Bloodline..

As an only child, I grew up in companionship with books. When there was no one else to tell secrets to, or seek adventure with, the pages became my friends, confidants and unlimited worlds in which to dream. I devoured one book: chapter after chapter building up my concerning collection, wading deeper and deeper into that enchanting, endless stream that is literature, each chapter turned was a step deeper into the enchanting world of literature, where imagination knew no bounds.

Even though I was never really alone at any stage in my life, still, in my early daydreams and later reading life, I felt an intimacy with my books that brought a bittersweet feeling of companionship on a long and often lonely journey. In the absence of brothers and sisters with whom I could share secrets and experiences, this was some consolation, moving book by book to more consoling fabulas mundi.

However, often life has other plans. I arrived in Guwahati to embark on my professional life, only to trade the silence in my childhood home for the clamour of my extended family. And most importantly, my cousins. The world took on more colour with family love. As a slow undertow, my book was turning more and more pages ; more and more bonds were forming.

At first daunting, it was the first time that I had lived so close to my relatives, the loud laughter of my cousins was soon counterbalanced by the garden of daily life where I no longer imagined ‘friendship’ as outside the trenches of kin.

I remember dinner in the evening up at the kitchen table: energetic argument and mirth, talking and eating and arguing politics and philosophy, even frivolities, even the lunch we had just finished; the latest news, the pros and cons of a book we had just read and was being discussed. I remember that, for me, the best life was: life in conversation. I believed, and still, to some degree, do: in aesthetic experience, in the possibility of the human adventure, the possibility of ourselves.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, my cousins were my relatives, supportive and friendly, but also part of me, listening to my mischiefs and my grievances: they had my back, from sharing my miseries, to programming their shoulders and ears with my grumbles. Amidst the chaos of daily life, these moments became anchors of stability and joy.

However, it was during the darkest phases of my life that the true strength of our bond shone brightest. When depression threatened to engulf me, my cousins stood by my side, offering unwavering support and companionship. They accompanied me to therapy sessions, made sure I took care of myself, and provided a shoulder to lean on when the weight of the world felt too heavy to bear alone. Their kind, never-withdrawing attention was a beacon on a hillside when I was in danger of being swallowed into the landscape; their love was the light that got me through realness.

Yet, there were moments of exuberance and delight. I remember how we would lie in the sun-soaked verandah on Sunday afternoons, sometimes for hours, sharing tales and staking our hopes, looking up at the boundless sky. And when the sun disappeared, we would leave to roam the beatific streets, finding our little havens of enjoyment.

My favourite memory is of evenings spent at the cafe, sipping sweet smelling coffee and listening to loud conversation mixed with bursts of laughter. We discussed everything from the latest movies to our plans and dreams over hot cups and crumbs of cake, and I had never felt so happy, so relaxed, among a group of my own: my own tribe, my people.

And still, half a decade along, and even though we are far, far away, my cousins are the ones I feel the closest affinity to, the ones I had the best experiences with, and the times of my life with.

Since then, I have attempted to let each of these cousins know how much I appreciate the role they have played in shaping my life; how they are not just a cousin to me but are a best friend, a confidante, someone I can lean on; the part that each has played in me, the space they have stepped into; the being that we have co-created; the friend, the confidante, the keeper of my grief, my joy, my secrets, for everything.

And even though we all must spread our wings and fly, I am content knowing that the love we shared will never fade, for wherever you might go, the link between us will always bind us together bound to your happiness forever.
Until then, I carry it with me, it’s warm pulse a rhythmic, timely reminder of the beating heart that blazes through every page of how I live.

Hope..

It was a place at the centre of clamour, at the core of noise where the clamour and noise of everything else disappeared, a place we might call a space; a space we shared with our love of literature, a place of thought and intellectual interaction. This was our place of commonality ; our space where we were together in our love of literature.

Side by side, I was launched into a literary realm ; a world of flight and discovery thanks to the woman who was my companion, my muse. With her, I embarked on a series of imaginary journeys to distant places. It was not simply a question of rendezvous, a meet up; but of a displacement, as I literally found myself stranded in the narratives of an infinite number of works.

Her piercing insight felt like a kind of signalling; what came down to me from her were not just the characters that she dissected or the various meanings she extracted from a complex plot, but fires. Her eyes would widen as she spoke of a particularly devastating passage or the terrible grace of a scene. They spewed with the fervour and ardour of literary passion.

I remember the pauses, the preparatory untying and retying of her hair, that little exhalation before a new book was revealed. We read, together, the authors now canonised: the structure of their stories, the development of intent and emotion of their fictional characters, the rhymes, the repetitions.

I found in her a friend who mirrored myself: who loved literature as much as I, who thirsted to interrogate it, and with whom I created a world that was and is our own sanctuary from the cacophony of the world, where the discussion of books and the arts are the antidote to anxious minds.

Our evening meetups over a drink became my counselling sessions, respites from the draining swirl of daily affairs. In her company, she became my island, my refuge from the rush of the city outdoors. The thickly populated avenues of the metro now serve as bitter markers of her absence, of the stillness she brought into my life.

But now, as I read book after book, it is with a clear sense of purpose, to add so much to our next night’s discussion, hoping there will always be enough material for me to talk about, wanting to read as long as possible, until finally I can lay my head down next to hers, exhausted, and let the world around us disappear into darkness.

I am in awe of her, and of course, grateful beyond words at the chance to hear her expound on a novel I adored, and more than a little reliant on our occasional harmony. I look forward to the next such meeting already, taking some little comfort in the thought that they will continue, in her world as in mine, resetting the world, fuelling our intellects and imaginations, long after this one is gone.

Lesson 101 !!

Life isn’t a smooth ride but sometimes it is easy to forget what can befall you, especially when you haven’t felt vulnerable before. For me, it was the onset of depression after experiencing a heartbreak that sent me spiraling into a dark abyss. Little did I know that beneath the surface, my struggles with anxiety disorder had been quietly simmering, waiting for the right trigger to resurface. Although my anxiety disorder had remained unnoticed by me and all those around me since my teens, I found it bubbling up to the surface immediately after that emotional disaster, fueling my depression.

Looking back, I can trace the roots of my anxiety back to my childhood days. Growing up, my family often dismissed my anxiousness as normal jitters or simply labelled me as inattentive. It wasn’t until later in life, after seeking therapy, that I realized the extent of my anxiety and how it had shaped my experiences and interactions with the world around me.

I was a very anxious child and teenager, but I believe I encountered lots of kind people who heard the word ‘anxiety’ and assumed something milder. What I would feel was a wave jangling through my entire body, a hyper-vigilance prick by prick next to the need to lie still, heart racing and mind running. I was putting on a show of getting through each moment while on the inside I had been zapped, my head caught in a bright white flash, almost dazed, my neurones swarming with what I imagined was ticks or tremors, what was probably a bit like nerve gas. I didn’t always have a migraine, but the headache was the signature symptom of my condition.

The cracks didn’t start to widen until my late 20s: 27 was when I re-opened the cracks I had spent years in papier-mâchèing shut, when I dragged up the panic and a general anxiety that I had put down to childhood nerves.

My heartbreak was like a trigger, plunging me into depths of loss, hopelessness and desire to escape the pain I now knew. I turned to alcohol as an easy temporary means to shut off my feelings. However, being cognitively impaired through intoxication and with low esteem, I, instead, brought on a cascade of negative consequences.

I reached a stage where I almost perished before seeking help. Therapy became the rope I needed to hold on to: my saving grace. I learnt how to work on and with myself, using the tools my caring therapist had taught me. She helped me find my way through the fog, transforming the confusion of my emotions into understandable words that I could, finally, put a name to. I would come to understand myself better, identify the root causes of my mental health struggles, and develop more self-compassion and compassion for others as well.

Therapy has made me self-aware. Having been diagnosed with ADHD, I had been on the road to self-realisation and recovery; though it took some time, with its fair share of twists and turns, before I felt slightly restored. Thanks to a core group of friends, and my therapist, I gradually pulled myself out of the depths of what felt like overall descent.

One of the most profound insights I achieved, during the time, was that our deepest struggles, our bravest and momentous moments of falling to pieces, even though they will never be defended as a virtue or sought as a good: these are the times that shape us, the formative crucible in which we are forged. Yes, I would never wish my pilgrimage through darkness on anyone. But the great gifts it brings are the lessons it hammers into our souls and selves, and the plural it creates of what otherwise seems a singular and unified self. Those are the good days, the days on which I accept that I will be living with PTSD every day, and that any minimal trigger will bring me back into the well. Other days I am considerably stronger, better able to cope.

And, though I still battle trust issues, I have learned to live with them, better than I ever thought I could, drawing on the incredible reserve of strength I never knew deep within myself. I have let go of past and future, and have come to trust in the present, knowing somehow that whatever happens, it will be fine.

It has been a bumpy ride to where I am now both in therapy and my journey to wholeness and to myself. It has been a great struggle, but it could not have been otherwise. My demons had to be fought with valour, and they knew it. If I felt low and conquered before, and if my experience of moving forward had been characterized by one false start after the other, I have also become, to put it simply, better and stronger than I have ever been. The path to where I am going may only be a winding cadence of decreasing forks, but it does lead someplace worthwhile. I now know beyond a shadow of a doubt where I stand, who I am and what I hold dear. For better or worse, that is more than I can say I knew before. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

Guwahati..

My life has been a tapestry of threads, woven with the ochre, blue and yellow of Guwahati, a city that changed me in irreversible ways. I recall with remarkable clarity all the moments when I came to know it, fell in love with it, lost myself in it, and eventually emerged from the experience a new person.

The madness of Guwahati’s streets and street markets overwhelmed and disoriented me. In a stranger land, it seized me, left me adrift. But I was drawn in, caught in paradox, my feet stuck in its clayey mud.

My ‘Urban Mantra’, in the heart of Guwahati, a town where bars and restaurants are far from sparsely scattered. Inside, at a dimly lit street tucked away from city life, the ambience throbbed with friends laughing hysterically over drinks shared, and the high-pitched crescendos and slow beats of live bands. It’s easy to see how the ‘night life’ had the potential to mend lives.

The throbbing sights and sounds of Guwahati, the music pulsating to the rhythm of my heart, would become the soundtrack for this chapter of life: each heartbeat echoing the lows and the highs of my tale, the indie gigs in niche cafés to the hard-hitting, thumping at the city’s bars and pubs.

But, it also revolved around a steady, searching self-examination of an emotional outcrop that grew in the dissonance of Guwahati’s narrow lane ways and café counters, as I lived alongside comics and endured a barrage of jokes as both an ‘item’ and the subject of jokes. At times, the stage of stand-up comedy fortified the comic performer’s confidence within me. On other occasions, it helped me gain the courage to confront and embrace the contradictions of my own vulnerabilities.

These were the most seismic years of my life, beginning in 2015 and ending in 2018, anodyne as they sound: years when I experienced some of my happiest and most painful moments, where I was transformed in ways unimaginable until it actually happened. Love. Loss. Guwahati. And many years later, a Guwahatian woman who would change the momentum of my life.

She was the muse who made me write, who made me write with the promise to write better, to write more, to write with such urgency that my writing drew not only from my mind but from the bedsheets, the pillows, the curtains but mostly from the mornings and midnights and that strange lull that happens on bright afternoons. Her encouragement made me write better. Her love provided light on dark nights; everything that one experiences when living in Guwahati, especially if one lives there for a long time, lands in one place after another, and the roads converge at the point of her memory, at the point of her laughter in my hallucinations.

But it wasn’t just the places, the people: it was the soul-marrow of family that held me still. My cousins, my fellow devils, the people who glued me to this earth with their blood and tears, guarding me from the miseries of the broken heart and drunken binges, doing everything needed to rise me to my feet when I stumbled, or holding me tight for the storm to pass. I heard their laughter.

For as hectic as the city seems at times, the little I have of Guwahati that is left in me, I miss most profoundly the old friendships at Urban Mantra. The city held many promises and almost fulfilled them all, but that’s really the lesson Guwahati taught me: that there are no promises but that we project our relationships on things and places. Not really the cities, but our cities. The pastimes in public squares, the picnics along riverbanks , but each relationship, full of its bounty and also its hurts and heartbreaks, worth remembering, if not for the facts, then for the stories it helps us tell about ourselves.
Guwahati will forever remain as a sacred patch in my quilt, a city that opened itself to me and helped me to thrive, loved my vulnerabilities, made me feel at home. And one day, when I can, I will find myself back, embrace myself in its warm folds again.

Indelible…

I had found the freedom to explore the landscapes of my mind and ignite a passion for language. The most important spark of inspiration for me, however, came from an unexpected place: a woman who loved stories as much as I did. She was the epitome of a saree-wearing, bun-haired, middle-class intellectual.

I happened to meet her quite often, she stood apart from the crowd with an easy graceful presence, lit from within by a charismatic warmth. As we spoke, I noted her impressive erudition and love of literature. She had a way with words, of bringing stories to life, and of reciting passages from books she loved or, as was the case more often, making things up that resonated deeply with whomever happened to be listening. She was an authentic storyteller; one that left an unmistakable mark on me, you could tell she was somebody who read a lot, revering books for their transformative power to shed light on the human condition. Anything she thought made her face shine and, as she sipped the single malt and blew out cloud-like rings of smoke, the characters and the worlds lived and breathed. Each conversation felt like an expedition into new territory; we explored the meaning and motivation behind great novels and characters with equal pleasure.

She had a canny way of arriving at the core of a novel’s point or a person’s psychology, illuminating what had seemed obvious while entirely changing how I saw it. I became attached above all to the way she seemed to be literature’s very archetype, that she came into the same mould from which characters are drawn when created by novelists; that she stuck around and seemed like one of them. The way she looked and moved, telling little tales out of the corners of her bright eyes, and her voice, so worldly, had about her a dusty aura that began in the midsection and streamed out into the edges of her clothes, like some flame like enigma billowing from her body. Just being near her was to feel something inside me, that longed-ago love of writing, that desperate need to scribble on whatever was at hand, suddenly awakened as if I were plucked from a deep sleep while a volcano erupted elsewhere.

It did not take long before I started to recognise that she was not only a voracious reader; she was a muse, someone who inspired me, someone whose words and ideas fed my writing impulse. I wanted to write like her. I wanted to mimic the way she spoke. I wanted to capture our conversations in my own language.

I found myself composing sentences in my writer’s haze, determined to capture the essence of it all and shape it into vivid paragraphs on paper or the ease with which she would string phrases, summing up a novel, teasing out the provenance of an anecdote, summoning up a memory from distant years in horizons filled with the light of hope and possibility. She offered me a glimpse into corners of life I would never truly see, for the simple reason that her stories and the way she shaped them belong to a realm far beyond.

We covered how to analyze books from classic to modern works, as well as discussing the walk of characters in a novel, what makes a statement a dialogue, or why storytelling is so integral to our childhood. As the sessions went on, I threw myself further and further into the world of literature, through her encouragement and the ideas she presented. The most impressive thing about her wasn’t her learning, but the way she inhabited it. As we talked literature, her eyes would blaze, and our favourite novels were brought to life by the force of her narration.

Our friendship grew quickly, and I liked our literary encounters all the more, there was something about the experience of two thinkers in conversation, it was beautiful in its own little way, and seemed to draw on some deeper reality and truth than chatting. In her I found kinship: a collaborator and a model, an inspiring call to write from the deep well of my sense of imagination and bring its creations to fruition on the page.

While I have strayed from what she might have wanted for me, the effect she had on me remains no less tenacious. She taught me the potency of language, and the narrative act. And on that score alone, she’ll always be an inspiration.

I discovered in her an unlikely muse, someone beyond a friend, whose raw genius shamed any qualms I might have had about what I could or should be capable of writing. Whether consciously or otherwise, she provoked my impulses to prod deeper into the unexplored crevices of inspiration. Sometimes she created that much-needed inner tension to simply write. And, so I did. The influence of that teacher I found in her is as profound as ever: I might not remember many other classes I have taken over the years, nor the homework, but I remember this. I remember of living my life with purpose and passion. I remember about words. I am grateful. After all, it is still readers like her: enigmatic, seductive and inspirational, who remind us that literature can in fact transform, that it can make the muse of writing speak up within us, the readers, the storytellers among us, here and now and forevermore.

Summation..

I believe that in life there are certain moments when real change takes place and that for me, that moment was meeting her. She was so intense, like every book I had ever read. She was everything I had ever written about. She was everything that was in my heart. When I looked at her I knew that a few minutes of our become; one experience made all the words in the books I had read come to life.

As a child I felt lonely at times, especially in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep. But books saved me. They offered me companionship in the dark. I read my way through the classics and contemporary novels, poetry and everything in between. I even read gardening books, ostensibly to learn how to touch the green earth. However, I read even more to know things and come to conclusions.

I love books even more than I did when I was younger, and I thrill to characters with compelling humanity and complexity, whose challenges and struggles feel familiar and resonant to me. I hunger for stories that push my buttons, that challenge my thinking, and that forcibly widen my own perspective; stories that are raucous and tender, brutal and merciful, hopeful, probing and profound.

But, even as I turned pages upon pages and read and read, there was always something missing: some conversational chord I couldn’t quite strum, some nuance of reading from life to which I could never fully transition. And then She arrived in my purview, an imagined figure come to life, still carrying the aura of a bookish character, yet shining into existence with the strangely reflective realness of fiction.

There was something about her, something enigmatic, beautiful, that swept me off my feet the moment our eyes met; an Elizabeth Bennet tempered with a Jane Eyre’s determination, and injected with an Anna Karenina ardour, who, behind it all, was a woman, with her unknown dreams and fears, transformed into this modern day avatar who stood right infront of me.

We talked and talked, about philosophy and art and literature, much as the two characters in a certain novel talked; I don’t know if it would still be called pillow talk if it was on the futon; of this and that, as if it were being talked out of me, breathed out of her, our words and our bodies circling each other in a dance that was at once electrifying and irresistible, until now I could say almost anything, about human nature, or about a fine sentence, She being the conversation partner I had always longed for, I knew I would never find a better one, for almost the first time in my life someone was reading me in a way that would change the way I read myself, it was like reading a book about you, someone else wrote it but you could read your story in it.

But it wasn’t just as a thinker or even orator that I admired her. It was her life lived truly, which to me was so much like those heroines of the books I had grown to love. Courage came from a quiver of pains, not of boasting; she felt everything as she was living but did it anyway.

She reminded me of Scout Finch; of Hermione Granger; of Clarissa Dalloway, and I was fifteen when I began imagining her like her single, stereotypically ‘perfect’ self was all it took to make me feel less damaged, less lonely; to matter more.

And in this perception of her relation to me, She appeared as the fulfillment of all books and poems I had known; of all the great or wretched or absurd personages whom I had run to meet in them, or who had been thrust upon me by them; of all those pages where, defying space and time, I had savoured the romantic or tragic happiness of women; of all those tales, and there were millions of them in which, delighting in some shepherdess with her shepherd, I had left Earth to seek a resting place among the stars.
Our relationship hadn’t been free of difficulties and distance and the longing, sure, but it was also forever a source of wonder: a great novel with turnings and turbulences, rose and reckoning, by which we only got further convinced of the intimacy and importance of words together.

In her embrace, I found someone who thought about life ; about words, about everything around her, the exact way I did. We were on to something, She and I, we were writing a story, a page at a time. And as long as we had my precious tome, we were invincible.

Indeed, She wasn’t only a figure in my personal story: She was and has been the synthesis of a lifetime of reading, the sum total of the stories that had nourished me, those that had opened my heart to love and lit my mind’s eye to loss and made me yearn for redemption. I will pass that legacy on. It has blessed every page I have written, including this one. I will be forever indebted: to her and to literature for the grace gift of transformation.

Serendipity..

And, the drinks started flowing, and, also the grilled fish as endlessly fun to eat as it always has been, and I found myself in earnest conversation with her. The familiar mix of disappointment, self-doubts and resentments giving way to a love of literature and poetry and Tagore like my own. As we talked about books, and music, and poetry, and the way we chase our dreams, this solace became a touchstone ever deeper in the night.

Only when I sat there, amidst the gently flickering fairy lights and speakers belting out one of my favourite songs, did I recognise the incredible importance of human connection. In a world that is inhumane perhaps more often than not, for someone to find you, and you to find her. Well, if they ever make a cosmic science out of it, it should become the essence of an equation. And, if this equation is what Urban Mantra is all about, then I, writing this, stands testimony to the science: in the heart of a frantic city such as Guwahati, amid the chaos of the surrounding insanity, it was on the shoulders of this favorite place of mine, that our worlds collided.

The exchanges between us at Urban Mantra resembled a dance; things would occasionally get messy or feel a bit stuck, but that’s, too, there would be mirroring, where one would stir up a memory or feeling in themselves that was then picked up on by the other, creating a shared rhythm. At the heart of it all was a lot of storytelling; in every session, each would share personal stories of their lives or memories, elucidating their perspective on the chosen theme and contributing to the collective creativity. I listened as she developed her insight into characters, themes and contexts of books that we had both read; she had embedded into her body all the subtexts I had explicitly learnt, and through the mesh of books we could communicate in even more layers.

We picked apart themes, meanings and characterisations, thread by thread. We used our logic to argue and ponder the options. But, most of all, it was her voice that transformed our conversations from just words on a page into something vibrant and thought-provoking. These regular meetings at Urban Mantra became my safe little niche in time, a protective bubble as I sought to set aside the outside tumult, the clinking of glasses and live music a background to our literary discourses. Books became a shared alternate reality, a window into the endless possibilities and riches of verbal life.

Had the two of us traipsed around more, I would be able to tell you which side of the street she preferred, what she liked best to look at. I would see how she took in the block ahead of us before slowly moving to step by step. But even without all that, or is it because of all that, her lack? I remember standing there, surveying the city, marveling at what might have been, at how she would take the humdrum of daily life as sight, as something already experienced, as something she delighted in. Through her eyes, I imagined everything: the movement, the architecture, the dullest buildings, the boxes as a source of wonder, a thing to look upon and rejoice in. Our friendship has been a sonata, a symphony, of everything good that music can evoke, an orchestra of feelings that would resonate with me for the rest of my life.

It is why, now, when I think back on those brief and beautiful hours, I can only feel grateful that we spent them together. Her singing voice had vanished beforehand but my singing voice; at least today won’t be going anywhere. Our voices go up and down together, even if only for a moment, and somewhere inside my mind a whispered hymn remembers what it is like to create a beautiful sound with another person and call it friendship.

In several respects, though, she was like me; a person unbeholden to the various traps set by the norms of society, a seeker all the while. Her ravenous enthusiasm for life rekindled something in me that had long since lost its lustre. Now, I am just toiling to be in touch with her in this new city where the sights are so unfamiliar, so cold and foreign that her music, it haunts me, like a ghostly wail, on nights when I am alone. But every curve, every way we turned, will take me back to her: a tip of fog on a breeze, a snippet of sound belonging to someone I once knew more deeply than distance and time ever did. I still know someone so beautifully wayward. She is far, far away; but, thanks to the intensity of our intimacy, the miles between us means nothing. And yet, as I write these words, I reflect on the lessons we have learnt, on the memories we are left with from the time we spent together and on those moments of magic, so short-lived, but which helped to light our steps. I am filled, rather, with a sense of gratitude to have had the fortune to share, and to learn from and carry forward a work of beauty and wisdom.

The threads of accident that have wound us together to create moments of serendipity and experiences of fate, in which our mutual weaving makes a work of art that sings of the human heart and mind. From the sinuous turns of life’s road, each of us with the help of friends has learnt to seek not only the comfort of a good shaking hand but the light of friendship, the laughter from smiles shared, and to grow with the surety that the reminders from friends in time and from across the miles will outlast the shocks of a sometimes troubled and change-ridden journey. I have found that the tapestry of my soul is brightened by the hues of shared life, by the promise and hope and enduring love. I tread into it with pleasure and with gratitude for the magic of our world, the flash of creativity that brings us to life, and human connection itself. And, we are all connected, we are all woven.

জাগিবে একাকী, তব করুণ আঁখি,

তব অঞ্চলছায়া মোরে রহিবে ঢাকি…

To Bangalore, with love..

For years I wanted to write about my relationship with the city of Bangalore: a love story that stretches beyond mere romance, it has in fact reached deep into the core of my soul, but somehow words fell short and, I lacked it in me to comprehend what the city meant to me, to be able to put into words the kind of influence it has had on my life and overall being. Now, as I reflect on the journey that brought me here, I am finally able to put pen to paper to contain in words the profound impact the city has had on my life.

My love affair with Bangalore was not limited to the girl who lived here, although her presence certainly added some magic to the already vibrant charm of the city, Bangalore had turned into more than just the backdrop to my love story; it was a character in itself, it shaped the narrative of my life in ways I, in no way could have predicted. For a 20 year old; back then, 15 years ago, a trip to Bangalore promised two things – a meet up with friends who had made the city their home, and the chance to meet the girl who had my heart

Every trip from Bhubaneswar to Bangalore was a journey of sorts, a 30-hour train journey that was the rite of passage into the heart of the city. As, the train pulled into Bangalore Junction and I stepped onto the platform, all lingering doubts were eased and replaced by an overwhelming sense of belonging.

The city embraced me warmly, its streets bustling with life and with this chaotic energy which left me mesmerised. On each visit, I discovered myself falling deeper and deeper in love; not only with the woman who had my heart but also with the very essence of the city itself. From the bustling markets of Jayanagar to the vibrant and serene scenes of Koramangala, every corner of Bangalore had a fragment of my heart, a confirmation of the profound bond I experienced with this dynamic metropolis. However, it wasn’t solely the scenic beauty of the city that entranced me; it was the manner in which Bangalore influenced my perspective on love and relationships. On its chaotic streets, I learnt the skills to navigate through the intricacies of human connections, to embrace the peaks and throughs of my emotions. Bangalore instilled in me that love wasn’t always simple – that it demanded patience, comprehension, and most importantly, a readiness to embrace the what Ifs and if nots.

Back then, love bloomed amid the commotion of Bangalore’s lively streets. Each moment spent with her strengthened our bond, the excitement of exploration, and the exhilarating rush of attraction. We were young and carefree, caught in the spell of our own little universe, unaware of the obstacles that awaited us. However, as time passed, reality began to creep in, and the flaws in our fairy tale romance became apparent. The very streets that once resonated with our joy now witnessed the struggle to hold on, and ultimately us falling apart. Love, it appeared, was insufficient to endure the tribulations of life, and as we drifted apart, so did my aspirations of a future in Bangalore alongside her.

Nevertheless, like all romantic tales, mine too was filled with hurdles and hindrances. While my bond with the woman I was in love with dwindled, I found myself grappling with sentiments of heartache and longing. Even as the relationship deteriorated, my connection with Bangalore stayed on.

Each journey to the city taught me about love and letting go; a gentle reminder that sometimes, love means setting someone free. Strolling down the same streets we once explored together, I, now understand that my bond with Bangalore is far from finished. It has been a voyage of self-discovery, a lesson in loving fiercely and letting go gracefully. I am now here in Bangalore, seeking solace in its memories and finding refuge in its avenues. Every visit feels like a trip down the lanes of nostalgia, a return to the time when love enveloped me entirely and the world revolved around that one connection. Even in solitude, haunted by memories, I take solace in the understanding that love, in all its facets, showcases the endurance of the human soul.

And, as I stand here, at the beginning of a fresh chapter in my journey, I cannot help but express gratitude towards the lessons I learnt, the progress I have made, and the love within me that constantly leads me onward. The city of Bangalore served as the setting for a romantic tale that fizzled out, now it serves as the blank slate on which I envision the forthcoming days: a vision teeming with optimism, with potential, and with the everlasting commitment of love and gratitude.

Bangalore, please be kind!!

Beholden !!

The weaker sex?? This is more than just a reference made to compartmentalize the women folk, but does it hold true?? Maybe not, right from the time they start bearing those kicks inside their wombs to the unbearable pain while giving birth, this does go against the fancy of terming something while asserting the masculine superiority. And, as we celebrate womanhood and women’s day, I can think of only two such women who have played a stellar role in making me the man that I am today.

I, for myself; hadn’t realized how blessed I was until the day I was conceived and shown the light of the day by a Woman, a Goddess who inculcated in me all things good. From making me read and write and helping me in developing a political thought process at quite an early age, thanks to her own obsession of reading three newspapers a day, I now realize the worth of being in her womb, perhaps the water had to break and later she would have to get along with an asshole who stole her books and went hiding in the loo to finish reading them even before she did, I guess, she no longer regrets the same. Academically, I wasn’t that bad and so a bit of a nuisance was manageable. I thank her for being my first teacher, the alphabets were taught to me by her, the passion to connect with the characters of the books and feel for them was all her doing. I was, born a human; she made me humane.

Academics being done right, I was all set to start working and given the kind of educational background I had, it has always been difficult for me to find colleagues of the other gender. It did suck, but so far there hasn’t been any issue to deal with, no romance or friendships at the workplace and that in itself has been a blessing in disguise.

Cut to 2017, the loner in me chanced upon yet another woman, a woman of substance this time. Straight out of the books I read and the characters I romanticized, as if Dickens’ must have blessed my devotion and loyalty towards him. The grace and charm of Dora, cold, cynical and incapable of showing her emotions like Estella and as compassionate and dynamic like Lucie Manette.

A freak she was, temperamental and chaotic. Unperturbed by all the shit that flew around, undeterred by the conservative societal norms, a free soul but the irony was she loved the cocoon which held her up. The urge to break through and escape, it did matter, but then life hadn’t been a bed of roses.

Chaotic she was, that was her hallmark, and it made her up. Her anger was the sanity that kept her grounded, her highs and lows like a sinusoidal wave could be graphed and traced too, and who better than a mechie at plotting points and connecting the dots. Fingers Crossed!! Tedious task it had been, but who cared?? Although, she had always been into literature, but deciphering her was no less than rocket science. Her logic often camouflaged the emotions she held within, it could be deciphered over beer or a pizza, hard it wasn’t, but an effort made in the right direction often paid it’s own dividends. A smile out of nowhere maybe, maybe a giggle and if it did work out well she would read to me Grandmothers’ fables.

Small joys of life you see, a joy she is and will forever be.
Today, tomorrow and in the days to come, I know for sure She’ll keep me calm and bless me with her gift of chaos.

Staged – Unstaged !!

This is a struggle, hold on, and wait!! It isn’t, the spotlight is on, the audience cheering and at times booing. I bomb; I jeer and I cringe but that’s the only way out. Conflicting thoughts inside the head, a tussle of sorts. I hold a picture, somewhat blurred but that has to fade, for I can’t risk myself at blowing this up. The joke might hit them hard or boomerang back to me, right in the gut and I might fall flat on my face, trying to cover up what I hold within.

The stage: has been something I’ve held close to my heart for as long as I can remember, from extempore speeches to debates, from quizzes to even head banging at times. Comedy has just begun, a new dimension to the affair I’ve developed over the years. Not quite sure if at all it’s comedy or ‘comedy of errors’ for nothing can be error-free, certainly when facts are presented with puns. Walking on a rope, an invisible one, balancing offence and defence, wit and humour and common sense isn’t just a job, but a ritual. A passion to dish out comedy at the expense of self-depreciation; to compensate the lack of self-confidence; it isn’t tiring, this is liberating. For the stage isn’t a black hole that would suck me in like the massive egos of people who make the world up, the stage doesn’t judge me; people do and above all else; it’s the hallowed altar where I slay my demons; if at all I can.

But, this isn’t fun; not all the time though, opening the gates of the mouth to let the minds of those in the audience to feast upon the thoughts that you have; not really yours; they are but then again, it’s a battle I have to fight. The truth at times has nothing to do with anyone; in general, but the offence does, and offence like HIV is contagious, sensible ones stay protected. It does open a can of worms, more often than not those in audience handing over the opener, but then the onus is on me not to spill the stuff on them, I gotta smear it all over myself and act cool, perhaps, a ritual as I pull out the sword to fight the demons; those by then start hovering on the invisible clouds of my mind. This battle is mine, join in; have fun, laugh along for you know not where this is heading.

They say, most comics are depressed; well, they are, and most of them are. I am no comic by the way, I am trying to be one, this isn’t just a passion, it is a therapy. Underneath the veil of laughter, there lies rotten shit, facts and grudges; superimposed, concealed with the right amount of humour. This isn’t about battling the system, or stereotypes or standard norms or a status quo; this has more to do with me trying to escape from myself, an attempt at flipping the bird free from the imaginary cage of my solitary mind. Humor is hard to create, not hard to find; setting it in context is harder but the treading on the fine invisible line that separates approval from offence is the hardest. Being judged and perceived to be what I am not are the perks the stage offers, the sash of being a sarcastic insensitive prick and nasty asshole decorates the shoulder that now feels light, the monkey’s off finally. What about an Encore?? Well, let me pull out my sword; please.

P.S: This ain’t no joke; this is serious business. Chuckle, giggle or Laugh out loud; for this won’t cease, the demons won’t judge me unlike you.