Tahir Shah in the market today. With lush locks falling down his face, he sprang up and down and spoke in a distinct Haryanvi accent. Gazing admiringly, I wondered how it would be if he were to sing Eye to Eye North Indian isshtyle.

Monkeying Around

Emergency has been declared in my PG. The doors and windows have been tightly shut; the valuables safely tucked away. Solemn Nepali faces stand huddled together outside, determined to protect the building and its inhabitants. As the impending doom draws near, everyone waits with bated breath.

It's time. The monkeys have arrived.

I hate rains

Rain makes me sad. 
It reminds me of afternoon drizzles by the window; when droplets of creativity played in puddles in the rigorous Math copy.
When every bit of lecherous mud was avoided with trepidation. Sometimes unsuccessfully.
The waterlogged moments of love. Unspoken yet immortalized in words.
The congested umbrellas in shuttle taxis gasping under strangers' sweat and rain water. Or perhaps, they were crying. 
The heart is, but a mausoleum of memories. Rain washes down its strong walls to reveal the undergrowth within.
I hate rains.

Sunny Side

As her sizzling aroma danced on my tongue, I got transported to seventh heaven. That coy diva, in white with pale yellow lace, playing cello on my heartstrings! So deliciously petite yet flagrantly elusive, you could not have enough of her. As I looked into the omelette, charmed by her beauty and fragrance, she smiled back saying, 'Eat me, eat me!'. 

Enraptured I stared, as suddenly a burlesque hand turned the end of her lacy yellow to one side. 'No, no', I screamed, but the sooty palm turned her on her back once again. It felt deep within its pockets and brought out a sad 10-rupee note. After that exchanged hands, the greasy devil began the task of defiling the gentle queen once again. The steel plate hissed, as her cries of help turned hoarse. Ordeal over, her voice gone, the brute then cut her to tiny pieces and held them out on a plate saying, ‘20 Rupees, please'. My melancholy picked up her pieces and set adrift, munching morosely.