The Saga of My Room-mate

He sits there motionless and with his bloodthirsty eyes gapes at the books, notes, sheets strewn on the table before him. Occasionally he stirs but his movements are bounded to the flipping of pages by his skeletal fingers or the revolution of his eye balls. The wooden table remains attached to his bosom firmly and if he had been pinned against the wall it would have pierced through his chest, crushing his ribs, tearing his lungs to chance upon his vertebral column. But he remains ignorant to the pressure, I imagine, swelling up before his chest. Must be made up of some material that displayed the capability of redefining tensile strength, I ponder. Then at certain lapses of time he alters the fan intensity to suit the outlandish trait of his temperature sensitivity. Much to his respite the switch is designed on the wall behind him requiring minimal motion. He barely speaks and all the conversation he is subject to, owing to my garrulous nature, seeps into the walls and every entity residing within the room. Such is the situation I witness as well as subject to every evening. Living with my room-mate has been a beggaring description that if I had to pen down the same in words, the voluminous portrayal would have put ‘Lord of the Rings’ to shame. Yet I take upon this arduous task with an attempt to decipher uniqueness encrypted in commonness.
My room-mate is, well, a homo-sapien and like every other individual exhibits a dual nature as put forth by R. L. Stevenson. However, he is unique in his own ways. Proud of his height (claims to be one of the tallest people one could ever encounter), his intricately, as he puts it, shaped hands and the mole embedded on his feet, which he believes would launch him to several continents according to some school of superstitious beliefs. The NASA scientists should muse over this matter and conjure up such a device which when implanted on human feet would take us places. Also, he adores his husky voice which could send the oceans into an inexhaustible turbulence. Could Big B or Al Pacino be threatened by this possible tyro in the husky voice cult?
He possesses the strength of a thousand elephants contradicting his lean appearance though. And to flaunt the magnitude of the vigor he is endowed with he puts up a wrestling show every now and then. No location, be it the hostel corridor, lobby or for that matter any stranger’s room, is safe from being morphed into a wrestling ring. Spectators abound to witness the sardonic fun clash between him and his poor challengers. Exchange of blows, kicks, chocking, squashing and crushing parade therein. He has to his credit dealing with three opponents single-handedly. Indeed, Bhima in the making! Fortunately, I was never an opponent and if that ill-fated occurrence were to take place this piece of literature would be unattainable. Physically challenged and mentally alert, his mental agility does not pass unnoticed. He represents a perfect amalgam of a cheetah’s alertness and a serpent’s rapidity along with an uncanny sense of humour. Taking pleasure in annoyance escalating within his rightfully called prey, he puts in his all his effort to shatter down the dam of endurance and patience resulting in the unleash of exasperation and a paradoxical happiness he extracts. Well, his very same effort is rather exhibited flirtatiously when the prey is a woman (ahem!!).
Quite (in fact very) conscious with his external appearance, he takes pains (and so does the mirror, rather literally) to attain the perfect look. No Sir, no fashion faux pas for my proficient room-mate. Strangely and also an issue which I am and still am unable to decrypt is his cryptic obsession with the colour grey. Ranging from polo shirts, tees, shoes, sandals, socks, trousers, denims (rather a shade of blue grey)…the list is endless. In fact his handkerchief is also bordered in grey; his bed sheet too is grey. Bizarre as is the issue he, yet, continues to add more grey into his already grey collection, hanging grey in his grey wardrobe. Grey indeed! Even love, which I will elucidate to readers herein failed to bring forth colours into his grey haven.
The deity of love, yes love, struck down my room-mate with her arrow. Oh, what a time that was! His so glum a nature bore flowers of laughter and cheer. ‘Jaanu’, ‘chweety’, ‘honey’ dominated his vocabulary. Mornings, afternoons, evenings were spent exuberating love with the lovable chats as he traversed across the ocean of voluminous love, rowing in the boat of affection, carried by the currents of ardour with the winds of attachment filling the sails. Messages, calls, gtalk, indyarocks and all the more became a part of him. Shania Twain, Westlife began making frequent appearances in his otherwise less music and more noise (the way I would describe it) playlist. Love quizzes in internet, percentage calculation of love replaced Quake 4 and NFS. I did play my role of so humble a best man and fuelled his bliss of love, the crux of which was Bhabiji (as we fondly christened the fair maiden). Peaks were scaled, seas travelled as the love grew limitlessly. But one unfortunate day, the climax came crashing down. Alas! Rapidly dwindled the bliss, ocean of love evaporated, boat of affection rocked violently, currents of ardour reverted and winds of attachment died down leaving behind an ailing heart within my room-mate! The healing came slow and confidence was gradually regained. The love so well carried was stripped down to mere infatuation by him. Which I however doubt as the first cut is the deepest! Love, infatuation, crush kept haunting his heart but he lay immune. Well, at this point it would be worth mentioning his long lost love, which he often contemplates. A maiden, he mentions had found a place in his heart, one who complemented him. However, he never made a genuine effort to display his true affections for the maiden owing to the fear of losing so revered a friendship. They parted (sob!). This was his first cut and indeed deep and grave it was.
Alright, let us not go all gaga about my room-mates saga. Deciphering the other side of his nature I would mention a few adjectives along with the character from the world of literature who made famous the very nature he displays; argumentative as Mr. Choakumchild in Charles Dickens’ ‘Hard Times’, I-am-always-correct attitude as exhibited by Private Quelch in Alexander Baron’s ‘The Man Who Knew Too Much’, bossy as Napoleon in George Orwell’s ‘Animal Farm’. More follow, but I will limit here.
I believe I have touched upon every shade of my flamboyant room-mate, grey to polychrome, humble to master. The purpose was not a ‘tehelka.com’ operation carried out in a clandestine manner to reveal the ugliest facts! Rather it was a legitimate account of the many unsung heroes we come across each day. My room-mate is a caricature of a common man, an icon of our routine yet fascinating life. He weaves a specialty through his unpredictable nature; he defines the beauty of friendship and is an account of the undercurrent of surpassing emotions in each one of us, happiness, humorous, haughty, honesty and hypocrisy (every emotion accounts!)

Lazy Weekends

Lethargic and recuperating from so peaceful a slumber, I fervently and rather annoyingly begin hunting for my mobile phone trickily concealed under my pillow as it screams monotonically with an ever amplifying alarm tone. Angrily I make an attempt to shut the same, with the probability of chancing upon the right button growing distant, as I steal a glance at my wrist watch. Six in the morning it declares! Hey, it is Sunday I proclaim. However, slithering like a silk-worm under my silky blanket, I gradually get up to begin yet another Sunday like most other (not all, as I will gradually point out!) 51 Sundays and begin praying and chanting, anticipating a good day ahead.
This is very well the way my Sundays begin. My paahari upbringing had instilled in me the ‘early to rise’ dictum even being far away from home. Being one of the first ones to get up early in my hostel, the task of ensuring availability of warm water befittingly fell upon me. Caressing my crumpled shirt and running my fingers through my disoriented hair, I erratically walk towards the caretaker’s reposing area where he lays couched with his face burrowed into the pillow and the bedspread covering him like a corpse. It was his Sunday as well. Administrating a boy’s hostel was not an effortless task and a hostel which housed men like the way we are, kudos to him! Raising my voice to a pitch higher than usual, I dictate to him about the crisis. He mumbles a monosyllable word of assurance and with his bushy hand directs me to go and wait. Then I begin my day happily brushing my teeth, bathing and cleaning minutely, shampooing, clipping my nails, shaving and the like (it was Sunday, so an opportune time).
When I emerge out as a swan, the next task is the arduous job of waking up my room-mate. It is laborious and demands elaborate patience and skill, which thankfully I have mastered over three years of stay with him. Cajoling and at the same time strongly I chant his name, yet after years of learning I am subject to a shudder of chiding. As he undergoes his cleaning and scrubbing, I begin another round of prayer and chanting of holy scribes (I am indeed pious!) after which I glance through the newspaper pushed by the diligent newspaper man through the slit beneath the door. During initial years of hostel stay, we were witnesses and participants of rat race for the hostel subscribed newspapers and being a loser most of the times I finally decided to subscribe it and were then elevated to the class of men in hostel who did the same. This added one more feature to my Sundays-discussing daily affairs and the articles, editorial, supplements with the elite class who subscribed personally. My day then moves on to the usual task of savouring upon tea and a humble breakfast at the Malayalee bakery. The unvarying breakfast at certain bursts of time causes dismay and chagrin to develop within my bosom. Nonetheless, I sip the piping hot tea and let my mind wander off to my distant paahari town. Dawn breaks early there and a cold blanket envelops it regardless of the season. Sundays were morphed into fun-days there. With the beginning of a new day, my grandma would break, “Chow khabi naa ghoogni?” (What would you like to eat, noodles or boiled and seasoned grams?). I begin longing for the days I had left behind and a sense of nostalgia pricks me. My mind returns back to Mysore and then I begin calculating my actions for the rest of the day, pretty sure that I would not stick to the same. Next begins my task of glancing through thick volumes of engineering books (we engineers need to read a lot). However, I and for that matter my entire battalion of fellow engineers have mastered the unhealthy trick of engaging into last minute study. I abhor burrowing myself into books on Sundays and being one of a garrulous nature strike a conversation with my room-mate and any prey that walks into room. Humbly they listen and nod their heads praying deep within for me to stop. It only leads to disappointment for the Heavenly Father had blessed me with the capability to go on hours after hours without losing any quantum of energy. Being a neatness freak (I beg your pardon), the name I have earned I spent a part of my Sundays brushing off the accumulated dust, clearing the clutter of newspapers strewn across the room, carefully cleaning the computer, polishing the mirror surface and the like. Then as the mid-day arrives, I head for lunch with fellow mates into the dingy mess that emits a foul smell we are unvaried to. Being usually crowded, we creep like vultures scanning for an empty stool waiting for an opportunity to prey upon them and in the absence of which scan for the people done with their square meal standing as silhouettes behind them, brooding. Sunday afternoons usually go by unnoticed and unfelt. Matinee shows may dominate or music in each room overpowering the next. Being an ardent and zealous music connoisseur my playlist does not seem to end. However, most Sunday afternoons I engulf myself into the world of books unquestionably non-text. Seldom do I take a short nap. Unknowingly evening creeps in and we again head for the humble, strategically positioned bakery or the chaat shop.
However, some Sundays are not all that rosy. Certain Sundays we are thrust with internal examinations, very cleverly mastered by our college authorities and happily agreed upon by the teachers. It was a chance the higher authorities enjoyed to strike back and helplessly we accept the fate of being robbed of our Sundays. I am barely able to put my concentration to peace and when an answer to the questions I am chained to write boggles me (which happens to occur all the time), I stare out into the sky through the ventilators feasting my eyes upon the view they can enjoy.
Sunday evenings add a cherry topping to the otherwise not so pleasing scenario the entire day might have proved to be. Occasionally, which sorrowfully comes scarcely (being citizens of a democratic nation, it is indeed an intricate task to come upon a conclusion), we break free from the customary state of affairs to land up in a bistro. Being a vegan amongst my fellow-mates leaves me and those with very few choices and compromise at either ends resolves the contention. The usual naan, paneer, chicken dominates and gorging ice-creams at the closing ends it. When in bed I am ready to embark upon the journey to my peaceful slumber, I recollect the proceedings; nothing extraordinary or out of the blue, yet close to my heart. The night before, I had been waiting for Sunday with trepidation and at the end of a coveted day I lament not having spent it well and mutter the arrival of a routine weekday the next morning. I pray that next Sunday would not be all the same and then I begin piling up chores and action-packed adventures for the same. But then, I wonder things usually go monotonous on all Sundays but it mercifully comes after a frenzied week only to gives a dash of happiness since prevailing all activities amidst the sluggish time spent on Sundays reign emotions, sentiments, discussions and above all togetherness.

A Christmas GIft

It was the month of December. A month when the cold wave valiantly sets in; a month when sleepy eyes prepare to hibernate; a month when every tree save the evergreen are robbed off their garments. But, it marks the onset of a festival, a time when the Messiah was born and since then was flagged of a ritual merrily adorned by the entire world. Christmas was in three days time and every entity was immersed in the ongoing celebration so mesmerizing.
The spirit of the festival was humbly evident from Mylliem, a little village tugged away between mountains in the heart of Meghalaya not far from the capital town. Joyous children with chubby cheeks tinged with a shade of red and warm eyes diligently cleaned the Church, all humming a happy tune. The ecstasy that radiated from their faces momentarily masked the misery each one was prey to. The cheerfulness embedded in the atmosphere greeted every soul in the season of happiness. It was a cloud a relief protecting the disheartened from the scorching rays of melancholy and pain. With the cleaning done, Father Keenan announced the fir tree decoration ceremony; the declaration was immediately followed by an echo of cheer. Father Keenan, an elderly pious man with snowy hair adorning his head and a little bent now, was a pool of patience and guide to the entire village. Spreading an aura of splendor from his eyes screened by a pair of horn-rimmed glasses he assisted the curious ones with the meager decoration items. Little polychrome plastic stars and sparkling bells along with a few fleecy puffs of cotton balls covered the conifer embellishing it with beauty. Curious eyes gazed as each decoration found its place on the tree. Then it was the idol of an angel, smeared in white, and was placed at the tip after which Father Keenan carefully twined the colourful light bulbs around the tree. When lit, it was puzzling to determine the cause of the prompt brightness, the illuminated bulbs or the sparkle which the naïve eyes exhibited. With all the chores completed, the children gradually dispersed save three of them. Sanbor, a twelve year old boy with a round face embedded with docile eyes and crisp hair tinged in brown, Evalin, his seven year old sister having a secluded look and Banshai, a three year old toddler always glued to his sister. They stayed back for Father Keenan, whose hovel was beside their shabby one. The Father had an outlandish affection towards them, something which he was never able to perceive but was aware of it. He knew their family very well that included the children and their invalid father. He recollected the misery that surrounded them and was then suddenly reminded of the unpleasantness that had always intoxicated their lives. They had no bygone memories to cherish, and that very thought shook him to his roots but optimism, a trait that he possessed, took the better of him. Faith as small as a mustard seed can evict mountains and plunge them into the ocean.
They reached their huts and still brimming with happiness, the children bade the Father. Their hut reflected the poverty that chocked their lives. On the door Evalin had glued a star that she had sketched to welcome Christmas. Their father, a paralytic, eagerly awaited their return, a futile wait. He regretted his failure and the brunt his children bore for his pains. Sanbor and Evalin had mastered the appalling truth of despising their childhood and toiled hard with petty chores. Stomachs were always unfilled and sleep was never ample; their fragile built was too weak to bear the burden they were subjected to but they patiently accepted the yoke of malevolence. No night differed from the other; after a petty dinner, the fervent children would narrate their adventures packed with innocence and zeal and then it was stories their father would tell them. Today he described Christmas tales-birth of Christ; gift the Magi, the three wise men, brought for infant Jesus; angels singing in heaven. With trepidation they listened and were soon lulled into sleep dreaming about Christmas.
The following day, Father Keenan received a letter regarding the arrival of an Irish couple, who wished to adopt children from the village. It was a hysteric moment for the Father. A lease of life waited to wipe off the haze of melancholy and bereavement from the faces of some of the children. He believed that Sanbor and his siblings should be bestowed with this happiness, indeed the best Christmas gift. He hurriedly went to their father with his propose. A flicker of happiness seeped through his skin when he imagined the joy his children would be subject to. But then his ecstasy was enveloped with the cloud of sorrow upon thinking about the separation. His was the plight of a helpless father. He did not, but, let his serene selfishness deter the goodness that waited his children and confining his tears within his glum heart he gave his consent. Later that day, he explained to the children their nigh future, blissful days, sufficient to eat and plentiful sleep. They stood bewildered; it was perplexity rather than happiness. They disapproved and Banshai, too small to comprehend anything only stared at everyone. Their father tried hard to cajole them, but in vain. Much after a heated argument, his request moulded into a command propelling Evalin to accept the bitter sweetness. But Sanbor would not let himself sway and rushed out to Father Keenan. He cried out his heart for his father was his world. He cared little about not much to eat; he did not mind sweating and toiling; he did not deplore not sleeping enough as long as it was under the roof of his shabby hut. Father Keenan, with his usual soothing ways elucidated to him what the Lord once said. Men who follow Gods commandments are His true father, mother, brother and sister. He was young to appreciate the Fathers sayings and disagreeing he wiped his tears, swallowed hard and left with his stubborn self.
The Irish couple arrived later that afternoon and was subject to a bizarre greeting; puzzled onlookers and enthralled children running about as the motor car chugged through the muddy road. After a brief meeting with Father Keenan and the children’s father along with a conversation of assurance, they were ready to depart with Evalin and Banshai. Appearing bleak and her face smeared with a layer of tears, Evalin forced herself a smile as she gazed at everyone for the last time. They left and Sanbor kept gazing at the car until it disappeared out of his sight and dispersed into the horizon.
Two days hence life was no longer the one Sanbor knew; there were no adventures; no gathering before he fell asleep; no stories where he could submerge himself. It was Christmas day and he sat at the porch of his house gazing at the heavenly bodies and holding on the star Evalin had sketched. He knew that the Magi had come for his sister and brother but little did he know that he had exalted himself to the heights where the Magi belonged. For it is transcendent to give than to receive.

“So humble yourself under the mighty power of God, and in his good time He will honour you” – 1 Peter, 5:6.

A Token Of Devotion

Prayers filled the entire atmosphere packing every entity with surreal happiness. Pious hearts, submerged in devotion, sang praising the Goddess. The sound of metal echoed as the brass cymbals clanged attuned with the thunderous sound of drumbeats. The perfumed air intoxicated with smoke and hymns stood still save when agitated by a light breeze. Some clapped; some swayed their hands while some stood still gazing at the whimsical ceremony. The throng, including men and women from every age witnessed the daily yet pompous ritual in progress. The priest being nearest to the turquoise water, attired in ochre rendered verses from the puranas unvaried over the differing years. Benevolent women, veiled, created a flotilla of earthen lamps on the rippled surface of the water dotted with myriad colourful petals. The gleam of the lamps dazzled the eyes; they overshadowed the sky pinpricked with luminous heavenly bodies. As though feeling glum about the ignorance met out to them, the stars sporadically hid themselves behind the tattered blanket of purple clouds. A sudden rushing gale caused the panchapradip flame, which the main priest held, to flicker and stirred the water into bubbling waves. A devout assemblage immersed itself in the ceremony, the daily evening aarati, beside the Ganges.
As the ritual neared its completion, a slow dispersing crowd uttering the last words of prayers glorified their tutelary Gods and emptied the ghat. The stars regained back their glory and made their presence felt by spreading their radiance in the night sky. Dating back to hundreds of years such is the daily ritual of offering prayers to one the sacred rivers of this massive country. This mesmerizing ceremony transfixes every devotee, each one with a different purpose for his devotion yet the same object

my beginnings...

The heavenly father has bestowed each one of us to think what we imagine, to believe in what we think, to have faith in our beliefs and to nurture a faith embedded with genuineness.
To indulge oneself in the realms of imagination, cowering under the shades of freedom in boisterous condemnation when bitterness pinches truth, penning down virtue is what i seek, search and stand for.