The Extrapolation.

You have changed. You are not the one I once met by the twilight's warp. You are not the one I talked to who looked like being covered with the golden slivers of sunshine.
Not the same dreamy woman but a brittle, ageing girl; not the fine silk or satin but a crumbled sheet of cotton.

Your words now come drenched in a breath of coffee, your sighs now wear smoke rings around them.Your voice not soft but wrapped in barbwires of arrogance, your smile not born but drawn from a cellar of old and used pleasantries. And you, not yourself but a slave to the body of your illusions. You carry along with yourself your own definitions of happiness. You wear them, drive them, eat them, drink them and use them.The definitions.

We don't talk like we used to; our words approach each other like suited men, greet, sit and then discuss the "business" and the "purpose". I try going back to the old days and you laugh it off in a wisp of smoke and then you push it aside like some unwanted file on your table. Then you shower me with questions so impertinent. You laugh when not desired, you smirk when not expected, you sympathise when not asked for. And I see all the colors of your face on the thousand tiny mirrors that sit glued to your purse and watch us like prying eyes.

Your gaze is fixed on the cup of coffee that you so silently are stirring. The dark whirlpool funnels deeper as the teaspoon scrapes against the walls of the cup. Your silence unfolds its own comprehension. I stand up. "Goodbye. Nice meeting you."

A slave to the world I rule.

I wonder, why did I write this? What disregard of normalcy made me write this? Why not about love or lust or something nostalgic? Why not about the death of the day in the arms of a cloudy night? Why not about the stabbed conscience of the elated alter-ego? There's a streetlight staring at its face in the puddle at the farthest bend and the rain-drops trickle down from its frame as tear drops.There's the irritating cacophony of the dwellers upstairs about some woman they saw on the road.My first kiss at the age of seven(sadly the last one too), my short-lived encounter with an impressive but predictable flirt, my first attraction for a married woman, my dreamy meetings with a girl who fails to understand me, my philosophical lecture that fail to impress my frustrated bunch of friends, my disconcerting flab, the repulsive behavior of the Indian woman for any guy in denims, my apprehensive forays into the world of sexuality; the fragile wall made of desired intimacies, the assumptions of an agreement between me and my "friend", the honest attempts to happiness, the dishonest attempts to curb jealousy, the mystery of my obsession with dark color, my lust for English, the stories I would never like to end, the brief encounters with some long forgotten expectations like love and companionship, the girl I have always loved(I think so), the story of the broken Coffee mug I had gifted to myself, my messed up relationships, the better ones too etc etc. (Phew!)I had so much to write about. Why this silly thing? But then, I have written it. I am sure after all this blabbering you will surely lose interest to read the following. But then, it just came out. Experiences stay at the edge of the mind, they descend to the tip of the tongue and when you don't find any one to share it with, they walk to the tip of the pen and then here.



Wonder how dust has an old habit of settling down on everything; an old habit of blurring everything though it doesn't know it is doing it.

I sit here and watch the the particles float in that shaft of light. They move with a purpose, every particle moving in some direction but the same direction.Along that channel that hangs like some cosmic path, I watch those silent pilgrims walk in a unison. Some who divert off the path get sucked into the darkness and thus I lose sight of them. While some, out of realization float in and join the rest.
My eyes follow that path. I find it ending on the page of a book. Half read, slightly turned at the upper corner to give an ear to the page. That is the way I bookmark my books-by giving an ear. But then the pilgrims, the particles of dust, seem to pass right through the page.I don't find them settling on it. They disappear as they reach it.


I stand up and reach out for the book- one foot planted firmly on the ground, one on toes. I pick up and read a few lines off it. It's not the page I read the last time, I find out. It's some other page. The gust from the window might have turned the pages, and the bookmark(the ear) has stopped the leafs from turning further.

I sit down and read the page again. Deep in some corner of my mind, a huge flashlight,not some stage-lamp, lights up a familiar stage. The characters stand up again, bow to me and take their places on the stage...again. The story starts again, from the same place. The scenes unfold, the battle of words rages, the silence is shredded, and then the chapter is turned. I read on and they all walk towards the bookmark I had created last time. And when I reach that page, everything stops. The characters bow again, and step back into the darkness of the back stage. "What happened?" I ask. "I want to read more!"
They refuse to come out. The stage darkens, the curtains fall and I the sole audience return with discontent gurgling in my belly.

"Sometimes the book doesn't want to be read." I figure out and close the book. But then I do a strange thing. I go back to the page from where it all started. And keep it back at the same place where the shaft of light was so abruptly stopped from its quest to light up the table.

When I place the book, I see the dust particle swirl violently. I feel resentment in that dance of fervor.A chaos scattered them, waking them up from their intoxicated crossing. And then slowly with time, the pacification comes in the form of a silent response from the world around. They start doing what they were doing before.

NB: Don't get confused. The first para in italics was written after the one that you left in the middle!

Not so good day. Went to HR training center. Have to finish 4 reports by 19th. Work load in office. Tensed. Recent developments not helping the mood. Called up mom. Didn't pick up, must be busy. Have been calling mum a lot these days. She must be surprised. Feel like talking so much. Called up a friend,his birthday. Wished him, asked for treat. Said will give after he gets next month's salary. Fine. Remembered the Children's day celebration at the International Club. Night shift didn't help at all. Took 2 hours official leave and returned at 9:30. Really needed to talk to someone. Called up an old friend in Chennai. The computerized voice replied in Oriya-must be on vacation. He didn't pick up either. Feel so drab.

Went to the club.Ate like a dog.PSU advantage-A Food hamper worth 200 for just 10 bucks. Gobbled and sipped everything they had in that packet. Had asked a friend to get a Bournville last night. He gave it tonight. Fine. But stuffed till nose. Dropped the idea of finishing it. have to start working on reports from tomorrow.

Feeling sick. Crazy. Strange thoughts crossing mind. Want to go home. Want to talk. Listening to rock full volume-Someone Special by Poets of Fall.

...back row to the left, a little to the side

Slightly out of the place

Look beyond the light, where you'd least expect

There's someone special...

having the Bournville. Read the wrapper-44% cocoa. On to the next song-Illusions and dreams. Betters the previous track. The deep cut from last week has healed. just a white line now.

12:20 AM n am blogging rubbish. Feels good though. My place to write. Deleted a comment on a post. Some anonymous. Someone's knocking. Wait.

Friend calling to some guy's birthday he knows, have got 2kg chocolate cake. don't know that guy well. so didn't go. back to typing.Don't know when will I stop.

Blah!Blah!Blah! Don't know what else to write.

Think this Children's Day is a bloody diplomatic thing. Gandhi got his share of holiday on 2nd October. Got to give Nehru something, give him Children's day. Don't think any leader hated children. First Prime Minister, close associate to Gandhi, so give him a "holiday slot" as Children's day. Good.Bloody politicians!

Never voted. feels good. someone said "Jana gana mana" was chosen as anthem coz the band found it easier to play. don't believe that.

Saw the company heart-throb in club. had a lot of talcum powder on her face. Someone said she was anchoring. don't like his pronunciation though. bad English, turn off point.

haven't shaved for long.looking like daaku Cchagan Singh. first thing in the morning.

walked back to hostel. tired. good that tomorrow's Sunday. Shit! Reports! Anyways. Can find time to go crazy.have always got time for life.

Good night.

Fine fine. Got to close this thing. Too long.

Strange and beautiful.

We meet everyday. Our meeting is one of those countless inevitabilities.

We meet on those misty winter mornings, when the road disappears into the fog and we, always in love with the uncertainty of that road, walk into the mist. We meet on those long cold nights on the same road tied to each other with the slender thread of a metaphoric conversation. We meet again after the separation, as images that our desires conjure up.

We meet in the pages of my diary;we meet on the very first line and almost always break the silence on the last one. We meet on full moon nights, on cloudless days, on long afternoons. We meet when I sit next to the window of a train and watch the world speed past me. We meet every time I stand on that ledge and think of plunging myself down; every time the guitar strands from some old song are plucked. When I miss you and the phone suddenly beeps a message, we meet. When I push the "call" button against your number but hang up with a strange fear, I hear you sigh, and the hopes meet.
When the rain lashes against me, I close my eyes and fill you in my arms-we meet. We meet every time I secretly fall apart. We meet when we watch a movie that has a line that hints about us. We meet in every page of a book that we talked about, in every line of a song we shared, on every street of the city we know of. We meet in that book shop where you stand with your back to me and I come out of no where and ask, "Are you the same...". We meet at the Coffee bar of which I so desire of meeting you at. We meet every time we sigh, every time loneliness is the only friend we find talking to. We meet now as I sit here and write this.We meet now as you sit there and read this.

Our meetings defies the timelines as we don't meet in our bodies. We float in spaces around us, between us, as fragments. And when the hour comes, these fragments come together and we meet. Some are intentional while some accidental. Like crossroads.And I say that these meetings are strange and beautiful.

And we will keep meeting like this. No one can stop us,not even me, not even you. It's inevitable.

Photographs.

I open my old album. And I find you. You are dressed in your favourite half-shirt and half-pants. I stand next to you with your arms around my shoulders. We both are striking a pose for the camera. The background of a blue bed-sheet with patterns of flowers stitched on it, hangs behind us. We are smiling.


I turn to the next page and I find you sitting on the broken wall of our old house. You watch me from there as I play with the sand that the contractor had heaped in front of our house. I dig holes, scoop and fill my hands with the sand. With a twig I then scrap off the sand from behind my nails. I look at you then, smiling. You look back and jump on to the heap from that wall. We build our first sand-castle.

We sleep on the couch. You are leaning towards me with your brows furrowed. I am on my belly, lying, peeking into your eyes, with the characters of the story that you are telling to me.Hours pass together. I yawn. I say," Rest tomorrow.No, tonight after dinner!". You smile, "I can finish it now if you want me to." "No!", I say, "I want the full story tonight." "Ok", you say and you run off.

I stand with anxious eyes, nervous. You play with the keys, the thing you do when you are worried. You walk out of the hostel and then walk back in.You walk out again and in again you come. The Professor arrives with the result. We wait together. He then reads out my name,"Tapas!". You hug me tight. You cry. I try figuring out why are you crying when it is my result. But then I cry too. Just because you cried.

We grow with time. Our shoulders go broad, our arms go strong. We step into the world and decide to take it on. We assure the man and his woman to trust our strength. We promise them of all the happiness and more.


You follow your heart. You break the rules of the so called dignified society. You stand by your faith and trust in love. You believe in God and decide to accept His will. I stand by you. I know you are always right. I decide to become your secret pillar. I tried. You suffered. I suffered. We suffered. And how can that not happen?


I hear of your pain every day from the one who cradled us both. I hear of your shivering voice, your silent surrenders, your tired strides. I hear of your clenched jaws, your hollow cheeks, your drying lips, your broken smiles. I hear of your naked humiliation, your stripped dignity, your ruthless realizations. I hear and stay silent. I hear and pray for you.

A strange fog lies between you and me. A fog through which I can see but then can't walk through. The chill has frozen around my feet. I see you standing alone, your face turned away from me. You try hiding behind that mist, you try calling me but then your guilt smothers your calls. You have decided to live it all alone. I stand here and watch you, living it all alone. I try to reach you but the courage inside fails me. I feel the cold bites of fate come alive.The chill has frozen around my feet.

The story that was.

The story is of those times when,


when blogging never crossed my mind! (Thanx Eva.)

when I had a crush on English and English.

when Nokia 6600 was the most luxurious thing on our college! (Sarkaari college bhai!)

when the college Casanova made my first crush his sister...ONLINE!

when evenings meant chaai and Chowmein.

when nights were always-"MUNU! WHERE ARE YOU??? IT'S ELEVEN ALREADY!" (That was my mom and I was on the other side of the phone.)

when I learned to ride a bike and then never looked back. (Waise bhi mere picche koi nahin baitha! Not now, not then.)

when mornings meant a 65K/hr ride to college! ( Saala phir se late!)

when Orkut existed in my life!

when I was Tapas aka Archi aka Archimedes aka laddoo.
Cutest of em all?Mmmm...ask the girls.(Show off meter- 8/10)

when someone made me swear by her name and I kept it.

when I learned to cook Maggi with its aesthetics intact!



when I started poetry and got my first fan. Thank you Soumya. Ab to bas fans ke baare main puccho mat...(Show off meter-9/10)

when intellectual discussions existed just for half an hour or so.( Siddharth aka Kani, Najib, thanx. Mutual Funds, shares, SEBI, Women rights, Brand equity, why the bloody Quantum thing(Najib, you were right!) etc etc. )

when acting was a passion.It still is.

when singing was a chance not to be missed! I still don't.

when I fell in love with Hollywood, rock, blues and Simpsons!

when I used to finish computer games like courses of food. (Show off meter-7/10)

when love was a thing so unknown. I just knew that it meant "I love you."


when I cracked whip on every one's ass in the maps of Quake III!(Someone said I was

the God of Quake in the hostel! "ONE FRAG LEFT!") (Show off meter-8/10)

when I used to spend whole evenings in Shaheed Nagar (our local computer market.)

when "knowing things" was dinner and lunch.

when novels were boring and Arundhati Roy was just a woman who had shaved her head and appeared on TV for a dam !

when scholarships were wasted on gadgets.( ASUS nForce250 GB, XFX GeForce 5200 FX, Transcend 1 GB PMP. Pranab are you listening? )


when girl-watching was equivalent to bird watching without binoculars. A Rarity. ( I graduated from a Government College. Need to say more? I am a boy.)

when comments were passed on me just because I didn't pass any on girls!The single-feminist. (Common notion-Only the committed can become feminists.)

when Western music meant just Backstreet Boys,Westlife, Robbie Williams and MLTR.



when I had my first heart-break.

when someone made me feel important.

when I came to know of the word Family.

when the storm arrived one night and ravaged our home.

when I felt the weight of the world breaking my shoulders.

when I first knew that tears can burn hearts.

when I learnt that few hours can burn down a paradise.

when I saw how humiliation and society come together to leave you in despair.

when I learnt to fake a smile.

when I learnt to use the pouring tap and the bucket to smother my screams.

when I broke down just to find the ground beneath and no one to lean on.

when I came to know that pain doesn't mean a heart-break.

when I learnt the meaning of indifference.

when I learnt what loneliness meant, how the walls move, how your shadow scares you.

when heart breaks and refuses to beat again.

when time laughed on my face and showed how it could change things.

when I found peace in the rain.

when I found a strange acquaintance in you.

when I found fantasies to be healing.

when I found that even I have a story to tell...

What? The story? You just read half of it!

The wall between us.

I stand on this side and you on the other. I walk and you walk with me. We hear our footsteps, we hear each other talking, we hear each other going silent. I find my presence converse with yours. I find the moss of time as a trail submissions on it. The only barter we practice here is of words and whispers and silences. We just call and hope that it reaches the other side, the other side of the wall. We hope that our words have the strength to climb across it.


We have been walking together for so long and yet we haven't met. That afternoon of the past when the sun shone on this dusty,cleared path and I walked on it. And at the same time, you were on your path as well, towards me. And after walking for long, we struck this wall.We stopped.We heard each other for the first time. And we met, but with this wall between us.

I know of your presence from the faint noises of your nails scratching the wall, from the measured strides you take so carefully, from the laughter you suddenly break into when we talk. I know of my presence when you walk away from it, when I touch the cold breadth of it and feel my fingers go numb. I know of the presence of the wall when we come to it together and respect its presence.

We have our own world. Our own suns, moons, stars, gardens, people, life. Everything separate. We have our own tale to live but then every now and then we escape from our world and come to this wall. Here where it stands, I hear no one but the time waiting for us to arrive. It is so far away from the vortex of my mundane life that sucks me into it every morning I wake up. And so, when I leave my world behind, all the familiar faces behind and come to this place, I seek you.

You know when I feel the closest to you? When the sun sets on my side and on your side too, when the darkness slowly engulfs me and you too, the dying sun casts our long shadows on the wall. The shadows grow with the setting sun, and they climb towards the top. And then our shadows meet each other, at the top, over the bricks. I stand and watch my head peek on to the other side.
That is when I feel closest; when the daylight ends, when I am close to darkness.When I am afraid, when I am scared, when I am sad.

There were times when you didn't know that I was there. There were times of this scary silence for days together and when I thought you would never come. There were no sounds, no whispers, no footsteps from the other side. I used to get worried then. Frantically I would scratch the wall with my bare nails, wail, call out your name and then fall on my knees. Then I used to stand up, wipe off the despair and say, "Strangers don't stay forever. It was by fate's play that I met and if it all turns wrong, it will be fate's play as well."

Sometimes I run along this wall, searching for a door but I don't find any. I run as far as I can and hope this separation ends. I tap along it searching for a weak place, a place where few bricks might have loosened so that I could break it all and reach to you. But then, I am too afraid to hurt myself.To hurt you.


Last night I was there, where we once stood and talked the whole night. I had to walk a long way back to reach that place. And there I found a few flowers of white had grown. They shone in the night like drops of silver. I wished I could pluck them, bring them back with me and show them to you, throw a few petals to your side. But then I didn't. Even the flowers didn't want me to. But yes, I hoped that the same flowers had grown on the other side as well. On your side.