In The Silence Of My Solitude - A Novel (Part 10)

                                                        14. Calm like a Bomb

Is Life a straight line? Look at yourself. Are you the same person whom you wanted to be? Watch your history. Tell me how many twists and turns it had. How many times you died? How many time you were reborn? If you die everyday, are you the same person? How many times you had molted your skin?

The desire for a straight line is nothing but the craving for security in life. Women craving for commitment and marriage with a rich 'settled' handsome young prince, Politicians and capitalists storing hundreds of crores in their bank accounts, people killing people for religious security, people exploiting people for monetary security, lover begging 'Please don't leave me' for emotional security, I ask --- Can we ever be secure in life?

Why is that underlying anxiety, resulting from that crave for security, driving our lives?

With that question in my mind, I woke-up from my sleep from some kind of unknown anxiety.

But, my mind didn't stop.All these preachings were nothing but my mind rationalizing, making up stuff, and making itself believe that it was in command.

When you preach, you feel better than others, as you need that security of feeling better than others. When dialogue reaches preaching, rationalizing reaches masturbation. What we found is the truth, isn't it? We want to share it to others, don't we?


Then I realized whatever the state of mind I had that day had gone, replaced by fearful state of mind.
Then my mind shifted to the topic in hand -- 'states of mind'.I was quite surprised at the way I was changing my states of mind.

What triggers these states of mind, what triggers these ups and downs? An idea? What idea? A doubt?

Then I realized that the fact that my mother went mental already opened a can of worms deep inside my mind, and all these thoughts were nothing but the stink emanating from that. So, the only way to solve that anxiety was to consciously pick up those worms all by myself, especially in that state of mind.

Doubts created that fearful state of mind, and that state of mind had limited options.

Okay. So, she had gone crazy, psychologically disturbed to be politically correct.
Then, what happened? She left the house.
Then it meant that, one : Most probably she didn't die.
Two : My Dad knew all about this as he was the one who took her to psychiatrist.

It meant that my Dad was somehow responsible for her leaving the house.
It also meant that the stories I heard as a kid about my mother were carefully edited fictional stories with fictional doubts.

Who else knew about this??

A desire to wake up my Dad and question him passed over me like a flash of light.

What if I am wrong?
What if I am asking wrong questions because of my state of mind?

I got up from the bed and started boxing in the air, and it did worked. It distracted my
vinayaka -- my mind.I didn't stop though. I boxed and jumped for more than 5 minutes till I was out of breath, and dropped onto the bed. I felt calm. Loved that calm. My mind was busy repairing some shit. How to describe that calm. I didn't know at that time, but -- It was -- Calm like a Bomb.

Time :  1 am.

Felt thirsty. Went to the kitchen. Opened the fridge.
The light inside the fridge illuminated my face. I stood there looking inside the fridge.
I felt something wrong in that scene. I didn't know if it was some animal evolutionary instinct, or something else, but I noticed that I was not alone in the kitchen.

I quickly turned my head toward the window. Someone was looking at me from the backyard outside the window. I noticed a thick hood just like yodas wear in star-wars movies, and it was illuminated by the full-moon light. I couldn't see the face though.

"Who is it?", I shouted with trembling voice. The instinctive fear already got me.
The figure quickly turned away, and disappeared.

"Who is it? Who is it?", I shouted on top of my voice.
My legs started trembling, and a rush of adrenaline hit me.

I picked a knife, opened the door, ran to the backyard.I noticed a figure, almost like midget, getting pulled up the wall by someone.

I ran towards that figure, shouting, " Who is it? Who is it?".

The moon was brightly lit, and shadows from the trees gave an eerie look to the backyard. As the midget got pulled up the wall, I had a clear look at him, not his face, but his body.Something was odd about that figure - he looked like a midget, but not a midget. Then, he jumped the wall, and disappeared.

I tried unsuccessfully to climb up the wall.

Then, I noticed my Dad running after me.

He shouted, "What happened? What are you doing?"
Gasping for breath, I tried to shout, "Someone was here. Someone was looking from that window".
"What!"
"Some one was here.Some one was here".
"Where?? I don't see anyone"
"I saw them. I saw them".
"Them? More than one?"
"I guess so."

Dad brought a stool and a torch light, climbed the wall, and searched for sometime. He found nothing.

He dragged me back to the Kitchen, made me sit in a chair opposite to him, gave me some water, and started asking questions.

I noticed some fear in him, but I was not sure if he was fearful about my behavior or about the incident.

He asked, " Now, tell me, What exactly did you see?"
"I just got up as I felt thirsty, came to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and noticed that someone was watching me, and when I looked, he....they ran, and when I ran to the backyard, I saw a midget climbing up the wall", I replied without stopping.

"A midget?"

"Yes, A midget, looked like a midget, but not a midget".

"What do you mean by that?"

"I don't know. He looked odd."

A couple of seconds of uncomfortable silence. The door to the backyard was still open, and I had clear view of the wall, illuminated by the moon.

" He got pulled by someone, I think.", I said as I turned towards the wall, pointing to it.

Then, I saw the hooded figure this time, climbing up the wall, pulled by someone.

I shouted, "There he is again!.He is climbing the wall!He is climbing the wall! He is on the wall! ".

The hooded figure jumped the wall before my dad could catch a glimpse of  him. It all happend in seconds.

"I don't see anyone", Dad shouted back.
"He just jumped", I shouted again.

He ran again to the wall.He again found no one.

By the time he came back, I was already trembling with fear.

"What did you see?", he asked.
"A hooded figure jumped over the wall"
"But, I didn't see anything".
"Thats because he jumped before you saw him", I screamed like a pig.

A couple more seconds of silence.

"You drank today?", he asked.
"No".

He came close to my face, and sniffed like a dog.

I didn't know what happened next, but I felt a sharp pain on my left cheek.

My dad slapped me.

"How dare you come to my house drinking like that. You shameless pig. Now, go to your room and sleep", He ordered.

I burned with anger and shame.

"Now, go to your room.What are you, a drunkard? What?? You saw a midget, and then, a hooded figure? Drink some more and you will see the devil himself. Idiot!Go and sleep. Or, you need one more".

I slowly got up, walked to my room, and then I stopped.

I turned back, and asked him, "Dad, What happened to mother?".

"What!", he tried to shout, but there was no vigor in it.

"What happened to mother?", I asked again.

"Whats happening to you today?", he asked incredulously. His face became paler.

He tried to regain the composure.But, it was too late. Both parties knew that they touched on a grave topic which was buried deep, almost for two decades. Both of us never dreamed that we would touch upon that topic ever again in our lives.

"You go and sleep. We will talk about it tomorrow", he said meekly.

"That means, you do have something new to say about her.", I got the upper hand.

"No. You are not feeling right today. You take rest. Get refreshed. We will talk tomorrow", he said unconvincingly.

I turned, walked a couple of steps, and then I turned back. I observed myself that I was unconsciously trying to make the scene very dramatic.

"Dad"
"What again?"
"Dad, Were you a football player?"
"What!!!", he said, stretching his facial muscles to max in order to express the max incredulity.
"Were you a football player? Had we had any footballs in the house when I was a kid?"
"What nonsense are you talking?"
"Just answer, Dad".
"No. I never played football.Never bought a football.No one in this town had any footballs in those days.", he answered with impatience.

 He continued, " Why are you asking about footballs?"
 "Nothing", I replied.

Couple of seconds of silence.

He asked, " Is that all?".
"Yes"
"Now, go and sleep", he said, and waited there till I closed my room's door.

I laid down on the bed, looking at the ceiling.
To my surprise, I was very calm. Was it the slap? Did the anger ate way the fear?

I looked at the spider web on the ceiling. A victim struggled in the web. The spider ran towards it with glee.

I muttered, " Yes. Life is a straight line. As straight as the lines in the spider's web".

Continued here..

In The Silence Of My Solitude - A Novel (Part 9)

                                                       13. The 3 P's.

As I zoomed in, it appeared to me as if the mirror in the photograph was coming
to meet me in slow-motion,and throw whatever it had on my face. It was surreal.
It was like the scenes in some horror movies where they show the shot of the devil,
that too in closeup, in the first scene itself for shock effect with no thought  for

suspense. There was a moment of eerie silence as the the contents of the mirror appeared.

The image blurred a bit because of the zoomin. From that blurred image, and
from the kind of shirt in that image,I came to conclusion that the photographer
was certainly a man.He bent down his neck a bit while photographing so as to
fit the Ataka. Nothing unusual about it.

I hit the zoom button again, and centered the flash portion of the photograph,
and carefully observed. There was certainly something unusual about it. Just 

above the flash, there was a portion of the photograph which was 

blurred more than usual  than its surrounding parts. Generally a blur
in a photograph happens because of movement. So, with the assumption
that  my mother had been using a clean mirror, I concluded that the blur in
the photograph must had occurred because of some movement.

I wasn't able to clearly see the object that was moving in the photograph.

Few hurdles needed to be crossed :

1. General blurring of the image because of the zoomin.
2. The sharp spiky flashes from the flash obscuring the image behind.
3. Distinguishing the general blur from the blur because of the movement.

People say that necessity is the mother of invention. Nothing could had been
truer in my case at that time.I never thought in my life, until that day, that, three
things I loved in school could come to my rescue -- Programming, Physics,and
Python. Three P's.

I quickly opened my laptop, copied the image into it, opened my python interface,
made some coffee,and started writing a program.It took me exactly 5 hrs
to complete the program. Nothing mattered.No one disturbed. Every ounce of 

creative juice flowed.

What I did was..first :  Calculated the general blur of the image, and from
that got the real blur of that particular part of the image because of movement.

Second, since blur of the movement is nothing but an object dragging,
I collapsed the object in space-time, just in the same way a 3D object
could be collapsed to 2D.

I checked and re-checked the program, and ran it. After fixing few more
problems, ran the program again.

It took a whole minute for the image to appear on the screen.

It was a Football.

And what caused the Foot Ball to move? Most probably he,the photographer,
had kept it on his head to make her laugh, or it must had been rolling from the
table behind his head. I didn't see any reason to investigate further as to find
out  what had caused the football to move. Round objects move easily. Simple!

Was I happy that I found Football instead of something exciting? I would say
a mixture of emotions. I was happy about the fact that I judged my mother right,
that she went crazy. But, I didn't find it  even one-tenth exciting as the findings
in 'Blow up'. Then,again, I was satisfied with myself, that I chased a mystery with the
stuff I learnt in school, that I was not a loser after all.But, then again, I was sad that
she went crazy. It would  be a lie if I say that I didn't think about the genetic
component of that craziness.

I wanted to postpone the subsequent questions as I wanted to celebrate my victory.
Generally, people are alone in their failure. I was alone in my victory.

I went out that evening to a bar, had couple of Kingfisher strongs, ate chilly chicken,

and finally ate 3 Meetha pans to counter the beer smell, and came back home at 8pm.

"Dad", I shouted as soon I saw him, "Good News!"
"What? You decided to get married?"
"No! No! No!", I complained like a puppy.
"Then what?", he asked.

"I love you, Dad", I replied shyly, went into my room, collapsed onto my bed, and Slept.

Continued here..

In The Silence Of My Solitude - A Novel (Part 8)

                                                12. Michelangelo Antonioni.

Existence begets survival begets fears begets analysis begets fact searching...and what are the facts?

The fact was that a diary existed, in which there were some more facts written by a normal woman, and some  illusions written by a psychologically disturbed woman.

Yes. I am getting rational.Fear made me irrational.She didn't see anything.She thought she saw something.She thought she saw something because she went mental. What kind of psychiatric disorder was that? schizophrenia??

My dad went out, and I was all alone in the house.

I started reading the diary again, this time looking for specific terms  'psychiatry', 

'schizophrenia'...I didn't find any of those words, but found the word 'mental'...

She wrote : He took me to a mental doctor today. He thinks I am mental. Mental? I am mental?? The doctor gave me some tablets They are making me sleepy.

She wrote that entry many pages after her last entry...at least the entry which I

had thought as last. I kicked myself for being sloppy. I read the diary again, this carefully, making sure that I hadn't left anything important.

I was amazed at myself for alternating between being rational and being fearful.Fear threw problems at me and rationality solved them. But, did the fear paved way to rationality, and viceversa?

It didn't matter anyway. The facts pointed to a definite solution, a solution which said that my mother had gone mental.  I just need to tie the loose ends -- on one end was the smell problem, which I dismissed as a mere coincidence, and on the other end the 'ataka' problem, and in-between is that problem of photo. The last of those two problems, I decided to solve that day. Solve might be a big word..may be more like confirmation.

Even now, I sometimes wonder, why I didn't ask subsequent questions like What happened after she got mental? Why nobody, except my dad knew about it? etc.

My answer is this :  How many states of mind are there? There is one state of mind which is full of fear and anxiety, the fear and anxiety which are necessary for survival, I must add. Next, there is the state of mind which consists of complete rationality. It analyzes everything. Finds solutions for all problems. Finally, there is one state of mind which I prefer, and try to be in that state most of the time. I call it 'fuck it' state of mind. (fuck it, in the sense when people say. " fuck it! I will just do it". )

How to define 'fuck it' state of mind?

fuck it state of mind = (animal mind) minus (fears of an animal)

It is the state of mind where you go by instincts, the instincts which define you as a person, which comes out of wholesome 'you', but without the fears.Animals go by instinct, but they are full of fear. If I become like an animal without its fear, I become 'fuck it'. Its like having sex, rather more like fucking, and what matters is your desire.Nothing else.You don't analyze.You don't have any kind of fears. All you want is to satisfy your desire.

Its like when you see a picture, and without much analyzing find out that something is odd about it. Its like recognizing faces without analyzing every part of it. If we transfer that instinct to 'action', then I call it 'fuck it'.

What triggers that state of mind? I had no idea. I have no idea. I didn't know. I don't know.

With that state of mind, I quickly searched for a torch light. My search became fruitful after 10 mins. I found a working, high yield torch light in my dads room. I changed to comfortable clothing, and I climbed the ataka.

It looked chaotic.I pointed the torch light at the darker corners of the ataka.

Nothing there. Then I started the laborious process of unpacking everything in my sight. I unpacked the carefully packed cardboard boxes, unpacked the clothes box, old news papers box, pooja item  boxes. I unpacked everything. But, found nothing. I found nothing unusual.

I spent close to one hour there, and was bathed in sweat. All through that unpacking and searching, I was observing myself, I noticed that state of mind in me. I was surprised at myself. It was as if the director said, 'Action', and the actor acting the scene untill the director says 'cut'. is it possible for the director to direct each and every step of the actor? Hell No!

The perfect moment is the moment when the director gets what he wants without being able to understand the thought process of the actor. Its immaterial for him. I didn't care much about thoughts....all I cared was action.

I was pretty confident that nothing unusual existed in that Ataka. I got down from the ataka, went to my room, and laid down for a while. Didn't care much about etiquette of not dirtying the bed sheets. I didn't care. I was THE animal. Right??

15 minutes rest. What next? What next?

But, first, the ending of lose end : Nothing was there on ataka.

Next, the mystery of the photo.

I placed the photo on the table, and looked left and right, as if I wanted to let-go of my 'conscious analysis' of my mind. Then I turned my gaze at the photo casually, looked at it for a couple of seconds, and turned away.

I found the same odd things I found before. The look on my mother's face, the camera angle and the camera's flash in the mirror.Obviously, well, obviously according to my instincts, mother was looking at the camera, and the exact spot where the person, most probably my dad, clicked the camera..that spot had been caught in that mirror. If I somehow find out whats in the mirror, I would be able to clear this mystery once for all. I was quite sure that I wouldn't be able to find anything.I was sure that her expression was the same kind of expression  I saw in mental hospitals..where people smile,laugh,cry as if they were going through a movie of emotions...almost a child like.

But, loose end is a loose end. I wanted to clear the last hurdle.

But, How? How to find the contents of that mirror. It was difficult, because the mirror was not those huge mirrors you see in movies, but one of those hand-held mirrors for the purpose of women who think they are beautiful.

Then, I got an idea...more like.. copied an idea. I remembered my favorite movie 'Blow Up' directed by the great Michelangelo Antonioni. I watched it many times before and thoroughly enjoyed every time. WhatS great about that movie is that the director using boredom as an aesthetic. The movie moves slow, and you feel a kind of sweet boredom. Its like that existential shit. But, what I remembered was not that, but a particular central scene in the movie.

The main protagonist is a fashion photographer.In his usual crazy search for beauty, he goes to a park..just on his instinct. He observes a couple romancing..and takes a pic of them. He follows them, and after a few minutes, he finds the woman alone, and take of pic of her. The woman chases after him demanding to return the reel. Cut to the scene I was talking about -- The hero develops the photographs.As he is  aware that the woman desperate need of that photograph, even to the extent of going naked for him, he wants to find out the contents of those photographs. He blows them up further, and make them into bigger photographs. He notices something odd in the photograph -- The woman  watching someone with fear, and a semblance of a body lying in the bushes. He develops the photograph further, blowing  them up again. The photograph takes up the whole wall..as if it is a wall-poster. Then he notices clearly a dead body among the bushes, most probably the body of the same guy she was with a few minutes back in the park. The whole scene unfolds in silence with no music or sound. Thats what make the scene extremely interesting. We observe the hero with bated breath.

I remembered and re-remembered the exact scene, and then, life imitated art. I wanted to blow up the photograph the same-way he did. But, Lacked the equipment. I didn't want to go to photo studio and attract attention. I wanted to do everything by myself.

What to do? What to do?

What if I scan the photograph and zoom it? Simple, right?

I grabbed the photograph and my wallet, and ran out. I went to the internet cafe, fortunately they had a brand new scanner. I requested him to let me do that scanning, and the owner obliged. I scanned the photograph, saved it in the USB, and ran back. I didn't care what people thought of me. What judgment people

came about me? All I cared was to make sure they didn't come to know the things I was doing.

I looked at the JPEG image of the photograph for the first time, after I copied it into
my dad's computer.

Then, I zoomed it.

Continued here...

In The Silence Of My Solitude - A Novel (Part 7)

I got up exactly at 6am the next morning. I am able to tell the time because I took

a mental note of it as I woke up, as I was in  doubt about the happenings of that

previous night --  that  it was all some kind of a dream. I decided that it was all a

dream. Only in dreams or rather nightmares we concoct such fantastic stuff.

As I was in that sleep-but-awake state , kind of something opposite to purgatory, I replayed the events of last night or last night's dream.My decision to conclude them as dreams didn't give me happiness at all. I thought of it as a loss of opportunity of an adventure. I wanted to have that kind of adventure to escape from boredom.

Aren't we all escaping from that kind of boredom? isn't every step we take in a day is a step away from boredom? Reading newspapers in the buses.watching wall-posters as we travel, trying to find drama on the streets even if it involves a victim and violence, avoiding boring people, changing TV channels obsessively, playing ghupchup with 5 yr old cousins and wondering where that carefree and interesting life had gone, checking on our phone every minute, sending messages and twittering,eating, smoking that cigarette, eating that gutka, masturbating, and finally loving.....I ask again...aren't we all escaping from that dreadful boredom?


But, was my dread from boredom so powerful that I was ready to face grave consequences in chasing that mystery, especially when that mystery involved my own mother?  I wished whatever happened that previous night to be true. I wished that my mother went through some bad stuff. I wished that some drama had happened at the expense of someone's suffering. But, then again, I also felt sad for that suffering? A mixture of emotions. Usually,  a big fish eats the small fish, a big problem eats the small problem.


is it possible to be happy and sad about the same incident? is it possible to be happy about the death of loved ones especially when that death solves many of your problems?  when the big problem eats away your small problem, don't you be happy during that transition of problems? For example -- a earth quake happening exactly on the day a student is about to write an important exam in which he is sure of failing. I am sure he would regret about the loss of lives later, I am talking about the exact moment he hears the news? Would he be relieved or not?


If he is relieved at that exact moment, don't you think he would regret that happiness for

the rest of the life? Thats exactly the moment where most of the people

ask the question 'Who Am I?" --  the exact moment they question their own morality.

The pain of regret and guilt make you dive in to your own soul by asking you

the same question again and again -- 'Who the fuck am I?"..WHO THE FUCK AM I?

WHO THE FUCK............. AM I?


Was I the same man who loved that woman? If I was the same man, and if I thought that she was my soul-mate, then why I got attracted to some sexy women..imagining my life with her. Am I the same man who decided that money is nothing but at the same-time have this irresistible attraction towards it? Am I same person who hates hypocrisy which exists in my mind? Am I the same mind which hate and love the same novel? Am I the same mind which questions the answer and answer it again and again, and every-time coming to the same conclusion? Why do I get bored of things which I loved at one point? Why do I get bored of a movie after watching it 20 times? What is permanent in this world? Why do I desire for permanence? Am I not aware that I am going to die one day? Why am I looking for the permanent definition of the word permanent?


Am I following some fucked up philosophy? is admiring a philosophy same as following it?


What are the facts here? --- I wanted some adventures at the expense of someone's suffering.From that fact, can I conclude that man at his deepest core is selfish?
That humanity is driven by individual selfish needs? is love a selfish need?


What about my soliloquy about differentiating human needs into evolutionary needs and consciousness needs? If love is a selfish need, then into which category does it belong to? If love is a positive emotion, then why does it torment you? If love is not an overrated emotion, then why did my mother leave me?


What are my needs? What are my wants? How can I define myself? Why shouldn't I restart my life..saying..okay, this is me.This is what I am. This is what I am gonna do. This is what I expect from life. This is what I wanna be.


Why cant I say that?
Why am I soo sure of myself at one time, and feel as a loser another time?
How about all the self-knowledge I attained during the times of happiness?
How come that knowledge is not helping me during my blues? 

Why am I not able to stop that train of thought which is going to meet an accident, 

and conclude that life is fucked up? so, is this all fate? are we all pre-programmed

machines unable to reprogram the program?


 Who am I? who am I? who am I?

When the same questions comes in multiples of three,  my anxiety gets tripled, which
slaps me out of slumber, and make me search for reality ...and in this case my mothers diary.

It was right there beside me, having the same contents it had the previous night.
So, None of it was a dream. wait..what if I am dreaming the whole thing..even dreaming that I had mother once, dreaming that I went to America once, even dreaming that I exist. What if I am just a story? A story written by a pervert writer? Can a character written in a story think? What if I am just character a writer is writing about, and thinking and living in it.

"Stop it. Stop .......it", My mind shouted , "Whats the fucking difference?????????"

Thats were  my mind stopped its funny business, making me wonder which was better? being an animal or being a man. Do animals know that they exist?? do...

Stop it. Stop it. My mind again shouted to itself.

"What a wonder! You woke up so early?", my dad said as he entered my room.

I must say that he saved me from the never-ending spiral of thoughts.

I nodded.

"You wanna join me for a walk", he asked.
"Yes".

I ran that morning. I ran so hard my lungs started squeaking like a pig.

At least, I exist, Bitch.

continued here...

In The Silence Of My Solitude - A Novel (Part 6)

                                                          11. What is fear?

Human beings perpetually live in fear. Fear defines us. Bring me any man, and I can tell you his life story through his fears. Fear drives us to do things, things which becomes part of our character.

If we investigate the nature of fear, more often than not, we reach to the point of 'fear of death'. Death kills our soul, but  fear of death makes us soulless. The more you fear, the more you distance yourself from your soul. What good is man without soul? What good is a man if he is an animal?

This single idea of 'fear of death' is the source of all fears,which includes the generational fears -- Fear of losing job, fear of insecurity, fear of losing a family, fear of losing fame..everything..everything in humans life is defined by fear.

Fear begets fear. Fear is a vicious circle. The more you feed it the more it rises.

Damn! My mind lecturing me again, I thought as I trembled with fear holding my mother's diary.

Sometimes, instincts take over the mind and all rationalizing becomes useless.

Yes, useless it became, all that rationalizing, because, the trembling didn't stop.I knew that I had smelled that peculiar sweet and sour smell. I knew that the smell was stronger on the 'ataka'.I knew that I felt some wetness on my hand as I searched the same ataka. I remembered that I rationalized it as some nonsense -- as exactly my mind reasoned -- an illusion of fear.

But, my mother's dairy was not an illusion. It was right there in my trembling hands. It was right there before my eyes, and I was not dreaming either. I was not sure of that dream part though.But, even if it was all a dream, What difference that would make? I felt the fear, dream or not.

Sometimes, reasoning itself, if not taken to the extreme end, makes us fearful. Because, reason uses facts, and the facts were --

1. My mother felt that she was being watched by someone.
2. She smelled a peculiar 'sweet and sour' smell, in congruence with my experience.
3. My Dad obviously didn't notice none of it.

The last point, if true, had some grave consequences,one of which could be genetics. My mind monkey climbed to the top of tree and started swinging crazily, and my hand and body trembled more.

As I watched myself with amazement at my  trembling hands,and as I watched the trembling diary, a photo slipped out of its pages and fell on the floor.I picked it up.

It was a 3" x 4" black and white photo. It was my beautiful mother's photo. OMG! She was soo beautiful.I could even go to the extent of saying that Dimple Kapadia in bobby, whom my mother admired, is nothing before my mother's beauty.The black and white nature of that photo added a quality which almost says that the photo was not real, almost like a myth -- some kind of legendary tale.

But, something was very peculiar about that photo. Something was amiss.Something was wrong. First of all, the photo was taken at an unusual angle, from a top angle, and mother had to lift her face for the photographer to capture her face.Second, the expression on her face was very unusual. Its difficult to describe that expression.If you were at Hiroshima when the atom bomb exploded, and if you captured the faces of the victims, who just came to know about the bomb, and if they were half-way in the process of changing their expressions from smiling to absolute fear, but not completely in fear, that was the expression I saw in my mother's face and eyes in that photo.

It was as if my mother was smiling,just before the photographer clicked, and then changed her expression to fear, as he clicked it.

From the angle in which the photograph was taken, I kind of deduced that it was humanely impossible for anyone one to photograph from that place, as it was very close to the ceiling, and only a midget could achieve that impossible feat. I was sure my mother knew no midgets.


Questions, questions, questions.

Who clicked that photograph? Why that unusual angle? What made her fearful?

I noticed a small print of date on that photograph.

Sep 2nd 1982.

I quickly checked the dates in the dairy, and the date coincided with those dates when she actually felt that she was being noticed by someone, and smelled the smell.

It meant that during those August-September months of 1982, something must have happened. I also noticed that the college student was mentioned a couple of times during the same time.

A sudden, uncharacteristically cold breeze from the windows knocked off the photo from my hands, and it flipped over.

There was something written behind the photograph,in my mother's own hand writing.

I saw IT. I saw IT. I saw IT.
It saw Me. It saw Me. It saw Me.
no doubt about it. That idiot didn't see IT.
I am gone. I am gone. I am gone.
I am done.I am done.I am done.
My Life. My dreams. My plans.
Gods are crazy. Gods are bastards. Gods are evil.
Why me? Why me? Why me?
Cry.Cry.Cry.
Laugh.Laugh.Laugh.

Proofffffffff. Pooooooooooffff.

She saw something. Okay.
Something saw her. Okay.
gone. why?
done.why?
gods.why?
cry. why?
laugh. why?

Whatever she wrote, she must have written it in abnormal state of mind. It didn't make sense. How could a sight of something bring such abnormal changes in behavior? What did she see? Why didn't anyone see IT? What is IT?

I looked at the photo again, this time concentrating on her face.Her face was flawless. She had that quintessential black katuka under her eyes.Her hair was just a bit disheveled, but not much. She was just like that bapu bomma, with a large bottu, probably red in color. Her facial muscles were tensed.A beauty in danger. Who doesn't want to save her?

Then I noticed a small mirror behind her, in the window,placed at 45 degree angle to the window. I brought the photo close to my eyes, and zoomed in. The mirror was a bit bright, and when I noticed closely, I kind of deduced that it must be flash of light in the mirror, most probably the camera's flash,if at all the camera had a flash.

Thats all there was in the photograph. Nothing more to glean.

I heard a knock on the door. I quickly switched of the light and pretended  sleep. My dad came in to the room, switched on the light, making sure that I was asleep.

My pretension became real, and I fell into deep sleep. That was uncharacteristic of me. Me sleeping soo early? I guess my nerves were fired by the fear and the adrenaline rush. But, surprisingly the after effect was very calming...and the goddess of sleep invited me into her lap, and I fell in deep slumber.


continued here...

I Dream Alone

3 questions need to asked regarding dreams.

1. Why do we dream?
2. Whats the mechanism of dreaming?
3. What are the effects of a dream on us after we dreamt the dream.

Obviously, the best way to begin to answer these questions is by analyzing our dreams.

The problem with dreams is that - we tend to forget them. But, at the same time dreams get recorded in our memories, just as whatever we see or think or feel gets recorded. So, it is not the problem of memories of dreams - it is the problem of accessing our dreams. It means that dreams are dreamt in a different state of mind, other than the state of our day-today consciousness. I don't know if can use the word subconscious here, so let me just use the word 'dream-state'.

In my experience, the dream-state is the most creative state of all my states of mind. The emotions I have felt during dreams were hundred times more powerful than any emotions I have felt while imagining or while watching movies, reading books or even in reality. Dreams bring powerful emotions in me.

Dreams are personal, in the sense that, if I explain my dream to others, I might not elicit the same kind of emotions from them even if I have superior story-telling abilities.Dreams are closely bound to our memories. Every aspect of the dream has a corresponding aspect in our memories. Every person has unique memories which cannot be replicated in other person.

At the sametime, our memories are not only about what we see or think, but also about how we interpret the things we see and the situations we face. Where does that interpretation come from? I believe the way we interpret things comes from our previous experiences, which are again - memories; and also in the way in which the brain has been wired.

I would like to stretch that logic furthur, and say that If a person is able to understand my dreams..well..most of my dreams, it means that person is closest to my memories and matrix of my brain.
So, Dear Reader, Do you feel my dreams?

                                                                The State of mind

The dream which I am going to narrate has less story but more emotions. It has real characters, and imaginary locations which I don't remember.

My state of mind was pretty clear and happy when I went to sleep yesterday afternoon; after eating my lunch consisting of chicken fry, sambar and excellent curd. After the lunch, I watched Laxman hitting his century, and then, at that point I went to bed (also after eating three delicious guavas).

My state of mind was definitely happy, but there was a thread going on in my mind about a girl. A girl I was in love with. A girl I have never met. A girl whom I am never gonna meet. A love which will go unfulfilled ( in the sense that we are never gonna become a couple), because of the impossibility of the situation we both are in, and most importantly, our compassion and sensitivity are gonna become stumbling blocks for us to see each other.

Some one said that love is a sweet torment. Thats true. I was tormented by this stupid and impossible love. The stupidity arises from the child like fantastic quality of that love. But, I am always in control of it. I knew that if I work on it, and rationally take a decision, I would come out of it very easily. And, I was working on it. Thats why I ask, 'why we dream?'. Is my mind telling something about 'What I am supposed to do?".

(Memories are easy to forget, but the decision to forget them (or repress them) is not easy. Its like losing a part of you. )

The other character in that dream was my ex-GF. We move on after bad relationships, but our memories remain. From time to time, I think about her. What she might be doing etc. etc. You may call it as my weakness, but I can never forget my friends, relationships and any person who became emotionally close to me at one point, even if that person is an X now.

In spite of all these underlying threads of thoughts, I can definitely tell you that my mind was very happy as I hit the bed. I loved the bed. I loved that great pillow. I loved the cool breeze the fan was fanning. I put on my bose headphones, and listened to Dr.Dre for 10 minutes.

Just for the sake of not missing any details, I would like to explain the lyrics of Dr.Dre's song, and why at that particular moment I loved them. As I said, love is a sweet torment. And, since I am a straight guy, and I was obviously in love with a girl, the anti-dote, unconsciously was misogyny. If you meet me at some other time, I would  argue with you that gangsta rap is not misogynist, and that it is portraying the reality of the situation. But, here, in the situation I was in, gangsta rap was definitely misogynistic and that was what the Doctor ordered for my torment.

The song is called 'lets get high'.

Yeah -- I just took some Ecstasy
Ain't no tellin what the side effects could be
All these fine bitches equal sex to me
plus I got this bad bitch layin next to me
No doubt, sit back on the couch
Pants down, rubber on, set to turn that ass out
Laid the bitch out, then I put it in her mouth
Pulled out, nutted on a towel and passed out

After that,  I turned around, facing down on the pillow, my right leg at 70 degree angle to the left leg, and hit the snooze button.

As usual in any remembrance of a dream, you tend to forget the starting of the dream.But, you do remember that there was definitely a beginning, and  you remember forgetting it.

And obviously, Did the dream happened exactly the way i am going to narrate? No. And, at the same time, I can say that it did happen exactly in the same way. Thats the nature of dreams.


                                                              The Dream

It was some hotel room, an unknown city in an unknown country. I was sitting on a bed.

A girl was looking for someone in the closet. She was  calling some name, and I heard her saying, " Darling, where r u, where are u hiding?".

As she opened the closet, she saw me and I saw her. She was my ex-gf, and i was obviously her ex-bf. I was shocked, and she was also shocked.

She had a look of 'its fucking unbelievable', and I had a look of 'yeah, it fucking unbelievable'.She, with a sense of hostility, exclaimed, " WHAT!!".

She continued, " What!! what the hell are you doing you doing here?".

I replied, " I would like to ask the same question".

She said, " This is our ...this is my room".

I said, " No, this is my room".

She said, "What are you talking?"

I said, " What are YOU talking?".

Then jump cut to next scene. Me and my GF sitting on one bed, and my ex-gf and her husband sitting on the other bed.It was as if some discussion went on before that scene.

I moved to my GF and whispered in her ear, " Shes my ex-GF".

I saw some colors changing in my GF's face, and then she turned to ex-gf and said, " You know, you are not supposed to enter someone-else room"

Shouting match ensued between them.

Then jump cut to next scene. Me and my ex-gf's husband on one bed, and my gf and ex-gf on the other bed.  My GF and ex-GF were arguing about whose room it was.

I said to ex's husband, " you know, my GF had an X too, just like your wife"

He laughed. Nice guy, i thought.

Then, he asked out of blue, " You wanna swap?"

Damn, this guy is too fast, I thought.

Series of discussion went in my head. If I agree for swapping, I am gonna see the same ass I saw before, but he is gonna see a brand new ass. Whats in it for me? Nothing.

I declined his proposition, and then took my GF and went out.

There was some marriage goin on. We decided to 'wedding crash' for the sake of adventure and were walking along the buffet. Then I noticed my GF for the first time. Her face was fuzzy, as if the TV people fuzzied out the F word. She was like 6 foot high, and was strongly built.

I said to my GF, " You said u are five-four but you are like six".

She replied, " Thats because of my sandals"

"I don't think sandals are gonna make that much difference"

"People always used to say that I appear taller when I wear these sandals, and besides, you are not wearing anything"

Then I looked at my feet. I was barefooted.

For some unknown reasons, I noticed that I was getting angry with her as we sat to eat food. I said, " You know something, we are not at all alike.I thougt we were alike, but no, we are not alike".

She asked, " What do you mean by that?"

"For starters, you are ugly".

She had a look of hurt in her. I knew what I was doing was  a bad thing and didn't mean it, but I wasn't able to control, and was surprised by my own words.

She replied angrily, " You cruel bastard. You are ugly too", and hit me on my chest. I fell like 10 feet away from her, just like they show in Charlie Chaplin films.

I was somehow not angry at all. It was as if I felt I got what I deserved. It was as if I want her to hit me. When i got up and looked around, she was gone.

The Search

Where did she go? I gotta get back to the room and say sorry to her. What happened to me? She is the most beautiful girl I ever met. Why did I say those words? What triggered such kind of uncharacteristic behavior from me? I want to hug her and ask her forgiveness.

Then, as I entered a building, I noticed that it was not the same building where we took the room. Then I noticed that all the buildings had a similar look, a kind of approximation to Chandigarh, but more like buildings in the movie 'Edward Scissors hand' -- color-full but peculiar.

I started searching for her in each building. Then I noticed that what I was experiencing was a combination of Bicycle thief, Spoorlos, Saragossa manuscript and Eyes wide shut. I noticed that life was imitating art.
I entered a building. There were groups of men and women in the middle of sexual orgy. As I entered, they all stopped what they were doing but still in their positions, looked at me with a sense of apathy - no emotion on their faces. Then I saw a pig faced woman with no nose. She was sitting in doggy style. I saw some leather belts and masks lying around. A fully clothed man, whom I assumed to be the owner of the building, pushed me towards the naked men and women, and ordered, " Get naked". I pushed him and ran out.

 I entered another building. It was named something like 'china embassy'. A Chinese guy ran towards me, " you need a room, a room, a nice clean room? You need a room?". Before I could say anything, he pushed me towards a room. That room was very dirty, and there was a tall Chinese man standing naked. He had a huge dick, unerected, and there was another Chinese man, naked, and he had a dick which looked like as if it was half eaten by a bug. I ran out again.

I noticed that my anxiety was increasing at rapid rate, and my walking was getting slower and slower. It was as if I was walking on a moon. I wanted to run, but more I wanted to run, the slower I was walking. It was as if some kind of friction was stopping me.

Baby, where are you? I love you very much. Are you looking for me. Are you scared. Please don't be scared. I am coming. I am coming for you. I will make it up for you.I will do anything for you. Please don't cry. Please.

Then I started shouting her name. It felt weird. It was the first time I said her name. Our names rhymed. I remembered Orhan Pamuk's protagonist in his book " The New life". The guy talks about soul mates, and how their names rhymes etc. It goes like this:

.............

I discarded friends who weren't aware that not only did her name mean soulmate but it also signified God. Taking the cue from the fact that our names rhymed, I had our wedding invitations printed in my imagination, adorning them with a smart rhyme like the ones that come out of New Life caramel candies. I succeeded in predicting the number of lighted windows I counted for an entire week at three in the morning, without exceeding the margin of five percent error that I allowed myself. I repeated fuzuli's famous line of poetry, Janan yok ise jan gerekmez, to thirty-nine people, subjecting them to my interpretation, "If the soulmate is absent there is no need for the soul". I called up and asked after her under twenty-eight different guises, each time using a different voice; and I would not go home before I said Janan thirty-nines times, forming her name in my imagination with the letters I extracted from billboards,posters, flashing neon signs, in the show windows of pharmacies, kebab and lottery shops. Still, Janan did not come.
...............................................

All I wanted was to see her..just once..and tell her how much I love her. Anxiety was killing me. Even a small step needed lot of energy. I wanted to run to her.

I entered another building. There was a black guy begging. He begged for money, and I  ignored him. Then he threw his plate at me, as if, when I fall he could grab my wallet. I expertly avoided his plate, and ran out of the building.

I entered a new building. This one looked normal outside, but inside it looked like a maze. I went in circles, each time ignoring the fact that I went through the same circle before. My body was there, but my mind and heart was with her. Snapshots of her face flashed in my mind.

This is hell. This is hell. I can never get out of this place. I am never gonna meet her. I am never gonna see her. what is she doing now? Thinking about me? Don't wait for me. Please go somewhere. Eat your dinner. Find another man. I am just a half-man.I cannot protect you. I am irresponsible. I am useless. I am not supposed to love anyone.  You need a better man. Look, I am stuck here. I am not even able to find the way back to you. Where are you?? Please shout something. Please. Please say something!!

Then, my anxiety reached the max, and  my heart was about to  burst, and then I woke up.

"Thank god!! Its all  a dream".

1. Why do we dream?  To exist (philosophically speaking).

2. Whats the mechanism of dreaming? desires and fears, coming together to determine sequence of events, combining with any other memories. Important thing to understand is to disregard those extemporaneous memories and directly go to the heart of the dream --- interpreting a dream.

3. What are the effects of dreams on us after we dreamt the dream? Once remembered, dreams act just like normal memories. Since the emotions related to a particular memory  effect our subsequent decisions, the emotional effect of the dream do effect us by deciding the course of action. We generally tend to disregard it, as we generally tend not to find the emotional source of our actions.

The source of the dream though, I believe, came from a passage in Pamuk's book.
......................
I had heard of others who had read a book only to have their lives disintegrate. I'd read the account of someone who had read a book called Fundamental principles of philosophy; in total agreement with the book, which he read in one night, he joined the Revolutionary Proletarian Advance Guard the very next day, only to be nabbed three days later robbing a bank and end up doing time for the next ten years. I also knew about those who had stayed awake the whole night reading books such as Islam and New Ethos or The Betrayal of Westernization, then immediately abandoned the tavern for the mosque, sat themselves on those ice-cold rugs doused with rosewater, and began preparing patiently for the next life which was not due for another fifty years.  I had even met some one who got carried away by books with titles like Love Sets You Free or Know Yourself, and although these people were the sort who were capable of believing in astrology, they too could in all sincerity say, " This book changed my life over-night!"

      Actually, the frightening thing on my mind was not even the pathos of these scenarios: I was afraid of isolation. I was afraid of the sorts of things a fool like me might very well end up doing, such as misunderstanding the book, being shallow or, as the case may be, not shallow, being different, drowning in love, being privy to the mysteries of the universe but looking ridiculous all my life explaining the mystery to those who are not in the least interested, going to jail, being considered a crackpot, comprehending at last that the world is even crueler than I'd imagined, being unable to get pretty girls to love me. If the contents of the book were true, if life was indeed like what I read in the book, if such a world was possible, then it was impossible to understand why people needed to go to prayer, why they yakked their lives away at coffeehouses, why they had to sit in front of the TV set in the evening so as not to die of boredom, unwilling to close even their curtains all the way, just in case something halfway interesting in the street might also be watched, like a car speeding  by, a horse neighing, or a drunk cutting loose.

Just thematically replace the 'book' with my dream 'GF'.

( Note : To the extreme smart asses out there, my dream GF is not internet literate, and she is not in any of my friends list)