Lonely People

A... Part 6

2009-04-21T10:45:00.000-07:00

The story continues...

But all that I have told is what I do, not who I am. So I will start again.

My name is A.

Why did I start with my name? Does my name define me? If my name was something else, would I have been a different person altogether? If my name was B, would I still not be a writer. If I take away my name, my designation, my success; then do I get the real me or do I get a pale imitation, a mere reflection of my real self. Let me try this then. I cast away my name, my designation as a writer and now I will try to write about myself.

So I will start with my weaknesses, shortcomings and liabilities. I know you are thinking that he must be a cynic to start off with the negatives. Yes, I am a self professed cynic and I am proud to be one. I am proud because contrary to popular belief I consider it a virtue but since everyone considers a weakness so I have labelled it such. But then I like being different and that is why I am a cynic. A cynic once said, “Other dogs bite their enemies, I bite my friends to save them.” This statement defines the purpose of my existence. I write so that I can warn you, my friend, of the terrible dangers that abound in this world. Through my writing I hound people about the error of their ways. I consider myself a messiah, sent by the God to do this service to mankind. Through my stories I reveal God’s secret messages so that you can learn to live a life of virtue and decency in this detestable world. In doing so, I often have to bite people to save them. I used to make my friends the subject of my stories and in these stories, I used to concentrate on one flaw of that person’s character and show it in exceptionally negative light. I used to focus so intensely on that one flaw that everything else in the story did not matter. The only thing that mattered was that that person had an unforgivable flaw and their only hope for redemption lay in eliminating that flaw from their character. I hoped that my friends will be glad with my insights into their problems, but it was not meant to be. With every story I lost a friend, but I continued to write. I had the God’s message to deliver, and as long as I was doing well to the people by showing them their faults, I was fulfilling my divine duty and obligation. In a short time, I lost all my friends and since then I have been living the life of a lonely hermit, like that of my master, my muse, the Diogenes of Sinope, who in a different time was known as ‘the Dog’. Like my master and muse, I live a life of self-sufficiency, austerity and shamelessness. My shamelessness comes from the vulgar truth I write in my stories, my austerity from the humble unfurnished quartes I live in, and my self-sufficiency comes from living on my own, away from the world but in the midst of it, living a life of sympathetic detachment from my surroundings.

I am insane. But I do not consider myself insane; rather I am sanest person I know. However the society considers me insane, so again for your benefit, I label myself insane. There is a famous Latin quote ‘mens sana in corpore sano’ which means ‘a healthy mind in a healthy body’. From this perspective, you, the society consider insanity as poor health of mind. You think that my mental processes are defective, but that is only because I am not like you, I do not think like you, I do not act like you, in fact I have a gross disdain for general opinion of how things should be. I am vastly different from all of you and so you label me insane. I am like the ugly cygnet who was ostracized by the other ducks for being different. Like the cygnet that grew up to become the most beautiful swan of them all, I have taken up writing to prove my worth and God willing I will become the greatest teacher of them all, the greatest messiah that lived on the face of this planet. Call me insane, but then remember Jesus was called insane in his time, Prophet Muhammad was driven from Mecca for being different. So I embrace my insanity with all my strength. It is better to be insane in this sane and miserable world, maybe my insanity will take me to a different road, a road to redemption, a road to salvation.

I am an egotist. I see that you are frowning, yet I have said only a single word. Is being an egotist so bad that you are not even prepared to give me a patient hearing before giving your judgement from the high moral pedestal where you sit? So, now you are prepared to listen to me. Well then, I shall begin. An egotist is a person who indulges in self praise. We have been raised to be modest, told that being humble is a virtue. It is a virtue, but only when indulged in moderation. But we have this fantastic ability to take everything to the very extremes; we do not believe in moderation, moderation is too mundane for our liking. So we tend to overdo the modesty, turn in into servitude and submissiveness. Instead of self praise, we indulge in no praise or outright hostility. Self criticism becomes commonplace in our lives. We find faults in ourselves before others do, and drag ourselves down. It leads to low self-esteem and deep depression. We give up, give up on ourselves, and thus give up on life. And this is the sad fate of those of us who cannot and will not, through the force of their upbringing, indulge in self-praise.
I was humble once. I used to frown on those who indulged in self-praise, much like the way you frowned at me in the beginning.

But now, you are thinking, you are trying to make sense of what you have read. But I have to move on. But in case you are wondering how to identify an egoist, so that you might learn from him. Look around you; he is the one who is quietly smiling in a corner, contentment writ large on his face, his face glowing with the knowledge that he has done the job well, discreetly enjoying his solitude, and when you look at him, he smiles at you and says now it is your turn, my friend.

I am a lonely person. I do not regret it, rather I love my solitude, I crave for solitude, and I defend my solitude with the fanatic zeal of the Spartans guarding their homeland from the tyranny of barbaric hordes. I live in an island, surrounded by islands in this vast sea, but away from all the other islands. I do not allow any boat to land on the pristine unspoiled yellow beaches of my island and so no one does. And I spend my days lying on the beach, writing stories and stealing lives. Yes, I steal lives. But I am no voodooist. I steal lives to make characters, characters who tell their stories to me, the stories which I write, and which you read. I spend a lot of my time talking to these characters, trying to make friends with them. They listen to me. They listen to my vicious diatribes against society, city, country, people I know, people I don’t know, people whom I rarely see, and against myself. They listen to my advice, they follow my advice, and they consider me the true messiah. These characters live with me in my island. They respect my solitude; they come to me only when I need them. When I need to write a story for the column, I close my eyes and I call one of my characters, I call it with all my heart, I implore them to come to me, I sing a little song.

Come to me, my friend,
I will hold you tight.

When you are not up to your mark,
When you are in dark,
Come to me, my friend,
I will be your light,
I will hold you tight.

When storm is in the air,
When you need my care,
Come to me, my friend,
I will be your might,
I will hold you tight.

When you are down and out,
When you are in doubt,
Come to me my friend,
I will take you higher than the greatest height,
I will hold you tight.

Come to me, my friend,
I will hold you tight.

They come to me as friends, as comrades, as brothers in arms. I embrace them and time stops. They tell me their story while still in my arms, they laugh, they cry, they love, they hate, they fear, they hope, and they try. And these are the stories that I write for your benefit, my readers.

My name is A. I am a rara avis, a rare bird as those versed with Latin would say.

Story of A - Part 5

2009-04-19T03:16:00.000-07:00

Continuing the story of which the first five parts are given below.

A Short Essay about Myself

“Many, no doubt, are well disposed, but sluggish by constitution and by habit, and they cannot conceive of a man who is actuated by higher motives than they are, accordingly they pronounce this man insane, for they know that they could never act as he does, as long as they are themselves.” – Henry David Thoreau

My name is A.

I am a writer; at least I like to think that I am a writer. But then I am only a writer because I have a friend, a very close friend who grew up with me, was one of my first readers, who was there when I first dreamt of becoming a writer, who was only person sitting beside me by the lake behind our school throwing pebbles into the water, when I declared to the whole wide world, shouting at the top of my voice that I will be a writer someday. Maybe that long forgotten evening beside the lake had some impact on my friend, because as soon as he became the editor of The Sunday, he called me up and offered me a column, to write anything and everything that I want. I had not heard from him for a long time. Shortly after that eventful evening he had left the school and went to a different city, but before leaving he had promised that he will keep in touch, and that day a little over a decade later he proved that he was not one to make empty promises, a virtue which I would abuse a lot during our friendship. But the reason why I decided to become a writer was not because he offered me a column to write, it was the fact that he had kept alive my dream, a dream which even I had long forgotten, like a powerful dream which holds your attention for a few minutes when you wake up but before nightfall is long forgotten, banished to the deep dark dungeons of memories, the dream of becoming a writer. And in keeping alive this dream of mine, he gave me something that I had lost, he gave me a will to live, a will to fight for life, a will to dream again, dream of what might still happen, dream of all the fantastic possibilities that life offered, dream of all the adventures that I could undertake through the newspaper column. Before he called, I was seriously contemplating about ending my miserable life, ending this wearisome drudgery through life without any hope for joy or prospect for happiness. But this column offered me a ray of hope, a way out of this quagmire called despair into which I had fallen, a chance of redemption, to make something out of my life, to do some good by telling all the people what no to do through stories about my life. And so I became a writer.

I write short stories which appear on one of the middle pages, the right one, squeezed between the editorial on the left middle page and the world news on the other side of the right middle page. This helps me a lot; people generally do read the editorial, they need it to form opinions which they can then discuss in parties, in office and try to project themselves as an intellectual who reads a lot, thinks a lot and then forms a esteemed and highly valued opinion, with which they then educate everyone considering it their moral duty and obligation. Little do they know that everyone else also reads the same editorials and forms the same independent and, let me stress, highly valued opinion. So all the discussions are just reduced to people quoting from different paragraphs of the day’s editorial and if possible few paragraphs from the editorial that appeared a day or two before. But that does not matter, does it, as long as they have an intellectually stimulating discussion, so everyone aspiring to become and discuss like an intellectual reads the editorial.

The same breed of people also read the global news. They want people to know that they have a global outlook, so that they can discuss about politics, wars, crisis happening in countries around the world, and suggest possible solutions and remedies. The fact that they are unmindful of the same problems being faced by people who are their neighbours, colleagues, countrymen, does not bother them. After all when you are solving complex world problems, how can you be bothered with mere trifles like their own city’s and country’s problems? Surely the world needs them more.

So between these two critical pages, my stories appear and due to these two pages, my stories attract the same lot of hypocritical pseudo intellectuals, and because of the sheer numbers of people who belong to this group, my stories gather a lot of eyeballs as the ad guys at the newspaper like to say, and because of these eyeballs I am a somewhat famous writer, and because of all this I am free to work as I like, from home, away from the hustle bustle of a regular office, I just have to turn in a new story every friday of the week, so that it can be published on the sunday in The Sunday.

A... Part 4...

2008-03-26T02:30:00.000-07:00

The unnamed story has a name now... it is called A... after the narrator whose name is A...

But that was a different day, in a different time, I did not have a note that day, a note which was not just a note but a death sentence, and each look at the note sent a shiver down my spine and I could feel life ebbing away with every reading of those cruel seven words.

“Find yourself and you will find me”, that’s what she wrote in the note. How was I supposed to find something which was not lost? How was I supposed to know if I was lost or not and if I did not know if I was lost, how was I supposed to find myself? What did it mean to find oneself, was I supposed to know myself better, was I supposed to find out what someone else thought of me to find myself, was I supposed to accost every acquaintance that I have with questions about myself, trying to get them to find myself for me. That is bound to be funny, trying to get others to find myself, when I am standing right in front of them. Or did she mean I was supposed to find my inner self, that inner self which she loved when she loved me, that part of my soul which was madly in love with her, which saw her as perfect, which made love to her with an voracious urgency as if the world was about to end the next day, that part of my soul which used to worship her. But when did I lose that part, I know that everything was not right these last few months, but I still loved her, I still loved her as truly as I ever did. So why did she resort to all this trickery, did she not see that my love for her had not waned, did she not feel the passion burning deep inside me like molten magma inside the bowels of the earth, did she not feel my insatiable hunger for her touch, her smell, her presence. When did I lose the ability to get through to her?

She once told me that I was the only person in the world who used to understand her and that was why she was in love with me. I remember asking her about what would happen when I stop understanding her. She did not say a thing, only rebuked me by asking me to never repeat such a thing. She said that with my words I was committing sacrilege against the God of love, against Kamadeva himself, and if decided to walk away with his bow made of sugarcane having a string of honeybees and his arrows adorned with five kinds of fragrant flowers, then there will be no love left in my life. I would be left with only sorrow, loneliness, a persistent intolerable pain in my heart from the want of love, a wretchedness which would consume me slowly like the winter fog slowly encircling and then devouring the lovely and lonely forest. I would be like the moon, which was forsaken by the stars and now stares down at us with its mournful melancholic face, thinking of long lost loves, of that one star that he used to love before Kamadeva decided to forsake him.

This chain of thoughts made me more desperate. But I did not know how to start about solving the riddle. She once told me that the key to solving any problem was information, any random information, it might not seem useful at first, but then the solution was always hidden inside all the information, we just had to look hard enough. So I decided to collect all the information about this puzzle, which meant I had to collect all known information about myself. I remembered that long ago I had written an essay about myself. It was a few weeks after my first story was published. My editor called me and told me that my stories had generated a lot of interest among his readers, and he wanted me to write a piece introducing myself to the readers. So I wrote an essay aptly titled “A Short Essay about Myself”. It was before I met her. I was a different person then. But at least it was a starting point for me in my quest to reclaim what has been lost.

The Unnamed Story... Part 3...

2008-03-26T02:04:00.000-07:00

“We shall never understand one another until we reduce the language to seven words” - Kahlil Gibran

I was holding her note in my hand. I had read the content many times over, but still it had not sunk in yet, the note, the message, her absence, everything seemed like a dream, a dreadful dream, and I was hoping that any second now I will wake up and find her sleeping beside me, in my bed, in our bed, sleeping like a princess, looking beautiful and radiant even when she had dark circles under her eyes from reading the detective novels she used to read, even when her hair was a mess, even when she used to snore, ever so softly, in a way only she could. She never understood why I could never picture her as anything but beautiful. To me she was perfect. Maybe it was love, maybe I was blind. But I loved every minute of this blindness, and wished and prayed that I be blind for the rest of my life only to she her as nothing but beautiful.

They say it happens to everyone, first you are blind in love, you think she is perfect, you do not notice any imperfections, any faults in her, but slowly you the initial euphoria tends to wear off, and then you see the real person behind the mask of perfection, that you thought she was wearing, then you notice her imperfections, the small but significant faults in her personality. But it was different for me. I saw her imperfections, but I loved these imperfections more than her perfections and the sum total of these small but significant faults, as they call it, which was her personality, signified to me perfection, a perfection far more beautiful than the ideal perfection in which there is no fault, and her imperfections become perfections in my eyes. For me she could do no wrong.

I looked again at the note. Those seven words, written on the back of the restaurant bill, written with her favourite green pen, written in her charming yet tired handwriting, seemed to me like an accusation, something akin to the seven deadly sins, which I might have committed, when I drove her away. Why did she write only seven words? She was an expressive person, terseness never appealed to her. She always used to say that words are meant to be spoken; language is a gift to be used. I never understood this fuss about communication, I used my quota of my words to write, to write short stories, to create magic with words, to go away to distant places where life was different, where everyday was an adventure, where you could save the world and die honourably, where you could kill someone and walk away, where you could make new friends, where you could be popular, where you could have the whole world at your feet as your slave, where you could slay a dragon and rescue a princess, where you could go to distant galaxies and live with aliens, where you could speak Chinese fluently, where you could love and be loved. Maybe because I used up all my words in my stories, I was not left with enough words for her. Maybe she decided to punish me for my terseness with her laconic message.

But why seven words? Did the number seven signify something? Did she hint at the seven deadly sins? Of all the sins, maybe sloth is the only thing I could have committed. I am a failed writer living in a desolate quarter in a forsaken neighbourhood, surely I have no pride. I am too undernourished to be accused of gluttony. I am a loner; I have no one to envy or to unleash my wrath at, even greed does not touch me, I am a man of few needs, and as such lust is not one of them. But that takes me back to the original question. Why seven? Maybe the seven colours of the rainbow, the seven spots on a ladybug, the number of bones in my neck, the seven saints in the sky, a phone number, the seven logic gates, the seven hills of Rome, the seven wonders of the world, the seven virtues, the number of heavens and earths, yang, the number of steps Buddha took at his birth, sa re ga ma pa dha ni, the seven rounds of the holy fire in a marriage, the number of islands of Atlantis. And like Atlantis, she left me without a trace, what good was a seven word message to me, when there was no key to read the message.

But maybe it was not the number of words, but the words themselves. The words that she wrote, formed a code, a complex cryptic code that she wanted me to break to get to her. She was always fond of riddles and puzzles. Once she hid my birthday gift somewhere in the house, and then gave me a treasure map, along with subtle hints to read the map and find the treasure, which was to be my birthday gift, a gift I would learn to treasure, a gift more valuable than all that the pirate’s could muster, more valuable than all the gold in the world, more valuable than all the breaths that I now take without her. Of course, I could not solve the puzzle, I moved around in my house for the whole day, going one way then the other, looking into every conceivable nook and corner, turning the whole house upside down and I was nowhere close to finding out my treasure and my house was in a mess. After a few hours of back breaking and positively enervating search for my treasure, I did what all pirates used to do when they did not find the treasure they were looking for, I gave up, I raised my white flag, meaning to surrender and wishing to communicate with the victor, and there she was, standing in front of me, smiling as only a conqueror can smile, a conqueror of hearts. She said that she was the treasure that I was supposed to find and in view of my unconditional surrender, she had won the right of unconditional love from me and that from that day on, I shall become her hostage, her captive, her prisoner-of-love. With my head held high, I accepted my sentence, and just as Heer had done so many centuries ago when Ranjha played his flute, I agreed to love.

The Unnamed Story... Part 2...

2008-02-15T00:12:00.000-08:00

This continues from the first part which was called 'The still Unnamed Novel I am writing'. I have renamed the series 'The Unnamed Story', so as to not sound pretentious. Everything else stays the same.

“As perfume doth remain In the folds where it hath lain, So the thought of you, remaining Deeply folded in my brain, Will not leave me: all things leave me: You remain” - Arthur Symons

I lay down again, on my bed. I was tired, exhausted, and worn out by sleep. I closed my eyes and waited, waited for the memories, her memories, waiting for the bitter sweet taste that they leave in my mouth, the same taste that her lips used to leave on mine. I longed to smell her close to me, smell the perfume she used to wear, a perfume which reminded me of treks I went for in my college days, which contained the smells of the wild, the intoxicating aroma of musk, a whiff of frankincense, the tears of Boswellia tree crying out in the unforgiving desert and the long lasting fragrance of sandalwood calling with open arms. I lost myself in the woods of her smells, closing my eyes, sniffing and following my olfactory sense to take me to her, letting my nose be the beacon of my hopes. I felt her smell close to me, so close that I could reach out and touch her, hold her and keep her. I was afraid to open my eyes lest I lose her, her smell and the orgasmic joy that it gave me. I shuddered with the sheer rapture of pleasure. I opened my eyes and there was no forest, there was no grass around feet, no trees surrounding me and she was not there.

I felt a sudden urge to smell her perfume, to find out if I remembered what it smelt like, if my memories were true. I knew that she used to keep a bottle of her perfume at my place. I started a frantic search for it. I looked around, the dressing table drawers, the bedroom cupboards, the bathroom, even the kitchen, but it was not there. Despair, bordering on wretchedness, engulfed me. I felt life slowly ebbing away from my body, like the evaporation of her perfume, like the sound of her footsteps on the stairs outside whenever she used to leave, like the slow decay of memories. I wanted to puke out this melancholy from my soul, like we puke out bad whisky, and feel alive again. My head was spinning, I closed my eyes again, but no memories swamped me, this time it was pitch dark. I was starting to lose my memories, with it her smell and with it my life.

As a child, I used to steal my mother’s perfume and spray it on my stuffed tiger and then throw it away. Then I would close my eyes and sniff. I used to get down on my knees and follow my nose to find my tiger. I used to bump into a lot of things during these games, my mother never guessed the reason behind the bumps on my head that used to appear with alarming frequency. But once she asked me if I knew why her perfume never seemed to last long. I was afraid she would scold me and I kept quite. Maybe my nervousness showed on my face, but she did not stress the point. She let me be. But I have always wondered if there was something else to this incident and maybe my mother did know about all this, maybe she knew that I was stealing her perfume, to use it to play my own version of hide and seek. Maybe she knew what the perfume meant to me, maybe she knew, long before I had any inkling of the fact, that I derive a part of my life force from smells, and my olfactory sense is as vital to my life as the other senses, and that my nose breathes life into me through the smells I love. And that is why I desperately needed to find her smell back, and with it reclaim my life.

I had to find her and the only clue I had was the note she left me, when she left me. It was a hand written note, written on the back of a restaurant bill, a restaurant where we had our last dinner together, written with the green ink pen that she used, written in her charming handwriting with the confident expressiveness of forward slanting letters, the pleasing consistency of circular strokes, but there was something different, the normally optimistic upward slant of her lines was replaced by a downward slant indicating exhaustion. She was tired when she wrote this note, she was tired when she left me, and maybe she left me because she was tired of me. Clutching the note in hand, I started out on a journey, a journey which was also a pilgrimage, a pilgrimage to find love and in love, life.

The Still Unnamed Novel I am writing...

2008-02-13T12:48:00.000-08:00

This is the start of a story that i hope will some day turn into a novel... so that's why i have put it up here... to remind myself that i have things to write, a novel to finish... i will be only putting up the odd chapters of the novel, because they form a homogeneous story. You ask what about the even chapters, well, that's a mystery...

I woke up. Winter had not set in yet, yet I felt cold. I looked around trying to figure out why I felt so cold. I checked my forehead and throat with the back of my hand. I did not have a fever, not yet. The window was open, it was night already. A soft, gentle breeze was blowing, a breeze which carried it with a peculiar smell, a smell which carried it with memories, memories of long nights spent with her, memories of cold winter nights, memories of distant times and places, memories which reminded me of my stark loneliness. I got up. I put on a sweater, not just any sweater, but the red one, the one which she got me for our anniversary. Why did I put it on? I never liked it. I remember her face when she gave me that sweater; she was nervous, expectant, and anxious. I smiled at her, but something was missing, and she knew that. She realised that I was not very happy, she did not say a thing, neither did I. But something changed that day. We knew that the honeymoon was over; we knew that it will not be easy anymore.

I closed the window. I looked outside at the empty park benches, gleaming in the moonlight. It must be the metallic paint that they use, I thought. I tried moving away from the window, but I could not. I was under the spell cast by those silvery park benches. I saw myself sitting with her on one of the benches; it was another full moon night. Her face looked so radiant in the moonlight, so angelic, so pure, that I was afraid. I was listening to her, but I was lost, lost in her beauty, so unreal that I ran my hands over her face just to make sure that she was there. And she was, she was there, right beside me, smiling, talking, and laughing. I felt a burning sensation inside me, I did not know if I was sad or happy or if I was supposed to be one or the other. I was happy as well as sad. I felt pain through pleasure and pleasure through pain. There no longer was any boundary, or any partition between the different emotions. I felt all the various emotions at the same time, and at times none at all. Sometimes I would be burning with passion and at other times I would be numb.

I felt a strange sensation in my stomach, a sensation so familiar that I ought to know what it was but the fact that I did not, made it strange. I thought about it a while and then it dawned on me that it was hunger, one of the primal instincts. I felt a faint sense of joy on realising this, the kind of joy you feel when you solve a very difficult problem and are amazed and exhilarated by the beauty of the solution and your ingenuity. I must be losing my mind, I thought. I tried remembering the last time I had a meal. Was it this morning, yesterday night, yesterday morning, I did not know. I went to the kitchen. It was a in a mess, but then so was my life, so I felt at home. It was comforting to find a place where I could fit, easily and discreetly. I made myself a sandwich, not the chicken one that I liked but the tuna that she was devoted to. As I ate the sandwich, I could hear her munching her tuna sandwich, a faint smile on her lips, contentment writ large on her face, the strand of hair falling carelessly over her eyes.

I was back in our bedroom, my bedroom. Dark clouds were starting to take over the sky, dark clouds with silver lining. Silver was her favourite colour, not red, blue, pink, green, black or even orange. No, no rainbow could entice her; hers was silver, silver with its brilliant white metallic lustre, silver with its untarnished and pure radiance, silver with all the pomp and splendour of royalty, silver to fight thunderstorms, silver to relive memories, silver that symbolised the moon now hidden behind the dark clouds. I once tried to figure out the reasons behind her fascination for silver, I asked her questions, questions about her childhood, her parents, the house she lived in, the school she went to, her first love, her favourite TV series, her favourite plaything, her first car, her first job, even the colour of the condom to which she lost her virginity, trying to understand the choice of silver, and with it understand her. It was during this time in our relationship that I knew that something was not right, we were still the same but something was missing and I wanted to know her better, know her every move, her every whim and fancy, to find that missing something in her.I never realised that maybe the missing something was missing in me.

Origin of Life

2008-02-13T11:35:00.000-08:00

Little Timmy (we don’t know the real name of the boy, so we call him Timmy) did not know why everyone was in such a hurry. His family, his friends, even Old Uncle who rarely moved out of his house, was packing.

He had heard people talking about ‘the Migration’, about some journey somewhere. At first he thought his father was taking him to a trekking vacation that they had been planning since long. When he asked his father about the trip, his father laughed and said they were going somewhere far away for a long vacation and everyone was coming with them. Timmy thought everyone meant his family and Old Uncle, but now it seems all his friends are also coming. This is going to be the best vacation ever.

Timmy was happy. First the school closes 2 months before the vacations and now this. It was not even summer yet and people were talking of vacations. Timmy was hoping that this could happen every year. When he told this to his father, he got angry and shouted at him. Timmy ran to his mother and fell asleep in her lap.

It was still dark when he woke up. The kitchen light was on and his parents were talking.

“Are there enough ships for everyone?” his mother was asking.

His father replied, “Not really.” His father was a man of few words; he rarely said anything more than barely necessary.

Mother said, “What will happen to those who are left behind?”

“There is still some water left. It will last a few months, a year maybe. Then…” his father’s voice trailed off.

“All these years, the government has been cheating us. I am sure they knew that this was going to happen, since long and now they tell us. It is a massacre that’s what it is. I am sure all the government people have got their ships and are ready to go, leaving the common people to die in this forsaken land.”

Timmy never knew that his mother could be angry about any thing. Perhaps living with father was taking its toll on her, he thought.

His father replied, “At least you can thank the government for giving us a ship.”

“That’s no reason to thank the government. You are important to them; they need your knowledge to survive out there. So they give you a ship. But my brother, because he is an ordinary clerk, he does not get a ship. They are a selfish lot; these government folks. I hope they all die in the journey.” His mother was almost shouting now, wonder what the neighbours would be saying.

His father was calm. He said, almost philosophically, “Many will die in the journey. These ships have not been tested properly. All this happened too fast, we did not have enough time.”

“I hear that only 2 out of every 10 ships will complete the journey.” his mother interrupted.

“It’s only an approximation. Maybe more people will survive, maybe less.” Timmy’s father had this ability to be casual about almost anything.

This irritated his mother a bit. She asked, “You know about these ships. You will be able to take us safely, right?”

“I will try my best. These ships are not safe. There are a million things that could go wrong. Just hope that nothing does.”

They were silent now. Timmy went into the kitchen.

“I am sorry, we have woken you up.” his mother said.

Timmy asked, “Why are we leaving?”

“We cannot live here anymore, son. There is no water left here. It is all gone.” His mother said.

“We can ask Mr. Faro for water.” Timmy innocently replied.

“No, no it is not like that. Even he does not have any water, no one here has water. So we are going to a new place, where there is water, lots of water.”

“Where is that?” asked Timmy.

Before his mother could reply, his father took him out into the courtyard and pointing to the sky, he said, “Son, you see the bright star in the middle of the sky. It is a planet, like our planet. It is the third planet in our solar system, and our neighbour. We are going to live there.”

“Father, what is it called?” asked Timmy.

“They are going to call it Earth. I must say, it does sound better than the name of our planet, Mars.” replied his father.

Timmy did not care about what it was called. He was just happy to know that there were no schools on Earth, not yet at least. He went back to sleep, dreaming of the vacation ahead.

In Finland... some fantasies fulfilled...

2007-06-24T08:29:00.000-07:00

We all have fantasies as children. Not all of these fantasies come true or are even remotely possibly viable like the fantasy about being the star striker for the indian football team and scoring the winning goal at the world cup final, which is too fanatstic to be true, or like being a deep space explorer, which might come true in the near or far future. But some fantasies do come true and yesterday one of my numerous fantasies did come true...

This fantasy relates to oceans, and storms and pirates and nature, in all its fury... you get the picture, right. Yesterday we went on a cruise to Finland, or rather an island called Mariehamn, off the coast of Finland... but it seems better to just call it Finland, either way it is a part of Finland... and on this cruise some of my fantasies were realized...

Standing on the top deck and looking out into the open seas, amidst hurricane winds howling like a pack of wolves, the spine tingling cold rain which was giving me shivers and the unfathomable vastness of the oceans, i felt like the king of the world. Without caring a bit for the comfort of my fellow deck trawlers, i shouted out that i was the king of the world. They ignored me, they had seen drunk people before, but i was drunk by the intoxicatingly overwhelming experience of the living one of my dreams. I felt as proud as a pirate ship captain who had just captured a substantial bounty, as proud as the admiral who finally captures one of the most dreaded pirates, as proud as the makers of the wonders of the world when they saw their creations materialize in front of their eyes, as proud as a father holding his child for the first time...

For the first few hours of our trip we moved within the Swedish archipelago... a chain of numerous small islands, strangely inhabitated. Most of these islands had a house, a small cottage like structure, possibly holiday homes and each house was faithfully accompanied by a motor jetship... it seemed like the playground of the Swedish rich and once in a while we caught sight of one of these motor jetships and sailboats sailing close to our cruise ship... it was raining outside, so the view outside the window was hazy, which gave it a misty and classy look. kind of brought back images of ships lost in the ocean mists, bermuda trinagle and all that stuff... About the cruise ships, we went on the Isabella and came back on the Amorella, strange names for Scandinavian ships.. but by now i had gotten used to strangeness... after all your dreams are never normal...

Once we crossed the archipelage, we were out in the open seas... it was still raining... i have always felt that best way to enjoy an ocean view is when it is raining... it overwhelms you with astounding emotions... you are afraid but you are strangely happy to be afraid... and i was happy and happy to be peplexed by the multitude of emotions that gave way to an orgasmic pleasure that we have all felt, but cannot explain... i just sat and watched the open seas with wonder, like a child exploring a new and strange world, which is both exciting and strangely familiar...i watched it till i fell asleep into the lap of the dreams from which i had just woken up...

The rest of the time... i spent shopping in the taxfree shop, window shopping to be more precise... Everything about the ship was overwhelming, including the selection of wines and drinks, they had like a million zillion different varieties of drinks and the brochure was like an enclyclopaedia of knowledge about wines and spirits, almost a bible for drinkers... i gave the other sections of the shop the time that they desereved... meaning no time at all...

But you say that this is only one of my fantasies.. what about the rest.. well i say maybe, just maybe the other fantasy is too good to waste it on paper, so i may not write about it... but then again maybe someday, when i wake up from my dreams, i may....

Sometimes...

2007-06-20T06:22:00.000-07:00

I have written a poem after what seems like zillion years.. so i thought might as well post it... it is called 'Sometimes'... and i wrote it today during a very boring lecture on nanomaterials... it is about hope and despair and i think you know why... so here it is..

Sometimes it is better to fight...

and sometimes it is better to just let it go...

sometimes you need light...

and sometimes, when it is dark, you don't need the glow...

Sometimes things are not going your way...

and sometimes there are no things at all...

sometimes you have your say...

and sometimes, even with your say, you feel so small...

Sometimes the woods are dark and deep...

and sometimes the sky is blue...

sometimes you want to fall asleep...

and sometimes your dreams come true...

Sometimes time seems to stop...

and sometimes the stars don't shine...

sometimes there is no hope...

and sometimes the whole world is mine...

CIN

2007-06-12T08:34:00.000-07:00

I was 9 then. I did not know what love was. I still don’t, but it does not matter. I knew I was happy and I was. She was beautiful, still is. Her smile used to give me cold shivers. I used to throw furtive glances at her, trying to observe her every move, trying not to miss a single word she said, a single breath she took, a single smile on her face. Her every move used to delight me beyond belief and expression. It was heaven and better. The movement of her hands as she spoke, the fluttering of her eyelashes, the varied looks on her face all beautiful, the way she leaned on one of her legs, the sway of her hips as she moved, the way her eyes shone sometimes, everything about her was perfection. Was it love? I don’t know and I don’t care. I was happy. I remember the play. She was playing Cinderella. I wanted to be the prince, her prince. I wanted to dance with her, I wanted to put the magical shoe on her feet, I wanted to steal her from her evil stepmother and evil stepsisters, and I wanted to steal her from the entire world. I wanted to dance with her and look into her eyes as we danced. Her eyes, deeper than the abysmal depths of deepest ocean, I wanted to loose myself in her eyes and stay like that for ever and a day. But someone else got the part. Hate, consuming and spreading like wild fire, hate with all the vengeance of the world, filled me. It was just a play. But I was 9 and not so dispassionate. But whenever she came into the room, I melted as snow in day, as wax at night. I forgot all about the prince, the prince in the play. I did not care; I was her prince, her prince in real life. I remember the rehearsals. She danced without a care, she danced well. I kept looking at her. I forgot my lines, I forgot my moves. But I did not care. I knew I was happy. I was standing behind the curtain. I was waiting to come onto the stage. Through the curtain, I saw her walking up the stage. She was wearing a white dress with a matching white barbie hat. She looked fabulous.

I stopped breathing for a moment, for a moment everything around me stopped, the world stopped spinning, the moon stopped shining, even time stood still. And I promised myself, a fantastic promise as only a 9 year old boy can do, that I will marry her and will her make my Cinderella for ever. I will fight the entire world, I will fight every prince in every kingdom, I will fight every living man and even the spirits, but I will make her mine. As we danced that night, she with the abominable prince and me with some girl, I looked at her. She looked like a fairy, a fairy from Neverland, a fairy who has come down to earth for me, to love me, to hold me. I was in a trance that night, as I saw heaven, as I saw Neverland. I walked with her through Neverland, we danced, we plucked flowers, we laughed and I was happy, as happy as I had ever been as happy as I will ever be. That night before falling asleep, I cried. I had tears in my eyes, tears of happiness, and tears of bliss. I prayed to god, I asked him to make her mine. I promised that I will do anything he wanted me to do. I promised that I will be a good boy all my life, that I will love my family for every, that I will finish my vegetables at dinner, that I will study hard, that I will not be friends with bad people, that I will pray to him everyday. I promised him everything and more. I was desperate. I was mad and I prayed as if there was no tomorrow. We grew up. We went our separate ways. Life passed by swiftly. I still saw her sometimes. I still longed for her but I was stupid and reasonable. I never said a thing, I did not know what to say, didn’t even know if I had to say anything. I felt that the intensity and the power of my feelings will carry my words to her and that she will know without me telling her a thing. We became good friends. We came close. We spent hours talking, talking of life, of love and everything else. I was 16 now.

I remember the times I spent in her room. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I remember how she looked. She was still beautiful, as beautiful as the rising sun. Her voice had the freshness of the morning dew. Her hand was soft like velvet. Her smile was soothing like the full moon. Her legs were white like milk. Her smell, faint yet intoxicating had the scent of the rarest perfumes. Her body, as she moved left me breathless. I remember the orgasmic pleasure I felt every time I was with her and the agonizing pain I felt as I left her. I remember the dark nights when she used to come downstairs to see me off, as we should close in the dark alley, I used to breath in all her smells to keep me going for the time I was away. I wanted to kiss her and tell her how much I loved her. But I was stupid and reasonable. Maybe I should have prayed to god to give me the strength but I was old now and I did not believe in god. I felt my heart skip a beat. I was drenched in rain but my throat my dry. I was shivering but a fire, a passion was burning inside me. I saw her. She was wearing a deep purple dress and she was wet. Drops of water were hanging from her hair. Her face wet, looked as pure as a child’s. A strand of hair was falling on her face. I remember it as if it was yesterday. Her body drenched in rain still inflames dormant passions in my soul. I should have told her then that I love her, that I have been loving her from the time I did not know that love exists, from a time long gone by and that I will love her till I exist, love her till love loses its meaning, love her till I forget who I am, and love her forever. But it doesn’t matter. I knew I was happy then, as happy as I had ever been, as ever as I will ever be. Years rolled by. I was caught up in the unforgiving tide of my life and I became even more reasonable. I learned to be stoic, to hide my feelings, to ignore them to the point of forgetting them. I became cold, cold to human touch, cold to human affection.

I was trying to forget her, I was trying hard. I suppressed all my feelings, all my weaknesses. I wanted to be strong; I did not want anyone to know that I was once in love. But the dam broke. The flood of my emotions broke through like the mad rush of an overflowing river. I cried tears of pain, and tears of anguish. I called her and told her I loved her. I listened to her silence and to her silence. I wanted to catch a hint of love in her voice. As I was growing more desperate, I suddenly realised, to my astounding surprise, that I was happy. I felt as if a load as heavy as the loftiest mountains has been lifted from my chest. I felt relieved. I was calm. And as I was talking to her that night, I suddenly realised that love is painful, it is harsh. It breaks our heart and leaves us bleeding on the floor.But it gives us a few incredible memories, memories that we cherish for the rest of our lives, memories that make us laugh every time and every day, memories that make us happy whenever we remember the time gone by, memories of magical moments we shared with our loved ones, memories of a play, a room, a moonlight night and a girl drenched in rain, memories of small and ordinary events that shaped our lives, memories that live with us forever. I know that there will be girls in my life. But I will always remember with a smile on my face, as the girl who taught me what love is, as my first love, as my Cinderella, as my Cin.

Halcyon Days

2007-03-09T08:40:00.000-08:00

Part 1: Memories of a lost night

There must have been times in your life when u felt anger, such unreasonable and uncontrollable anger that you wanted to destroy everything around you. I don’t get these kinds of feelings. It was one of the reasons why they selected me. They said I was an emotionally balanced person; not so long ago I used to believe that. Now, before I forget, let me tell you who I am. My name is NAMSSIN222901, Grade 8. I used to have a birth name like everyone else, but it was a long time ago. Now I am only a Grade 8 officer in the "Surveillance and Intelligence Network (SIN)" working with the department of "Nuclear Arms and Missiles Systems". This is classified information and I am not supposed to tell u this. But it does not matter now, because tomorrow… there will be no tomorrow.

I had already graduated from the high school, when I saw an ad by the army calling young men and women to join the army and serve the state. By the time, the physical tests in the army camp were over; I had the all too familiar feeling of being left behind. I completed the aptitude test and returned home. I had almost forgotten about this fiasco when I got a letter from the army. It said that I have been selected for the second round and my interview will be held in the NAMS block. I called them up to check if there was some mistake and the officer at the other end rudely replied that army personnel do not make mistakes and hung up. So when I reached this NAMS block, I was surprised to see only 20 people there. They all seemed nervous, so I guessed they must be here for the same interview. Soon we were joined by an officer, who said something about secret agencies, covert operations and spies. I inferred that he was talking about NAMS. By the time it was evening, we had gone through numerous tests. I was hoping that it would all end and I can go home. The officer who had given the introduction in the morning came back and announced that they had selected 4 people out of the 21. The first name that he called out was mine. That was the last time I heard someone call me by my birth name.

The 6 months training period that followed was rigorous. By the end of the term, I was NAMSSIN222901. The first four numbers denote the year of joining, 2229. The next two digits signify that I was ranked no.1 in my batch. At that time I was surprised by the result, but all along, they knew it would happen. Later I was to know that my ES (Emotional Stability) test score during the interview was an all time high in the history of NAMS. As a result, I was posted in Sector 3 of State Asia, which at the turn of the millennium was called Russia. They said it was a difficult job and they wanted the best for the job. I was pleased with my posting. But that was then, things have changed now. The long night is about to end now……
The shrill sound of the siren echoed through the compound. It indicated the start of the night shift. I could see day shift people going out. They waved each other goodbye. Of course, no one waved at me. I was not supposed to have any kind of social contact, they knew that and so they avoided me. These people were going home to sleep, sleep….. now it seems a strange and alien term. During the first week of training, we were given an injection. They told us that it was to help us remain alert at all times. That night I could not sleep, nor could any of my classmates. Later, we realized it was a sleep deprivation drug. Now, we are addicted to it. I already take 2 injections a week and I don’t sleep.

I have dreams though. Not the usual kind of sleeping dreams. I dream with my eyes open. I dream of a day, when I can go back home. But I am not supposed to dream. We were taught that dreams are a sign of emotional instability and we were taught to ignore dreams. They said we are to ignore our emotions; reason should be our only emotion. But I don’t follow reason now. I don’t care now…

As the night progressed, a feeling of uneasiness caught hold of me. They had said that it was 3 times more likely for the enemy to attack at night than at day, so I had long since associated night with danger. I was now staring at the RADAR intensely. Through the corner of my eyes, I could see the Green Button, which I was to use to inform the other stations, in case of an attack. Besides that was the Red Button. In ancient times, red was associated with danger. The tradition had continued to this day. Using the Red Button, I could launch a nuclear missile to anywhere in the world, anywhere… and this was the Button, which made my job so important, so important that I had to stay here. I could never go home again…

There was another dream about which I did not tell you. It is not exactly a dream; it is more of a wish. Sometimes in the death of night, sitting in front of my computer watching the radar, I have this strong urge to press the Red Button. I know the consequences. Europe, aghast at our action, will join America. Together they will declare war on Asia, ignoring the desperate appeals of Asia that it was the work of one mad man. The State Africa will join us; there was some medieval agreement, which binds Africa to us. There will be major war, something like the World Wars of the medieval times, which was taught to us in schools. Only this time there will be no one left to read about this. The war will lead to the complete destruction of the 4 States. These are not my predictions. Our scientists, using some obscure maths, have come to a conclusion, along the same lines.

So you see, I have the power to destroy the world but I don’t have the power to just go home like the others. Soon it will be time for the night shift people to go home and I will be still here. There is no end to this madness. It goes on and on. People always go home and they are happy about it. And I just sit here, watching them leave. And then they reach home, and I am still here. They eat dinner cooked by the loving hands of their wife, and I am still hungry. They tuck their kids into bed and kiss them goodnight, and I am still lonely. They fall asleep in the arms of their wife, and I am still awake… and I am still here.

My whole mind was screaming that it was not the right thing to do, but it does not matter, as long as they are asleep and I am awake.
I saw myself pressing the Red Button, sealing the fate of the world. With the sound of the morning siren, the poison tablet was starting to take effect and I was falling asleep and I was home… at last I was home.

Part 2: The Hero

My dad used to say that the State needed Heroes, Heroes to guide people, to lead people, to fight in ‘The War’ and to give their lives for the State. Every evening after the visiplate news, father would sit with his friends, smoking his pipe, and they would talk about ‘The War’ and Heroes. After a few hours, they would all be drunk and they would fight till the early hours of morning till they disperse, each one swearing that the State needs heroes. My father was no hero though. He was merely a clerk in The War office and he died in a streetfight, when I was 12. The official report was that my father wanted the other person to acknowledge that he was a Hero, but the person stabbed him with a knife and ran off saying that not my father, but he was a Hero. But who can blame him, such are the times that we live in.

It all started 30 years ago. An officer named NAMSSIN222901, Grade 8, tried to bribe our State into giving him a huge sum of money. When the State did not comply, he launched a nuclear missile on State US, thereby triggering ‘The War’. It is said that his intention behind this act was the destruction of all the States. But during the early days of the conflict, it was mutually agreed by both sides that nuclear arms would not be used in the war. With the use of nuclears, the States would not have survived even a year of war. But after 30 years of pain and suffering, it now seems it would have been better if the World had ended that day.

30 years of ‘The War’ has changed everything. Not that I know about it, I was born after ‘The War’ started. But old people used to say that there was a time, when there was no war, there was enough food, everyone was happy, people did not go around killing other people, and stabbing each other in the back. It must have been a good time to live in, with no fear of hunger, death or disease. But I find it hard to imagine such a world, it must have been perfect.

After my father died, I decided that I would become a real Hero, one who fights in ‘The War’, not like my dad who only used to talk about heroes. I grew up in my aunt’s house and by the time I was 16, I was ready to join The Forces. The selection was tough. Everyone wanted to be a Hero, but not everyone was suited for this job. As I saw the dejected looks on the faces of the rejected candidates, I could see my father’s anguish, at not being a hero, in their eyes. I could see their future, they would spend their days in the War office filing reports and their nights, getting drunk and dreaming of being a hero, a dream that they knew will never be fulfilled.
But I was selected. During my days with my aunt, I met a War veteran. He taught me a lot, helped me build my body, hone my fighting skills and develop leadership skills. He was a good teacher, but he never talked about ‘The War’. At the slightest mention of the word, he used to get infuriated and I knew that was the end of that days training. Once, at night he was drunk and I asked him about ‘The War’, he started crying and asked me to not join the Forces. The next morning, when I brought up this subject, he said that he did not remember anything. We resumed the training and I forgot about the incident. So under the able guidance of this man, I was ready for the Forces.

'The War’ was nearing towards its conclusion. In my 3 years in ‘The War’, I had fought many battles and won many accolades. I was made the Commander of the Armed Forces of Sector-3, the Russia of olden days, and here we were making a last stand. That night I called the officers to my office. They could all barely fit into my tiny office. I said, "Tomorrow is going to be the last day of this battle. If we lose tomorrow, then we lose the War and if anyone of you is unlucky enough to stay alive after tomorrow, then he will see his house burned to ground, his family killed, his city annihilated and the State destroyed. It is easy to be afraid because of the odds stacked against us and the consequences facing us. But this is the chance that we have been waiting for all our lives; this is our chance to be a Hero. We will all be Heroes tomorrow."
"We will all be dead tomorrow." a voice called out from the back. He came forward and said, "Do you not know about the Juda’s curse?"

Juda’s curse, I knew about that alright. Juda, as NAMSSIN222901, Grade 8, was commonly known, was posted in Sector 3, when he launched that fateful missile. It was widely believed that the villain Juda had cursed this place. We had lost every battle fought in Sector 3 and the soldiers knew that we were going to lose the final battle too and that will be the end. I realised that the situation was hopeless, the officers were dejected and the soldiers dispirited. It was not that we were grossly outnumbered. Afters years of fighting even the enemy ranks were much depleted, they were only 2 to each 1 of us and that was in no way going to be decisive. But with the present melancholic despondency in our troops, even the modest enemy forces seemed liked a massive army.

I had to raise the moral of our troops. I had to work a miracle. I had to be the Hero that I always wanted to be. This was my last stand. I told them stories taken from mythology, of about how a mythical race called Spartans with 300 men defended a pass from a million barbarians for 3 days. I told them about how a child named David fought against the giant Goliath and defeated him. I asked them to remember that they are the descendants of the Spartans and the children of David.

But it was to no avail, I could see their gloomy eyes and their downtrodden faces conveyed the story. I could sense the hopelessness of our situation in the fug of my office. It engulfed me and I felt that I was about to cry. There was only one thing that I could do now.

I knew it was time to reveal a secret, a secret which I have been hiding since long, a secret which even I was ashamed to admit. The secret had the power to turn the tide of ‘The War’; it could carry us to a triumphant victory or lead us to an ignominious defeat. Such was the power of the words that I was going to say that I vacillated. I tried to put together all the inchoate ideas into a logical set of sentences.

After much hawing I finally said, "I have a secret which I have to share with all of you."
The soldiers started murmuring, I ignored them and continued, "30 years ago, in 2229 A.D. to be precise, a young officer was enlisted in NAMS. He was the best officer that NAMS had ever seen. But his love for NAMS and the State could not match his love for his family. He was in love with his wife and his unborn child. He longed to see them, but he was a Grade 8 officer, so obviously he was denied permission to visit them. So one night, under the influence of a sleep deprivation drug, he did the unthinkable. He launched a nuclear missile and the rest is history."

The whispers grew louder. I said," He did not want any money; it was the State’s version. But how do I know all this? Well before dying, he sent a letter to his wife. The letter said that he had committed a grave sin and that he could never forgive himself for this sin. And he made a request in that letter, he asked his unborn child to correct his sins. So, before dying he promised a Hero to the State, a Hero who will lift the Juda’s curse and bring victory to this cursed land. And that Hero is me; I am the Son of Juda and in confrontation with me the Juda’s curse will fail…"

I don’t know how much effect my speech had on the soldiers, but the next day they fought like Heroes. By the evening, we had repelled the last regiment of the alliance of State US and Europe. It would be months before they can raise an army big enough to invade again. We had won the war, for now at least. I was declared a Hero of the State along with many of my fellow soldiers.
T

hat night, standing in the battlefield and looking at the chaos, destruction, misery and death around me, I realised that there are no real Heroes here.
I had once read a story about a boxer who threw away his medal, for which he had struggled immensely, because he realised that the values that he had fought for were an illusion. My medal reminded me of that story and I threw away my most prized possession, the medal. Being Hero did not mean anything to me now. I was only a Survivor now.

The ‘Age of the Hero’ was over and sooner the people realize that, the better. As for me, I am just happy that my stepfather died without having to face the harsh truth that there are no Heroes. It is very agonizing to realise that the only hope that keeps you going through life, is an illusion. The ‘Age of the Hero’ was over and The ‘Age of the Survivor’ was beginning.

As I spend my last days in the solitude of my forsaken bunk, my prognostication is taking tangible shape. Six months after our last stand, State US, perhaps frustrated by our dogged resistance, started the nuclear war. They had grossly undervalued our resources and tenacity and were hoping for a quick and decisive victory. But as the nuclear war escalated, both sides suffered colossal losses. We were witness to annihilation on a scale incomparable to anything the world had ever seen, destruction unlike anything that will ever be repeated. In the aftermath of the nuclear holocaust that followed, very few survivors remained. Civilization, in the form that we used to know, was completely destroyed. People moved away from the cities, most of which had radiation beyond danger levels and started living in caves and forests. The shortage of almost everything precipitated by the 30 year war was now gaining massive proportions. People started living like savages and killing each other at will.

While most of the human population perished in this way, those of us who were left behind and still had some shred of sanity left in them, decided to start on a journey aboard the ‘Phoenix’. It was a journey to save the humanity. It was a journey to preserve all that was once good in this world. It was a journey for survival. It was a journey lead by the ‘Survivors’.

Part 3: End of Utopia

Utopia: An imaginary or hypothetical place or state of things considered to be perfect; a condition of ideal (esp. social) perfection.

I never knew dying would be this easy. I can see death approaching but I am glad to hear its footsteps. Maybe it is because there is no one waiting for me. Actually people are waiting to hear from me but they are just nameless, faceless entities to me. After my parents died due to radiation overdose during one of our Outside trips, I have been lonely. I was looked after by foster parents. They were good people, took good care of me but I never had the feeling of being a part of family, while living with them. They were not my real family.
I made the last recording a few days ago and ate my last food packet yesterday. The drinking water will run out by tonight. I will wait for a day or two and if the pain is too much to bear, I have the pill. I have heard that taking the pill puts you to sleep, a long peaceful sleep. I am ready now….

The only regret that I have is I will miss the ‘End of Utopia’. There are still sceptics who believe in Utopia, but the popular opinion is fast turning to our side. Already the first groups of settlers are getting ready to come here. Soon there will be more and more people coming here, leaving behind Utopia. And that will be the end of Utopia, the end which I so avidly await and the end to which I have contributed a great deal.
I never believed in Utopia. It placed too many restrictions on us. We were never free inside Utopia. Others have adjusted to this fact but I always had a feeling of being suffocated inside the thick composite walls of Utopia. So I rejoiced the prospect of going to the Outside, once in a while. It was a passion that I had inherited from my parents. My father was an influential person, so he could obtain passes to go Outside, but it was a practice frowned upon and looked at suspiciously by others. Nevertheless, we used to go on our trips and they were the best times of my life. The sun shining above us, the feeling of wind brushing against my face, my hair and the endless expanse of land all around us, no words could do justice to the utter sense of bliss that I experienced during those trips.
These trips brought me closer to one of my other passions, flying.

I was always enthralled by the flight of the birds soaring high above us in the sky. I used to run behind these birds with my arms wide open, hoping that I will flap my hands and will soar into the sky, just like these birds. I had also read about the ancient flying objects called aeroplanes and how they used to take people to the skies. Of course, there were space shuttles but they were computer controlled, it was just too risky to send a person into the sky. After the infamous nuclear bombing of State US circa 2235 AD, and the subsequent war of 30 years ending in a full fledged nuclear war circa 2265 AD, armies were deemed illegal by the Council City States that were formed subsequently. In the process, flying was also made illegal and out of bounds.
Missiles could easily be detected and destroyed, but aeroplanes with their stealth were a different matter all together. They could easily drop nuclear bombs on cities without detection. As a result of the nuclear phobia prevalent in those times, aeroplanes were banned and destroyed in every sector across the world.
Later nuclear shields were developed and all the survivors of the nuclear war were gathered together in enclosed City-States, collectively known as Utopia. With the nuclear shields in place, now there was no danger from the aeroplanes but the taboo still remained firmly in place. As for me, although it was considered sacrilege to even talk about flying and aeroplanes, I wanted to fly.

I knew some of the influential people in the Council through my father. So I easily obtained the permit to collect aeroplane memorabilia, including spare parts. Using my limited engineering knowledge, which I had egregiously lacked during my schooling, I somehow managed to make an aeroplane. I called it ‘pleomakhos’ as aeroplane was still a derogatory term. I could always get passes for the Outside. So I used my time in testing the pleomakhos. I had read a story of an ancient hermit called Wright, who made the first flying machine and his machine could only stay afloat for only few seconds and that it was dangerous. My pleomakhos was more reliable, it was built from the scrap of a jet fighter and I knew that it could get up to whatever height I wanted it to go to. It was, after all, the same model that people used to go to the lunar settlement.

It was the same lunar settlement, where I was breathing my last. It is abandoned, of course, ever since 2265 AD. I am the first person to come here in over 200 years, so in a way I feel as if I own this place. However the initial sense of euphoria at coming here has died down. Now there is only an oppressive silence, a silence which like darkness engulfs everything in sight.
But I am a happy man. In the last transmission from Earth, I was hailed as a Hero and in this age of community living, not many can claim that particular title. In a few months time, my Lunar Settlement will be teeming with people and the Space Age will again commence, like a new Renaissance, a renaissance born out of the death of an older order, the order of Utopia.

It is night. The thought of taking the pill and ending it all right here and now has crossed my mind a few times but I have resisted. It may be easier to die but it is a lot more difficult to kill yourself. I see the welcome arms of sleep take me and I gladly comply, snug in the relative comfort of knowing that I have spent a good life.

I open my eyes. It is bright outside. I see people in white overflowing gowns running around me. They seem to be busy doing something, no one is talking. I have a slight headache which intensifies as I try to recollect where I am. Suddenly it all starts to make sense, I must have died and this is heaven. The moment I say all this in my mind, it sounds as absurd as it sounded sensible a moment ago. I look around. No one seems to notice that I am awake. I am prepared to wait. I always loved dreams and this is turning out to be one of the most exciting. So I wait, I do not want this suspense to end soon. Before long, I am taken to what I presume is a waiting room. This room, like is first one, is painted white. Even the bed on which I sit is covered with spotless white bed-sheet. The chairs beside the bed are also white. Even the gown I am wearing is white, spotless white. The design is minimalist.

A door opens, silently. A man walks in. I try to decipher his countenance; is he angry, is he happy. Who are these people and what do they want from me. I receive no answers.
He says, "From Earth you come, I see." His accent is strange, not to speak of the grammar. A faint smile passes through my lips.
I say, "Yes, I have come from Earth." Inspite of my overwhelming curiosity, I figure that I should let him do the asking.
He mumbles something. "Brother, you are to me. Earth is where, we are from. Long ago, we came."
I ask, "Is this a dream?"
He says, "Dream, what is, I know not." It seems they have forgotten how to dream. But I am happy, nevertheless at the curious turn of events and at the fact that I am still alive.
"Phoenix, the ship, we came here on. More than 200 years, it has been. A good time but I say you come. Phoenix II, the ship, ready it is. Going out into the space, to the stars, it is. Invite you, I will, to join us in this monumental journey." He says.
Between sobs, I say, "Join you, I will." I noticed that my grammar was wrong; I was becoming one of them.

The settlers from Earth will be in for a major surprise when they come here. I plan on not telling them all this. As for me, I am going to the stars. The ‘Space Age’ has begun…

Strange love...

2007-02-18T06:34:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning when I called on my friend Rohit, he was crying. I was startled, it is not everyday that you see a grown man cry unless, of course, if he had had a drink too many. Now, I know it for a fact that my friend is fond of a drink or two, but drinking on a Sunday morning is unthinkable even by Rohit’s standard. So I realised that it must be something serious.

I tried to calm him down. I made him sit down, gave him a drink of water and tried to console him. I don’t know if it was my overbearing attitude or the glass of water but he seemed to calm down a bit. I knew it was not prudent to open the subject again, but my curiosity got the better of me and I heard myself asking him about the reasons for his strange behaviour. He was silent now, barely moving almost as if he is in a trance. I repeated my question and this time he displayed some interest in replying. He went to the other end of the room and brought back an old notebook. He opened it and handed me a photo of a young girl. Judging by the appearance of the photo, I conjectured that the girl must be of our own age for the photo looked old and tattered.

I started constructing stories of teenage heart-break and failed relationships.
Rohit said, as if reading my mind, “It is not like the way you think it is. It is not a failed love story. On the contrary it was a success. It was a love story unlike any other love story. It was unique.”
In my time I had come across many real life love stories and they were more or less the same. The story starts with boy and girl loving each other. Then it branches off, either they live happily ever after or they never find the courage to admit their love and get into arranged marriages. So I was sceptical about the uniqueness of this story. But I decided to give my friend a patient hearing, owing to his present condition.
He started telling his story.

10 years earlier…..

Rohit said, “So you are going to marry him. What about love, what about me?”
Riya was smiling. She replied, “You don’t understand. You will never understand.”
“Sure I don’t understand. You love me, but you are going to marry him despite the fact that your family likes me. What does he have that I don’t? We love each other, our families are happy, so what is your problem? How am I to understand this?”
“I cannot be with you, Rohit. If I am with you, I will loose the purpose of loving you. Love is a means, it is not an end.”
She paused as if thinking of something convincing to say to him. She loved him, it was true. She was not saying all this just to evade him. It was not easy for her to elucidate her point of view while her mind was apprehended by inchoate thoughts. But she instinctively knew that she will not marry Rohit, only to save their love.
She said, “Believe me, if we marry then we will never be as happy as we are today. So please let me go,”
She kissed Rohit and walked away. Rohit wanted to say something, he wanted to run after her and stop her but he stood still. He let her go.

5 years earlier…..

Rohit felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to see the familiar face of Riya. She looked more beautiful and more radiant that the last time he had seen her, 5 years ago.
Riya said, “So, how are you?”
He replied, “Still in love. And now, even more in love with you than before. How is your life?”
She said, “Still married and still in love with you.”
He was astounded. He interrupted her and said, “Then why don’t you leave him and come back to me?”
She was calm. She replied, “You will never understand love. Love is not in getting what you want but in not getting what you want. You just said that you love me more than before and I also love you more than before. So you see our love is still going strong.”
He was baffled by the cold logic of her arguments. He muttered, “To hell with your philosophy, I want to be with you.”
She replied, “If we are together, then love is replaced by a lesser emotion on account of our familiarity. But by being apart, our love is increasing on account of our longing for each other. Is it not better to be in love and be apart, rather that being together and not being in love?”
He said, “Then, what is the point of love?”
She smiled. She leaned close to him and whispered, “Love is the purpose of life and without love there is no life. And the only way to preserve love is to stay apart.”

She kissed him and walked away. He was starting to understand her. He did feel the need to go after her or to stop her. He let her go.

Present…..

Rohit had tears in his eyes.

Now this was a truly unique love story. However one thing bothered me. If this indeed was a successful love story then why was Rohit crying. I did not have the heart to ask him this. Love works in mysterious ways and just when you think you have seen it all, it shows you something different, something unique.

The Lottery Prize Winner

2006-05-26T07:03:00.000-07:00

In the last few stories, i have been trying to emulate Isaac Asimov. This time around, it is another Russian, Anton Chekhov.... For the ignoramus he is R.K.Narayan of Russia...

The Lottery Prize Winner

Yesterday, at Rahul’s party Aman, the most talkative chap of us all, was sitting in a corner lost in his thoughts. When asked if he was all right, he replied, “ yes, yes I am alright. But…” he stopped talking. It was kind of funny, because he is the sort of guy who talks more and thinks less. I wanted to laugh but my other friends were following the sympathetic route so I controlled my urge to laugh. He continued, “ Well guys, just this morning I heard a story about this person and I was thinking…. Rather let me first tell you the story and then I will enlighten you all with what I was thinking.”

This is the story as he told us:

It was getting late. Lala Dayaram decided that he would wait five more minutes to see if any customer turns up, and then close the shop. He had a small grocery store, the only one, in Bywater Colony, a lower middle class neighbourhood of Delhi, home to that class of people who have no money, power or influence. Just as he was getting ready to call it a day, he noticed someone standing in the shadow of the Banyan tree, on the far end of the street. Lala looked suspiciously towards the shadow. Theirs was a respectable, peace loving and god-fearing neighbourhood and strange people were not welcome in their locality, especially so late at night. As Lala was contemplating the ways to deal with this situation, the person started moving towards the shop. As he came closer to Lala’s shop, Lala recognized who the mysterious person was.

He was, of course, Charan Das. Charan used to live in this locality about 3 year’s back. He used to work as a typist in the income tax department and owned a single bedroom flat just in front of Lala’s shop. He had a steady job, the pay was sufficient, and work not too taxing and he had even saved a small sum of money. He was even thinking of moving to a more sociable colony and to better things in life, which included marriage. But he was not destined to have such an unremarkable life and it was Lala, who held the key to his destiny.

Lala along with catering to the grocery needs of the locality also sold lottery tickets, catering to the middle class dream of becoming rich. After all, it was the easiest way to become rich and it did not involve any kind of labour. So he had a steady income from this business. And Charan was among the highest contributors. He had an insatiable fetish for lottery. He used to buy tickets of all kinds of lottery, always 2 tickets because an astrologer had told him that 2 was his lucky number. He used to spend a big percentage of his salary to satisfy this passion.

The savings that he had built up were fast decreasing. So now he became desperate to win. He dreamed of winning a lottery, then buying a house, a car, marrying a beautiful girl and investing the rest of the money in shares. And then he will never have to live of stale rotis and cold dal, not have to live in a leaky house which wept everytime it rained, not have to wear 50 rupees shirt and a patched up jeans that had more patched than the actual cloth. And this wonderful dream made him even more desperate, but it was unable to dim his optimism.

Lala used to discourage him from spending so much on lottery. But Charan would just smile and say, “Lalaji, when I win a big lottery, you will not be saying this. And when I win I will give you 5 percent of the amount.” Lala would just smile at his conviction and wish him luck. Charan used to discuss his plans about what he would do when he becomes rich, with Lala. He used to talk with so much confidence that as if he had just won the morning lottery. Lala would say, ‘ but you have still not won the lottery, don’t count your chickens before they hatch.’ ‘So what if I have not won today, one of these days, I will be rich, one of these days.’

And the day did come. Lala distinctly remembered that day. Charan, as usual on his way back from office, came into his shop and said, “Lalaji, the usual 2 of playwin, 2 of national and 2 of UP.” He had replied, “ there is a new lottery with the first draw slated for tomorrow and they are giving a grand prize of 10 million rupees. I will put in 2 tickets of this free of cost along with the usual.”
The first winner of the new lottery was Charan Das. The same day he quit his job and moved onto better things in life. Of course, he did give Lala the promised 5 percent, but Lala had not seen him since that day. So he was pleasantly surprised to see his old friend.

Lala said, “Charan, haven’t seen you in a while. Where have you been and how is life?” Charan replied, “ Lalaji, there is not a lot to tell. You must have heard that after winning the lottery, I bought a flat in Vasant Vihar, bought a car, married this beautiful girl and invested in shares. I thought I was set for life. But then the share market crashed, my wife as I later found out was a woman of questionable morals and she ran away with our neighbour’s son, my car was stolen and I had to sell the house to settle all my debts. So now I have moved back into my old house and have taken up my old job.”
“You must be heart broken, but hopefully now everything will be as it used to be.” said the shopkeeper thoughtfully.
“Well yes, except a small detail, from now on I will take 3 of playwin, 3 of national and 3 of UP. You see my astrologer recommends that from now on 3 will be my lucky number. You will of course give me details of other new lotteries as and when they launch and this time I will give you 10 percent of my winnings.” said Charan Das cheerfully.
“Of course Mr. Das, I will do that” said the shopkeeper in a tone of sheer amazement.

Now Aman said, “I was thinking, how even after 5 months of mental and emotional turmoil, which had both joy and sorrow, hope and despair, love and hatred; Charan Das did not shy away from life. It would have easier for him to never buy another lottery ticket but he was still willing to take a chance. He was still willing to let fate decide his destiny and more importantly he was still happy and his secret of happiness was to live life to the full, come what may. If only, there were more people like him, world would have been a better place to live in.”

And we were all lost in out thoughts, about this secret of happiness, which many a wise sages have looked for but could not find and onto which we had stumbled upon, with the help of a lottery prize winner, who was always happy.

Unmasked.....

2006-05-14T08:10:00.000-07:00

I was getting a bit of flak for writing crappy and complicated stories... so i decided to complete this tag by Arjun.... Now. seriously, how can i make this complicated....

5 people who top your shit list..... and why:

1. A prof whom we lovingly call Gaskell.... i got a 'C' in his course.... so am not a big fan of his....
2. Thierry Henry...... he is just plain ugly...no other reason for hating him....
3. Brad Pitt.... for being with two of the most sexiest goddesses ever.... i envy him....
4. Myself..... the reasons are not to be made public......
5. Arjun..... for making me do this...

Close brushes with death/danger:

The incident occured when i was 13...(it was an unlucky year for me)..... i was learning to swim in my village pond along with my cousin sister who was 11, at that time. it so happened that my sis went a bit too far from the coast and she panicked.... i, trying to be the big brother, swam upto her, but she was too heavy for me(yes, i was frail then also).... so now we both were drowning.... but luckily someone(god bless his soul) noticed the commotion and rescued us...
i can remember this one brush only....

5 Preferable modes of suicide, in descending order:

1. Use poison.... it is painless... u die in ur sleep...
2. The old fashioned rasii way...
3. If u can call this suicide... kill the person u hate most... and get sentence for murder....
4. The woods are dark, lovely and deep... u get my point, right....
5. Come under a DTC bus, the easiest way....

5 Guilty pleasures:

1. Blogging during dinner time.... as i am doing now....
2. Knocking on a strangers door and running away....
3. Checking only the wrong( or the right, depends on the way u see it).... profiles on Orkut.....
4. Rock music at full volume.....
5. Not paying for what i eat in canteen.....( on second thoughts, i don't feel guilty about this)....

5 things you never want to forget:

1. The time spent with 'her'....
2. My first story.....
3. The day i got into IIT..... (this for the wrong reasons...)
4. The taste of rich dark chocolate.....
5. The summers spent in my maternal uncle's place.....(those were magical....)

5 things you wish to forget:

i generally forget a lot of things, so it is difficult to remember 5 things i want to forget..... but still....
1. The incident with a particular classmate....(she is married now.... i hope she has a good married life)
2. The fights i had with a close friend.... those days were the most wretched days.....
3. oops i do not remember any more....

5 really exotic dishes you have tried:

1. Crabs.... its yummy....
2. Chicken Tikka....(it is not exotic, is it???)
3. Something called 'lung- fu sauce in china sea noodles'.... in a japanese diner....
4. Death with Chocolate.... a divine overdose of chocolates....
5. Pizza.... (it used to be an exotic dish).....

5 crushes/loves in your life... in chronological order (even initials or nicknames would do. Oh, no ID attempts or requests pleez):

1. Cindrella.... (no not the cartoon character.... it is a nickname...)
2. The girl mentioned above, who got married
3. A certain girl i recently met on orkut...
4. Cin.... (short form for cindrella...) sorry for the repitition.... but i lead a boring life......
5. Yah, u guessed it.... it her on no. 5 too....

Strangest dream you ever had:

I don't dream.... i know its strange.... but it is way it is....

5 most valued personal possessions:

1. My memories.....
2. My friends.....( they are reading, so i have to please them)
3. My drop dead looks.... (if looks could kill, they would accuse me of genocide.....)
4. My comp. (for obvious reasons.... namely blogging, gaming and orkutiing
5. My family....

5 favorite superheroes..... And why:

1. Wolverine.... he is too smart....
2. Batman.... (if only i had that kinda money)....
3. Scooby Doo..... he is just too funny.....
4. Shaggy..... i am a big fan of the series....
5. Mask.....

Other side of the Mirror

2006-05-13T10:18:00.000-07:00

Prologue

The idea of the existence of multiple universes has fascinated the scientists since long. There are questions like; Can we reach out to these universes? Can the dreams and aspirations of one personality influence its alter ego in another universe? What happens when two parallel universe coincide with each other?

Subi wanted to know the answer to these questions. But he was not the only one looking for answers. Ajay wanted some answers too……

Part-1

He woke up with a start. He was breathing rapidly and was sweating profusely. He went to the kitchen and had a glass of cold water, which always seemed to cool him down to his senses. He switched on the computer and started playing WarCraft. He knew he would not be able to fall asleep again tonight. It was not the first time that he had this dream. Ever since he could remember, he always had the same dream. He always saw a dimly lit room which looked like a lab, sparks flying here and there and then the scream, a horrible blood curdling scream of a grown man. This was the point when he would wake up and try, as he may, not be able to sleep again that night. The memories of the dream would haunt him through the night.
Ajay was a celebrated psychologist. He was the author of numerous bestsellers. He even had a TV show named “Ask Ajay” running in the prime time slot of a popular channel. He was the final authority in the matters related to psychology. So it was embarrassing for him to have this dream problem. The worse part was that he could not discuss it with anyone. Imagine the best psychologist in India suffering from a psychological disorder that he cannot solve. The effect this will have on his image will be catastrophic. The mere thought of the consequences of the leaking of this fact used to upset him a lot.
He had come up with many answers to explain this dream. Maybe it was a childhood memory of some movie etched deeply onto his mind. Maybe it was memory of a previous birth. Maybe it was not his memory after all; maybe it was the memory of some patient that he had treated. But he knew that these answers were merely speculative. Childhood memories are never so intense. And if he starts talking about previous births, he can kiss his career goodbye. But there had to be an answer and he was determined to find it. What he didn’t know was that very soon he was going to find the answer from a very unlikely source.

Part-2

The faint chirping of birds made him look out the window. He could see a faint line of orange in the morning sky. It will be morning in a few minutes. He had been working continuously since yesterday morning. A faint noise coming from his stomach told him that he was hungry. He had forgotten about his dinner last night. Ever since the time, he left home to go to college this was a common occurrence. After all, he did not have his mother to remind him about the dinner. And no one here cared whether he had his dinner or not. So whenever he was working on a problem, he used to forget his dinner. He decided to go to a nearby diner to have his breakfast. The fresh morning breeze felt good as it brushed against his face. He was now thinking clearly. He reflected on the problem he was working on. It was only a month since he started working on the problem and he was already ready. He knew he was good but this was even beyond his wildest dreams. A few more calculations, checks and rechecks and he will be able to start testing his machine, the machine that will take him into unchartered territory. He was going to be the first person to travel into a parallel universe.
It had been proved theoretically that there are possibly infinite dimensions and so infinite parallel universes running along our universe. Subi, during his research found that by using magnetic fields of particular intensity, it is possible to open pathways to other universes. During the last month he had made rapid progress and now he was ready to test his machine, which he lovingly called Aj (pronounced as ‘a jay’). During his school days the other kids did not play with him, so he had an imaginary friend called Aj. He had dedicated this machine to the memory of his childhood friend.
That night he was talking to Aj, he said, “In a few hours, we are going away. We will go to a place, where everyone loves us. We will be able to play with other kids and go to their parties. No one will make fun of us there.” He was crying. It was the first time that he had cried, since his school days.All the way through high school and college, Subi had kept himself busy in studies. He ignored the jeers of his ‘friends’. He had been lost in his own world, unaware of everything and everyone around him. Now he had a chance to make a new start, now he could forget all the mean things that people had said about him, now he was going to Heaven……

Part-3

Ajay used to keep himself free on Sundays. Although he was a busy person, he made it a point to entertain friends and guests at his house on the Sundays. As a child, he was an introvert. He kept aloof from the other kids and they ignored him. He still remembered the agony of not being invited to the birthday parties of his neighbours. All the children would be there, playing games, eating pastries and having fun. And he would sit at his window and listen to the music playing and the children laughing. He tried to shake off these memories. His guests were waiting for him. These parties that he organised at his house every Sunday was his way of getting back at those kids.
The shrill sound of ambulance rang out in the compound. He had given strict orders to the hospital to not disturb him, so we annoyed at this interruption. His assistant at the office came running towards him. He said, “Sir, I am extremely sorry for this disturbance, but this is a serious case. This morning, a person came to the hospital asking for you. He was in a shock and was talking about dimensions and something about kids. He was barely making any sense. He collapsed and we took him into the hospital. The tests showed abnormal brain activity and rapid development of a tumour in his brain, the cause unknown, someone suggested intense magnetic fields but it is unlikely. He woke up a few minutes ago and demanded that he be allowed to come here. He was dying, so we agreed and brought him here. But just as we reached the gates, he died. Just before dying he said, ‘I am happy that the doctor is in a party, I was never invited to any parties……’ . Sorry Sir, but I had to bring him here.”

Part-4

As Subi started the machine, the lights got dimmer; sparks were flying here and there. The magnetic field was too intense, he could not bear it and let out a horrible blood curdling scream. The next thing he remembered he was in an ambulance and going to a party. He knew Aj was listening to him, so he said, “Looks like finally we are going to play with the other kids. Finally we are invited to a party. Aj, we have found Heaven.” Aj did not reply, he did not have to, Subi was dead. Ajay did not have those dreams anymore……..

Epilogue

Ajay found a journal and an i-card in the dead man’s pocket. According to the i-card, it belonged to someone named Subi. He was a research assistant in some university. The journal contained references to some experiment regarding pathways to other universes. The last line in the journal was, “The experiment looks like a success, we are going to a parallel universe but I have miscalculated the magnetic field, it is too intense, I cannot bear it, I may be passing out…….”
Ajay realised that his dreams were not his own, at least not in this universe. They belonged to him in a different parallel universe. He finally got the answers to his questions.

The Hero

2006-04-21T22:44:00.000-07:00

This is basically a sequel to "Memories of a Lost Night", but it can also be read as an independent story, so reading the previous post is not necessary but it is helpful.... As always i hope you enjoy the story and do post your valuable comments...

The Hero

My dad used to say that the State needed Heroes, Heroes to guide people, to lead people, to fight in ‘The War’ and to give their lives for the State. Every evening after the visiplate news, father would sit with his friends, smoking his pipe, and they would talk about ‘The War’ and Heroes. After a few hours, they will all be drunk and they will fight till the early hours of morning, when they will disperse, each one swearing that the State needs heroes. My father was no hero though. He was merely a clerk in The War office and he died in a streetfight, while I was 12. The official report was that my father wanted the other person to acknowledge that he was a Hero, but the person stabbed him with a knife and ran off saying that not my father, but he was a Hero. But who can blame him, such are the times that we live in.

It all started 30 years ago. An officer named NAMSSIN222901, Grade 8, tried to bribe the State into giving him a huge sum of money. When the State did not comply, he launched a nuclear missile on State US, thereby triggering ‘The War’. It is said that his intention behind this act was the destruction of the States. But during the early days of the conflict, it was mutually agreed by both sides that nuclear arms would not be used in the war. With the use of nuclears, the States would not have survived even a year of war. But after 30 years of pain and suffering, it now seems it would have been better if the World had ended that day.

30 years of ‘The War’ has changed everything. Not that I know about it, I was born after ‘The War’ started. But old people used to say that there was a time, when there was no war, there was enough food, everyone was happy, and people did not go around killing other people. It must been a good time to live in, with no fear of hunger, death, disease. But I find it hard to imagine such a world, it must have been perfect.

After my father died, I decided that I would become a real Hero, one who fights in ‘The War’, not like my dad who only used to talk about heroes. I grew up in my aunt’s house and by the time I was 16, I was ready to join The Forces. The selection was tough. Everyone wanted to be a Hero, but not everyone was suited for this job. As I saw the dejected looks on the faces of the rejected candidates, I could see my father’s anguish, at not being a hero, in their eyes. I could see their future, they would spend their days in the War office filing reports and their nights, getting drunk and dreaming of being a hero, a dream that they knew will never be fulfilled.

But I was selected. During my days with my aunt, I met a War veteran. He taught me a lot, helped me build my body, hone my fighting skills and develop leadership skills. He was a good teacher, but he never talked about ‘The War’. At the slightest mention of the word, he used to get infuriated and I knew that was the end of that days training. Once, at night he was drunk and I asked him about ‘The War’, he started crying and asked me to not join the Forces. The next morning, when I brought up this subject, he said that he did not remember anything. We resumed the training and I forgot about the incident. So under the able guidance of this man, I was ready for the Forces.

‘The War’ was nearing towards its conclusion. We were making a last stand in Sector 3, the Russia of olden days. That night I called the troops to my office. They could all barely fit into my tiny office. I said, “Tomorrow is going to be the last day of this battle. This is the chance you have been waiting for all your life, this is your chance to be a Hero. We will all be Heroes tomorrow.” “We will all be dead tomorrow.” a voice called out from behind. He came forward and said, “Do you not know about the Juda’s curse?”

Juda’s curse, I knew about that alright. Juda, as NAMSSIN222901, Grade 8, was commonly known, was posted in Sector 3, when he launched that fateful missile. It was widely believed that the villain Juda had cursed this place. We had lost every battle fought in Sector 3 and the soldiers knew that we were going to lose the Final battle too and that will be the End.

I knew it was time to reveal a secret, a secret which I have been hiding since long, a secret which even I was ashamed to admit. I said, “Let me tell you a story.” The soldiers started murmuring, I ignored them and continued, “30 years ago, in 2229 A.D. to be precise, a young officer was enlisted in NAMS. He was the best officer that NAMS had ever seen. But his love for NAMS and the State could not match his love for his family. He was in love with his wife and his unborn child. He longed to see them, but he was a Grade 8 officer, so obviously he was denied permission to visit them. So one night, under the influence of sleep deprivation drug, he did the unthinkable. He launched a nuclear missile and the rest is history.”

The whispers grew louder. “He did not want any money; it was the State’s version. But how do I know all this? Well before dying, he sent a letter to his wife. The letter said that he had committed a grave sin and that he could never forgive himself for this sin. And he made a request in that letter, he asked his unborn child to correct his sins. So, before dying he promised a Hero to the State, a Hero who will lift the Juda’s curse and bring victory to this cursed land. And that Hero is me; I am the Son of Juda and in confrontation with me the Juda’s curse will fail….”

I don’t know how much effect my speech had on the soldiers, but the next day they fought like Heroes. By the evening, we had repelled the last regiment of the alliance of State US and Europe. It would be months before they can raise an army big enough to invade again. We had won the war, for now at least. I was declared a Hero of State along with many of my fellow soldiers.

That night, standing in the battlefield and looking at the chaos, destruction, misery and death around me, I realised that there are no real Heroes here.
I had once read a story about a boxer who threw away his medal, for which he had struggled immensely, because he realised that the values that he had fought for were an illusion. My medal reminded me of that story and I threw away my most prized possession, the medal. Being Hero did not mean anything to me now. I was only a Survivor now.

The ‘Age of the Hero’ was over and sooner the people realize that, the better. As for me, I am just happy that my stepfather died without having to face the harsh truth that there are no Heroes. It is very agonizing to realise that the only hope that keeps you going through life, is an allusion. The ‘Age of the Hero’ was over and The ‘Age of the Survivor’ was beginning…..

The End….

Note by Author:

i have exams coming up so i will not be able to post in the coming weeks.... but you don't have to worry, when a new post comes up... u will be notified...

2006-04-13T04:48:00.000-07:00

This is the second story in the series. They say there is a thin line between love and
madness.This story explores the fact.
I hope u enjoy the story and do post your comments....

Memories of a Lost Night

There must have been times in your life when u felt anger, such unreasonable and uncontrollable anger that you wanted to destroy everything around you. I don’t get these kinds of feelings. It was one of the reasons why they selected me. They said I was an emotionally balanced person; not so long ago I used to believe that. Now, before I forget, let me tell you who I am. My name is NAMSSIN222901, Grade 8. I used to have a birth name like everyone else, but it was a long time ago. Now I am only a Grade 8 officer in the “Surveillance and Intelligence Network (SIN)” working with the department of “Nuclear Arms and Missiles Systems”. This is classified information and I am not supposed to tell u this. But it does not matter now, because tomorrow…. there will be no tomorrow.

I had already graduated from the high school, when I saw an ad by the army calling young men and women to join the army and serve the state. By the time, the physical tests in the army camp were over, I had the all too familiar feeling of being left behind. I completed the aptitude test and returned home. I had almost forgotten about this fiasco when I got a letter from the army. It said that I have been selected for the second round and my interview will be held in the NAMS block. I called them up to check if there was some mistake and the officer at the other end rudely replied that army personnel do not make mistakes and hung up. So when I reached this NAMS block, I was surprised to see only 20 people there. They all seemed nervous, so I guessed they must be here for the same interview. Soon we were joined by an officer, who said something about secret agencies, covert operations and spies. I inferred that he was talking about NAMS. By the time it was evening, we had gone through numerous tests. I was hoping that it would all end and I can go home. The officer who had given the introduction in the morning came back and announced that they had selected 4 people out of the 21. The first name that he called out was mine. That was the last time I heard someone call me by my birth name.

The shrill sound of the siren echoed through the compound. It indicated the start of the night shift. I could see day shift people going out. They waved each other goodbye. Of course, no one waved at me. I was not supposed to have any kind of social contact, they knew that and so they avoided me. These people were going home to sleep, sleep….. now it seems a strange and alien term. During the first week of training, we were given an injection. They told us that it was to help us remain alert at all times. That night I could not sleep, nor could any of my classmates. Later, we realized it was a sleep deprivation drug. Now, we are addicted to it. I already take 2 injections a week and I don’t sleep.

As the night progressed, a feeling of uneasiness caught hold of me. They had said that it was 3 times more likely for the enemy to attack at night than at day, so I had long since associated night with danger. I was now staring at the RADAR intensely. Through the corner of my eyes, I could see the Green Button, which I was to use to inform the other stations, in case of an attack. Besides that was the Red Button. In ancient times, red was associated with danger. The tradition had continued to this day. Using the Red Button, I could launch a nuclear missile to anywhere in the world, anywhere….. and this was the Button, which made my job so important, so important that I had to stay here. I could never go home again……

There was another dream about which I did not tell you. It is not exactly a dream; it is more of a wish. Sometimes in the death of night, sitting in front of my computer watching the radar, I have this strong urge to press the Red Button. I know the consequences. Europe, aghast at our action, will join America. Together they will declare war on Asia, ignoring the desperate appeals of Asia that it was the work of one mad man. The State Africa will join us, there was some medieval agreement, which binds Africa to us. There will be major war, something like the World Wars of the medieval times, which was taught to us in schools. Only this times there will be no one left to read about this. The war will lead to the complete destruction of the 4 States. These are not my predictions. Our scientists, using some obscure maths, have come to a conclusion, along the same lines.

So you see, I have the power to destroy the world but I don’t have the power to just go home like the others. Soon it will be time for the night shift people to go home and I will be still here. There is no end to this madness. It goes on and on. People always go home and they are happy about it. And I just sit here, watching them leave. And then they reach home, and I am still here. They eat dinner cooked by the loving hands of their wife, and I am still hungry . They tuck their kids into bed and kiss them goodnight, and I am still lonely. They fall asleep in the arms of their wife, and I am still awake….. and I am still here.

My whole mind was screaming that it was not the right thing to do, but it does not matter, as long as they are asleep and I am awake.
I saw myself pressing the Red Button, sealing the fate of the world. With the sound of the morning siren, the cyanide tablet was starting to take effect and I was falling asleep and I was home….. at last I was home.

The End........

Note By The Author :

i would like to know if you find the stories too lenghty to be written in 1 post. Please include your suggestions regarding whether i should divide the stories into 2 parts on retain the existing format. Your comments will be greatly appreciated.

2006-04-05T12:08:00.000-07:00

This is the first in the series of stories about "Lonely People" and probably the best i have ever written. This is dedicated to a special friend of mine, whose birthday is coming up....

The Last Moon

The mail had come early that day. Expecting the usual bills, Aryan picked up the letters, but today there was also something else. It was a card, an invitation card , for the marriage of his friend Neha with Deepak. Of course, Neha had told him about this, but then it seemed like an unknown and uncertain event in the future, but now holding the card in his hand, it suddenly dawned on him that the girl he himself wanted to marry was getting married to someone else.

Aryan and Neha had been friends since childhood. They grew up together, going to the same school, being in the same circle of friends, going to the same parties, and hanging out at the same joints. Their parents were close friends and so they also used to go to family trips together. But curiously their interests were poles apart, one was into rock, the other into folk and country music. While Neha was the social animal, Aryan was the introvert kind. Food, clothes, TV shows, it seemed they could not disagree more. However this seemingly incompatibility, only brought them closer. And somehow, Aryan fell in love with her.

As he put down the card, memories came flooding back to him. How, when they were studying together for boards, she had said, ‘Aryan, you are not concentrating. Is something wrong?’ He should have told her then and there. After Boards, one day when they were sitting on the terrace looking at the moonlight night and she had asked, ‘you are thinking about something?’, he should have told what he was thinking. The farewell party, the day she went away to college, he had his chances, but he didn’t say a word. And they drifted away, in the flood of their respective careers and life.

He reached Neha’s house on the day before the marriage. Having met all the members of household, some of which he never knew existed, he got into a festive mood. After all his best friend was getting married, and he was happy for her. That night feeling sleepless, he went up to the terrace. Neha was standing there, all alone. “ You should be in bed now. You have got a big day tomorrow,” said he. Turning around she said, “I was not getting sleep, how come you are here?” “Same reason as yours, at last we agree on something. I thought I will never see the day,” he said. “Do you remember what you said the day before I was to leave for college?” she asked. He nodded his head. ‘how could he forget’. “I was upset at having to live without you and that day right here you had said that, ‘Neha, we will always be together because wherever we go the same moon will shine on us. So whenever you think of me, just look at the moon and we will feel each other closer.” tears were rolling down her cheeks as she said this. He could not think of anything to say. She continued, “ Do you know how often I looked at the moon…………… Everyday.” He was startled. She said “ you look surprised, I always loved you. But just never had the courage to tell you this, I don’t know why I am telling you all this…” Before she could finish, he rushed downstairs. When she went to his room, he was crying. She could tell he was in deep pain. He was packing. “You are leaving?” she asked. “Yes”. “ So you loved me too”. “ Who told you that?” “But you are crying.” “Well, my aunt had a massive heart attack, so I have to leave immediately. Convey my regards to your family.” He had finished his packing. As he was walking away, she called “ Aryan…….. so you did not love me.” He could not face her, without turning he said “ No.” and walked away.

It was one fine Sunday morning, 25 years after the events described above, that Aryan was telling me all this. “So that’s the reason why you are still a bachelor.” I asked. Aryan was silent, probably still lost in his thoughts. “Don’t you feel lonely?” I could not stop myself asking. “Well, I do feel lonely at times, but then I look up to the sky”, there was a pause, “after all the same moon still shines on both of us”.

The next story in line will be uploaded soon. the previous disclaimer stands.....

Lonely Peoples

2006-04-05T10:55:00.000-07:00

Ever since the idea of blogging occured to me, i have been thinking,' why do people blog?'. Now i am sitting here, writing my first blog and i realise that they write because they are lonely. Writing a blog makes them a part of the community, they feel they are not alone.
So to all the lonely peoples(aka the bloggers), here is a song by the Beatles dedicated to you all by me.

Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding
has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by
the door
Who is it for?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from ?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong ?
Father McKenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will
hear
No one comes near.
Look at him working. Darning his socks in the night when there's
nobody there
What does he care?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her
name
Nobody came
Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from
the grave
No one was saved
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

The next blog will be the first in the series of stories about "Lonely People", written by me. It will be uploaded soon.

Disclaimer by the Author

Criticism will gratefully accepted, (but be prepared for some nasty comments on your blog) Suggestions will be thought upon (maybe act upon), Praise will be gleefully accepted (if you are girl, i might take you out.... if you are a guy, forgot it... i don't swing that way)