The Nizam Nawab.
"You know, Watson, that,nawab of nizam was the worlds worst miser?", said Holmes, sipping his black coffee and smoking his pipe containing guntur tobacco.
Watson was reading Deccan Chronicle - the classifieds page. He had a look of astonishment in his face, more from the "friendship" ads than the little nugget from the pages of Holmes encyclopedic knowledge.
"is that so?", he replied with some nonchalance.
" Oh yes, it was so, Watson", Holmes replied ignoring Watson's morning blues.
Holmes continued, " He was also, at one point, the world's richest man."
The word 'richest' got Watson's attention. He brought down the paper revealing his face to Holmes.
"is that so?", he said with some excitement.
"oh yes, it was so, Watson. His stories of 'being too careful' were legendary. He used to save match sticks, half-smoked cigarettes and what not", said Holmes.
" I wonder, I really do, what was his motivation?", wondered Watson.
" That was what I was thinking about, Watson. What motivates the worlds richest man to be the worlds biggest miser. I strongly believe that he suffered obsessive compulsive disorder,an OCDM, OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDER FOR MONEY, which, BTW, is considered to be a virtue in present times. In other words, greed, Watson, greed. Greed is an OCD, and it has no cure as no one looked for it. The difference is that, misery is not greed anymore, greed has now something to do with spending capacity of the slaves enslaved by the corporations. "
"Now, come on, Holmes. We all know greed is good. We ruled, plundered, and developed this country. Our empire was built upon greed.", replied Watson.
"Watson, Don't put the burden of white man on me. I was against imperialism, and you know that"
" Holmes, lets change the topic. My mind runneth sloweth in the morning", Watson pleaded as he knew where this discussion was going. An argument, with Holmes legendary lectures on the inhumanity of imperialism, and his indignation against the empire which never saw the dawn as history had already proved (Not!),was not what he wanted.
" Whats your opinion, or rather, facts about Hyderabad", asked Watson trying to change the topic.
"A fascinating place Watson. A very fascinating place. A mixture of two distinct cultures. Islamic and Hindu. A very curious mixture. The architecture and the cuisine beats everything I had seen in our trip of south india", replied Holmes.
"Chaos, Holmes, chaos..that's what I see in this city. Pollution, traffic, poverty, corruption, and the beggars, and of-course the bane of India -- the politicians. Sorry, Holmes, I miss home. I miss beautiful and clean streets of baker street. I miss our old apartment already", said Watson.
" I dont blame you, Watson. You think as a doctor. I think as a person who is very much interested in mysteries. There are so many mysteries in this city, every person in this city has a story to tell, a secret to hide, and a mystery to unwrap. You are also a writer, Watson. Think as a writer instead of as a doctor."
" But, Holmes, what made me write was you chasing a mystery. It was your method in finding clues, and it was your analytical mind which finds solutions by the clues, that's what I was interested in, not some stories of common folks in this city."
"Watson, you embarrass me sometimes. You are right though. The trip to india refreshed my mind, and now it is hungry for a puzzle, a mystery, and waiting for me to embark on my obessessive drive to solve it."
" Don't, Holmes, don't ask for it", said Watson a bit alarmed, " This is a foreign country to us. We don't know their customs, their morals, how they think, what they do. You are a hero in England, not here. Lets not make business out of pleasure.", Watson tried to persuade.
" I have to disagree with you, Watson. I am sorry to say that. Every mystery, every puzzle, every human story has the same underlying themes -- love, lust, jealousy, greed, fame and power, and all the emotions which are common to all humans. Don't get carried away by the details."
"But Holmes, as you know, the devil is in the details, " quipped Watson.
"Leave the details to me, Watson", Holmes replied, and went back to refill his tobacco pipe, and Watson went back to read his Deccan chronicle classifieds page.
Holmes walked to the big glass window, or rather a transparent glass wall, and started watching the city from his topmost floor of the hotel taj bongara.
There was a sense of excitement in him, and he was looking forward for something, something which would bring him joy. What would it be?
The Man with a Mystery.
It was raining that day. Holmes and Watson decided to spend their time in their room, reading books, watching TV, and/or arguing about matters which didn't matter.
They ate their sumptuous Hyderabadi Kalyani biryani, and lit their tobacco pipes.
Watson was about to say something when they heard the phone ring.
Watson answered it, heard something and said to Holmes, " Call from reception. They say that a young man wants to meet you, and he seems to be quite agitated. They say that he said that it was with great importance that he came to meet you. Shall I say no?"
"Watson, opportunity strikes only once, either you grab it or forget it. I see an opportunity here, and I am going to grab it. I am really interested to meet this first client of mine in India.Send him in", said Holmes.
"But, Holmes, a client? You said 'client', but I thought, we retired. You as a detective and me as a doctor and writer", complained Watson.
"Watson, Can a mind retire? Can a heart die if the man is still alive? Can a passion die? A man is defined and suffered by his passions. Let us live our passions again", said Holmes authoritatively this time.
Watson got the drift, resigned himself, and said something on the phone.
Watson knew what was going to happen. He was pretty aware of the obsessions of Holmes.
He was a great friend to Sherlock Holmes. But, as usual, in any relationships, greatness of the person doesn't matter. All it matters is their life style and idiosyncrasies. Watson's lifestyle and philosophy was in complete opposite to Holmes. But it was not really serious. Watson was like Einstein's wife who cared more about how he dressed rather than his theory of relativity.
But, Watson was homesick. He was also sick of Indians, even-though it was not his character to think ill of a person, if not the whole country. But, somehow, he came to dislike Indians. He saw india, in-spite of its history, as unoriginal. He saw Indians aping the west, as if the spit of the west was a deodorant for them. This pissed him off. He came to find dharma and karma in this country, but all he found was coca cola. People using products is one thing, and people using those products as if they are defined by them is totally a different thing." England enslaved India many decades back, but now, Indians are enslaving themselves", he once commented.
Watson sank back in his couch, waiting for that familiar sound; knock, knock,knock.
But there was no sound. A young man barged in to the room, looked at Holmes, and sat in the chair opposite to him. It all happened so fast that nobody had the time to react. His hair was disheveled, wore a baggy jeans, a red tshirt, with black sandals, which only the god knows how many miles it saw. He looked pretty excited.
"Sherlock Holmes", he cried. No, not that crying. He actually cried.
Tears rolled on his cheeks, and he tried to dry them with his tshirt.
"Sherlock Holmes.Sherlock Holmes. Today would have been the greatest day of my life if not for the circumstances we are meeting in. You are my Hero, Holmes. Thanks to Watson and his writings, you are my Hero. I am also very fond of you Watson", he said as he turned to Watson.
Watson smiled a fake smile. Holmes smiled genuinely.
"Calm down, young man, calm down. Since you already read Watson's rather exaggerating stories about me, you must know the drill, and lets get down to business immediately", he said as he looked at the young man attentively.
"Sure, sure, Holmes. Dr.Watson is a great writer, and I have to disagree with you that he exaggerated", said the young man, and smiled at Watson baring all his teeth.
Watson came back with one more fake smile.
"Now tell me young man, why do you refuse to wear a cologne, and why you still wear clothes you bought in 200 BC?", enquired Holmes.
"OMG! OMG! You are like lord Krishna, you know everything.You are a genuis.How you came to about that"
"Not a big deal young man, You are emanating a rather disgusting ordor, which can only come from the purification of some bacteria under your arms because of the sweat, and your clothes are pretty worn out"
"OMG! OMG! Your sense perception rocks! especially your eyes and nose", exclaimed the young man.
"and your sandals, they are soo worn out that they could as well be skin around your feet", observed Watson.
"OMG! Watson, what an observation. I gotta tell you that you learned a lot from Holmes", said the young man.
Both Holmes and Watson looked defeated, as the young man came up with plethora of ' oooh myyyy godddds" every time they opened their mouths.
As if to save them from their embarrassment, the young man shouted, " Holmes, please help my brother. He is going crazy. Only you can save him. Only you can save him from erragadda hospital. Please save his life.He is possessed by a devil. I am sure about that. He gets up in the night and shouts some crazy stuff in foreign language.Did you see the movie 'shining' by jack Nicholson, where he writes the same sentence all the time? My brother writes the same story all the time. He named it '12 goddamn hours in my goddamn life'..sorry to use such goddamn bad words..but my brother is pretty bad mouthed guy. He writes that story every day, and sometimes he types without even looking at the laptop screen"
"Interesting. a story, you say?", asked Holmes.
"Yes, Holmes, a big fuc...I mean a very big story.Also a very peculiar story where nothing happens actually"
"Interesting. nothing happens, you say?"
"Yes,Holmes,nothing much happens.Its like one of those art movies which wins big awards but drowns the studios, where the camera remains static for minutes together"
"Interesting. static camera, you say? wait! What am I talking about! ", blurted-out obviously embarrassed Holmes.
"well, not exactly a static camera..but", continued the young man.
"Stop it, Stop it! Lets not digress anymore", Holmes raised his voice a bit.
Watson laughed. He was obviously enjoying the whole charade. He certainly felt that he was the smartest guy in the room. "Holmes is getting old and this lunatic is taking him for a ride", he thought.
"Okay, let me see the story", said Holmes as if he decided to get down to business ASAP.
The young man searched his pockets and took out a sheet of paper from each of his pockets. Obviously, they were all crumpled.
"But you said that it was a big story", inquired Holmes.
"Holmes sir, I edited it. You see, because of the TV and internet and blogs and all, the attention span of the people got reduced quite drastically. I assumed the same with you, So I compressed it by 80% just like a zip file. Besides, it contained some vulgar language, and I assumed that an upper class person like you would find it rather...what you say...common...and trust me when I say that nothing much happens even in the edited version. "
"You are not supposed to...okay..forget it..give me the story", said a bit exasperated Holmes.
Watson spilled his coffee as he was unable to control his laugh. He apologized, and then tried to gain his composure. He tried to act serious, but he laughed again.
"Watson, I know why you are laughing.You may find me acting crazy.Well, that's true, I am not in my elements for the last few days, and I am sure that's because of that story. Imagine the mental boredom I had gone through in editing that piece of cra....I mean..a boring nothing-much-happens story"
" Please ignore me..I just remembered a joke from a Telugu movie I saw yesterday. You carry on ", Watson lied as he tried to explain.
Holmes started reading the story aloud.
12 Goddamn hours in my Goddamn Life.
First Hour :
I met her for the first time on the flight to FIJI islands. She was going to Galapagos islands, and I was going to Australia, which btw, is also an island. So, in a way, we were both going to islands. If you ask me, that would be the first proof that we were almost alike, that we were both going to islands.
I got the window seat, and she got a Aisle seat, and in between sat a big fat woman. In a way, I should say that would be the second proof that we were made for each other, that we were both made uncomfortable by the same woman, as the economy seats used to be pretty tight.
Not only that, I believe that fat woman was in fact the cupid, yeah, the capital THE cupid. She borrowed some books I was reading, and the other woman (the heroine..btw..I was the hero..just in case you thought otherwise) borrowed from her. Then, the cupid borrowed from the woman, and I borrowed from the cupid. ...and then..the woman whispered something to the cupid and the cupid whispered the same to to me......and..........to cut it short.............we liked each other books.
I wasn't able to see her clearly, as you see, its very ungentlemanly to watch a woman when there is a chance for her to notice you when you are noticing her. Thats why in porn, women artists try not to look at the camera as it would make the gentlemen watching it feel ungentlemanly. Even though, the male artists look at the camera as if they are winking at the gentleman who is watching it, as if to make him jealous and make him buy one more porn video. A gentleman can be made to feel jealous but you shall not make him feel ungentlemanly. To cut it short, I wasn't able to have a good look at the woman, exactly because I was a gentleman at that time, and that's not to say that I am not a gentleman now.
Second Hour:
When I was a kid, people used to call me 'krishnudu'. I would have been happy if they didn't put it in a derogatory way, as they nicknamed me because, in their own words -- I was the naughtiest kid they ever saw. As far as I was concerned, I never stole ghee and other various dairy products, and I never played with my class girls under the trees and behind the bushes. As I grew up, people started calling me 'laziest'. If they had used a much better word as 'lazy', I would have felt a little better, but they always had to use superlatives with me. I never understood how a naughtiest kid becomes laziest.As a teenager, I was once thrown out of my school, accusing me of being a 'devil'. As I grew up into an adult, they started calling me 'stupid', 'idiot', 'rebel', 'loser'. Few days back my teenage cousin kid sister called me, 'kid'.
Now, out of all those words and superlatives, I agree with one, and that is the word 'kid'.
That was what I thought about her when I saw her the first time, as she was descending on the escalator at the fiji airport.
She was wearing a half-Saree. A neatly ironed Saree, I guess made of silk, very cleverly covering every part of her body, but leaving everything to the imagination of the viewer. The half-saree reminded me of my childhood, and those times - pongal,ugadi,festivals, and a culture about which I was nostalgic but not proud about.I had thought that half-Saree became extinct, but when I saw her; I felt as if a creationist found a human skeleton pre-dating monkeys, and realizing his dreams of proving the fallibility of theory of evolution.
Why would a woman wear a half-Saree in modern times, that too while going to Galapagos islands? You see, it was definitely as fashion statement. It was not as if she wore any dress in her sight in her room, as I used to do. She definitely had a thought in mind. She definitely had a connection with that culture, if not a connection, at least an appreciation.That meant she felt a connection with a part of me or appreciated the same part of me.
When I looked again, she was in the middle of her descent on the escalator. I noticed she was looking at some empty space before her, exactly the same way Che Guevara looks in his iconic photo. I noticed a bit of anxiety in her face, which told me that she was not looking at empty space, but looking for something or someone. Something told me that she was looking for mother's love, or any person who would show that kind of love to her. She was searching for a person,preferably a male; who would take care of her, who would accept all her flaws, who would love her unconditionally, who would not judge her, who would be with her all the time, rain or shine.
She was the lost kid looking for love, just like me. A kid. A confused kid. Leave a kid in the adult world and watch her expression. More often than not, you would notice a look of confusion. That was what I noticed in her -- a kid lost in the adult world, unable to understand its rules,regulations and egos; and terribly bored by them.
As she reached the end of the escalator where I was standing, I noticed her a bit more closely and clearly. Her eyes looked tired, and there were dark patches under them. It was as if she hadn't slept much last night, it was as if she was thinking about something. It could be about lost love, she could be thinking about her future, she could be thinking about 'Why am I thinking?', could be about her travel the next day. She might have read a book, wrote something interesting, or she just couldn't sleep because her brain needs to be completely exhausted before it sleeps.
I knew that feeling. The feeling of sleeping late and getting up early. A feeling of thoughts buzzing super fast in the brain because of the sleeplessness, caused exactly because of the same reason. A feeling why the world needs to start its business so early in the morning.
I knew that feeling. I felt sympathy for her, and then bonded with her, and then I fell in love with her. I loved her at that moment.I started loving her from that moment.
Dear Reader, Now I have to tell you about my brother. He is a rascal, a narrow minded brute.He doesn't understand romance, he does not understand love. [ Note : Holmes, I edited this portion of the story as it has some unparliamentary words regarding my character.I promise that I am not what my brother says about me.He is what we call as the 'black sheep' of the family. With your superior mind and analytical abilities, I hope you come to conclusion that he is extremely jealous of me and my success, which BTW, is not much, and which BTW, tells us what a sore loser he has become in his life.]
My brother argued with me for god knows how many times that it was love at first sight. I strongly condemn his judgment in strictest of terms. How could it be love at first sight? first of all....
1. I looked at her many times during her descent on the escalator.So, definitely, it was not love at first sight.
2. Love at first sight is about looks. My love was about what thoughts went behind the looks.
3. It was not love at first sight, it was the first sight of the girl whom I was already loving for the last 25 years of my life.
I refuse to proceed furthur with my proof, as I would like the reader to form his own opinion whether it was love at first sight or not.
She didn't notice me as she got down from the escalator and walked past by me. I watched her as she walked away from me. Her back was beautiful. The silk half-saree made the protrudings very obvious. It was as if the half-Saree was saying to me, ' look, I am very thin and silky, and if you put your hand on her lower back, your hand would slip, and as you slip, you grip her harder, and more you grip her harder the more you slip, and the more your grip her harder..to cut short....you feel her better without even trying. Thats why silk route was the most famous route to china during those days'.
I never thought that a half-Saree could have such a hard and slippery sense of history.
She wore a half-Saree which I like. A silk one which I like. She has a nice lower back which I like. She was made for me. You know, God first makes a woman, and then he makes a man phisically and mentally appropriate to that woman, and then he performs their marriage, and then he throws them away at different and random places, and forgets about them. Thats why they say that marriages are made in heaven. If at all they marry here on earth, then it would be their second marriage, and as the villain in James bond movie said, ' You only marry twice'.
If instead, that man marries a different woman, and the woman marries a different man, then it is not marriage but a miscarriage of god's will, or goddesses will. Sometimes, I wonder about god's gender. I strongly believe god(desses) is a transvestite. Thats why people in Indian trains bribes transvestites (a standard bribe of Rs.10) to not to curse them.[ Note: I strongly condemn my brother's out-of-context and inappropriate remarks about god's gender. I believe that transvestites are also humans, but, you know, not as human as us. As Pope John Paul Buchuk said, God made humans in his own image, and since transvestites are not as-human-as-us, it would be a blasphemy to compare god with them.I hope you get my point]
My mind went chaotic as she went out of my sight. My brain was rehearsing various scenarios to approach her. It was a difficult situation. My mind thought and thought, and then it panicked. When I panic, I really do panic. I ran to the washroom, washed my face and looked at the mirror. I looked at myself for sometime.Then as I turned, I noticed that my image in the mirror didn't turn. My image looked angrily at me and shouted with a resound, 'NO!'
It was not a big deal. I saw the same scene in the 'Gundamma Katha' when jamuna was about to leave her house. Both jamuna and her mirror image discuss pros and cons of leaving the house, and in the end, ofcourse, the real jamuna always wins.
'Screw you! This is boring', I said to my image and walked out.
For the next remaining hour, I thought of many opening lines.
'hi', 'hello', 'namaste', 'weather is nice', 'I saw you somewhere before', 'welcome to fiji', etc..etc...but I felt all of them as cheesy and unoriginal. I was always unchessy and original, as you can tell by the way I tell my story. I am also a great story teller, comparable to the greats of Dostoevsky and the yikes, and I am also very modest and humble.
I also tried to remember a condoms ad I saw as a kid, where a supremely confident man walks and asks for condoms when the other man trembles with embarrassment. That was the kind of confidence I wanted.
"Madam, Can I have a condoms of packets...I mean packet of condoms?", I rehearsed in a low frequency but trembling voice.
Third Hour:
As Holmes began to read the third hour, Watson shouted hysterically...
"Whats wrong with you, Watson", Holmes asked with some alarm.
"Stop it, Holmes, Stop it! I cannot bear this torture anymore. This son of the Yorkshire witch, this brother-in-law of Pennsylvania vampire, and brother of this young man; how dare he compare himself to Dostoevsky, the great Russian writer who produced works like crime and punishment and Brothers Karamazov!! As a writer I am utterly appalled to hear this diatribic sorry-for-an-excuse story. Oh lord bejesus chirst, I feel like a sinner even to call it a story. I would rather watch Margaret Thatcher minus her clothes on a very cold night than listen to this story ", puked Watson. No, Not that puke.He didn't puke, literally I mean.
"But, Watson, we are not reading this story for entertainment purpose. This is an evidence, and thanks to this young man who brought this story in an unedited and pristine condition to us,We are reading this story to psychoanalyze this person.To understand his motivations and desires", said Holmes as he looked at the young man
Watson was about to say something when the young man interrupted him.
"Sorry to interrupt you, Dr.Watson.I am compelled to say something to you," interrupted the young man, " First of all, my soul felt a deep wound when you mentioned my name in the same sentence, that too in a sequential order, along with Yorkshire witch and Pennsylvania vampire. If anyone else said the same to me in the old city, bastimesaval!, I would have hit him soo hard that his scream would be heard from the top of the Golconda fort to the soldier sleeping in secunderabad. After that, he wouldn't even know the difference between somajiguda and habsiguda. Secondly, you mentioned Dostoevsky as a great writer. I disagree with you as I find him pedantic, and thats not to say that my brother is not a horrible writer."
"pedantic?? Do you even know the meaning of that word?"
"Watson, I am gonna excuse you for asking that question as you are ignorant of my background. I have a huge and rather painful flashback. My father was a mathematics professor..."
"What mathematics got to do with this..."
"Let me complete my thought, Watson. My father was a very famous mathematics professor, and he was very strict. He used to carry a big cane with him, and he used to say, 'If I hit you once with this cane, you would feel the pain of hundred canes', but he was slightly wrong about that -- I felt the pain of hundred and one canes when he hit me with that cane. He wanted me to compete in the international mathematics Olympiad. Forget about Olympiad, I couldn't even compete in the school courtyard. As they say in telugu, ' Pandit begets stupid', that's what happened. I developed a terrible fear for his cane, and horrible hatred for mathematics. I turned to literature as a solace and as a revenge.So, in a way you can say that my great Pa was responsible for my literal leanings, and yes, of course, I know the meaning of pedantic for fu... intercourse sake".
"What the hell is literal leaning?", asked Watson satirically.
"Stop it Watson, Stop it young man, Please stop it. What the hell you two are talking about? Young man, I have never seen a client like you in my life, who not only talk nonsense but also make us talk nonsense. We have a problem here. Lets discuss about it. Lets stay on the course and not digress anymore", pleaded Holmes a bit uncharacteristically.
"As you say, Mr.Holmes", replied the young man meekly.
But, Watson was adamant.
"Holmes, let me put up a proposal here. Instead of reading this 'story' in sequential order, let us read the ending, and if its worth any salt then we will read the other hours's excerpts in a random way.Please grant me this wish now. You can read it later if you want to", pleaded Watson in his characteristic way.
Holmes agreed with him, even though he disagreed in his mind.He just wanted to move on.
Holmes started reading aloud the twelfth hour -- the final hour.
The Twelfth Hour :
The truth of the matter was, I wanted to be chased by a woman. Since she was also like me, she also wanted to be chased by a man. She distinctly said that in her own words. If that was a hint..then I thought it was a pretzel, as I didn't care much for it, as my priority of being chased by a woman was much more than her priority of being chased by a man.
So, that was how we played that game. It was like Vishwanthan Anand playing chess with Vishwanathan anand. Its like the cat scratching its own mirror image. Its like..well..I hope you got the point.
But, you can only play games till the twelfth hour. After Twelfth hour, there wont be any hours. Thats why they call it the twelfth hour. But, the fact of the matter was, her plane to Galapagos islands starts exactly at the end of that twelfth hour. She would be gone forever and something must happen in the last hour.
Dear Reader, Love is not a decision. It does not happen consciously. It creeps up on you without you knowing it. But, the difference between me and others is that, I observe it.For me, an unrequited love is a scary concept. When you love someone without that someone responding to your love -- you are hanging on to a thin thread with a deep valley below you.An unrequited love is like a ball (football, I mean to say) in your court when your goalkeeper went on a cigarette break. Its very difficult not to get fucked. Besides, such kind of love is very humiliating. It is like beggar begging and is told to find some work.
Since, I observe that love, and since, I am always in control of emotions most of the time, and if the love object is not responsive to my love hints, I immediately repress that love. I don't feel bad about it either. I am not one of those devadas types. I move on. Love is just one passion of my many passions of my life, one of them, I have to tell you, is a game called 'chamma chekka'.
You might have noticed in the previous hours that she gave me many hints, and I have to tell you though, that what we considered as hints might not be hints at all. Let us give her that benefit of doubt. She was not at all responsible for my love. Let us not drag her in this controversy.Besides, she is a confused kid just like me.
If I thought that her hints were love hints, which I did, you might have wondered why I didn't respond to them. My answer is very simple. You see, I don't know since when, but love and love affairs had always had certain protocol associated with them. The protocol was always " I love you". Its not 'I die for you' or 'I will drink rat poison for you' or ' I will do sepekku for you' , Japanese style. No. The protocol was and is always ' I love you'. Only after that protocol, the love game really starts. Its like the film certificate before the film. In the international court of love, your case would be dismissed immediately if you didn't follow that protocol. (refer lailamaju Vs the state)
That was exactly what I was waiting from her as she was ready to board her flight to the Galapagos islands. I went to her as she stood in her line. She watched me as I walked to her.
"So, you decided to leave?", I asked her.
"I have no choice. I have to go", she replied.
"You wont be happy if you go to Galapagos islands", I said, intentionally skipping the part 'stay with me'.
.................................... No reply.
"Do you think you will be happy?", I asked.
................................... No reply.
Silence. An uncomfortable painful silence.
"You know what", she said breaking the silence.
"what"
"We are Soul Mates", She said, and walked towards her flight, never to turn back, leaving me behind.
Very simple ending.
If you ask me whether I was happy or sad at that moment, I would say neither, I would say that I was just not sad. You see, she did not follow the protocol, and it only meant that she didn't love me. That was very much fine with me. An unrequited love is not love at all. I immediately repressed my love to the deepest and confusing layers of mind. It was as if it didn't exist at all.
I boarded my flight to Australia an hour later.
After a few days of eating my sister's hand-cooked excellent food and becoming fat, I one day went to the garage to find some solitude and may be clandestinely smoke a fag.
Something bothered me for all those days, but I couldn't find what it was. As I sat in the garage, smoking, I realized that I was thinking about her all the time. I was not thinking about her in a erotic way, was not thinking about loving her, or meeting her in parks or going to movies.
When I woke up in the afternoon, I used to think that she might have gotten up in the same manner. When I ate like a pig, I used to think that she too might be eating like a pig. When I felt depressed, I used to think that she might be depressed too. When I was enjoying with a girl, the thought that she too might be enjoying with a guy, at least, did not produce any jealousy.All the feelings I felt, I felt as if she was feeling too. It was the perfect synergy of two souls.
It was if we were Soul........................Mates.
Wait, where did I hear those words? Yes, she did say those words, didn't she?
Did it meant that she understood our relationship much more deeply than I understood it? Was I wrong when I underestimated her deep emotions and necessities, and called her a confused kid?
Dear Reader, that 'Soul Mates' was the trigger which hit the bullet of my repressed love, and the effects of which I am seeing to this day.
What if she meant what she said? What if she wants me? What if this is all my imagination?Even if she meant what she said, What if she changed as sreedevi gets transformed in the climax of Vasantha Kokila. All these what ifs combined together and formed into a Mystery which could never be resolved.
and that's the Mystery of a Soul Mate.
One thing she taught me though; even if she didn't mean what she said, or if she meant what she said but not anymore; is that love has no protocols. If love has any protocol, then the only protocol is the word 'soul mate'.
End of my story.
Holmes stopped reading the story. There was pin drop silence in the room (with the assumption that it was a large pin). Watson went into his thoughts. The young man was staring at the ceiling as if he was trying to remember something.
Holmes broke the silence, " Young man, Your brother seems to be pretty adjusted with his circumstances. It was as if he wanted the mystery to remain a mystery. I think, in the end, he is pretty happy with himself and his soul-mate."
"No, Holmes, No. He is acting crazy", replied the young man.
"okay, let me meet your brother. Let me talk to him"
"No,Holmes. I would not let such a crazy man to come near you.Please don't insist", he begged.
Holmes suddenly laughed out of blue. No one understood why.
"alright! What do you want me do?", asked Holmes.
"Holmes, I need the identity of that woman. I need her address and all the details about her. Most importantly, I would like to know the number of moles and their positions on her body"
"What!!!", both Holmes and Watson exclaimed at the same time with a crazy look on their faces.
"You see, Holmes, I have my own private theory regarding this whole affair. I strongly believe that she is a witch who is hell bent on destroying lives of young men like my brother. I know a witch doctor in the village of bistar near the border of andhra pradesh in orrisa. 20 years back, he woke up the most dangerous evil in the whole world --'Kashmora' to destroy his opponents. It was pretty well documented in the non-fiction books 'tulasi' and 'tulasi dalam'. Because of the development of science and technology, even the devils are asking for psychological profile of the victims. The witch doctor has a theory that the moles and their position on the body has everything to do with the psychology of that person. He calls it 'molistry'. if you can provide me with that woman's mole information, the witch doctor will study her psychology and wake up the appropriate devil. Then, the devil will destroy this woman"
"You are scaring me", whispered obviously scared Watson.
Holmes laughed for close to one minute. Watson looked at Holmes as if he lost his mind. The young man smiled at Holmes.
"Young man, this is the most absurd and hilarious story I ever heard", said Holmes.
"isn't life absurd and hilarious, Holmes?", winked the young man.
"You are right, Young man, You are right", Holmes winked back
Watson felt as if he was in a mental hospital, or rather, an absurd hospital, where he was the doctor and the other two in the room -- his patients. He thought, " The young man said something horrible about witches and destroying that woman, and then Holmes laughed, and the Young man winked at him, and Holmes winked back at him. am I in a dream?"
"So, tell me Holmes, are you going to help me?", asked the young man.
"Of course, Young man, Of course. Contact me in a week", said Holmes.
With that promise from Holmes, the smiling young man left the room.
Holmes turned to Watson to say something.
"No, Holmes.Dont say anything. My mind got super heated. I need a big bottle of brandy to find my sanity. I dont get it. This is all absurd. This is all nonsense. This is all confusing"
"All confusions will be cleared by the end of this week", smiled Holmes.
Da Letter
The week went fast. Watson noticed that Holmes didn't work much on the case, even though he promised to help the young man. Watson tried to not think about it, but the more he tried not to think about it, the more he thought about it. He took a pencil and paper, and wrote the sequence of events. Finally he wrote in big letters, " WHO IS THE VICTIM? FIRST FIND THE VICTIM".
That day, the day Holmes promised to clear all confusions, finally arrived. Watson was anxious the whole morning. Holmes was calmly reading his news paper.
Finally, Watson said, " Holmes, remember your promise?"
"Patience, Watson. I am waiting for a message which should come at any time now ", replied Holmes.
As soon as he completed that sentence, there was a knock on the door, and someone slipped a letter under the door.
Watson ran towards the door,picked up the letter, and opened the door. There was no one outside. Watson opened the letter, and said to Holmes, " This letter is addressed to you"
Holmes smiled and replied, " Read it, Watson. Read it aloud".
Watson started reading the letter.
Dear Sherlock Holmes,
I knew it. I knew it as soon as you smiled at me on that day, that you solved this mystery. I saw the twinkle in your eyes, that by studying me, and understanding my motivations, you understood everything.
I know you are going to explain everything to Dr.Watson. But, before you do it, let me explain to you my motivations in my own words.
Holmes, What is this life all about? I know that's a difficult question to answer. Let me put that question in a different way. What do we do in life?
From the perspective of men, let me answer that question. First of all, let me state the obvious,that we all came from a woman. As kids, we go to school and talk about sports,superheroes and girls. As teenagers, we go to college and talk about sex and girls.As adults, we go our offices, earn money, talk about sundays and women. In the middle age, we talk about retirement and women. While we are on our death bed, we talk about death and women. You see Holmes, for a man, a woman occupies a significant part of his memory. A man falls in love with many women in his life. In that sense, women in general occupies a large part of his memory. If you ask me, 'What is a man?', I would say that a man is collection of memories. If a man is a collection of memories, and if women occupies significant part of his memories, then, is it not logical to say that a man is defined by women? Also, by the same token, Can we say that a man understands a woman mostly by understanding himself? let me get back to this point at a later time.
Now, if a man is his memories, and If the man puts a huge chunk of memories under the label 'do not touch', don't you think that the man is actually half a man? Then the natural question is, why do a man repress his memories? The obvious answer is that people takes themselves too serious. The source of that seriousness -- the lack of perspective in life. If you look at the stars in the sky, and really think about them, and the space, and the earth, and the past history, don't you realize that how insignificant you are in the grand scheme of things? One of the major advantages of thinking yourself as insignificant is that -- it frees you away from the illusions of fame and power. It is a fact that every man's ultimate goal is happiness. But, how many people are happy in this world? What drives people to go after fame and power? Fear drives these people. This fear drives people to take themselves serious. And this seriousness drives them to repress their memories, because they fear those memories and the effect of those memories in present tense. If a man is afraid of his own memories, how can he love a woman with his whole heart. That begs the question, what is love?
What is love, Holmes. A man throws acid on the face of the girl who rejected his love. The society wanted revenge and killed that man in a brutal fake encounter. Didn't the society commit the same mistake the man has committed? What sort of society we are living in when we cure the symptoms instead of the disease. The disease is in the definition of the love itself. Love is not about possessing somebody, love is about sharing souls. You can share your soul with anyone, and sometimes there will be instances where you even mate with a soul. A soul has nothing to do with the physical presence of that person. If Love is nothing but mating of souls, then why do you try to get access to her body. When a man has too much pain in his heart, and when he thinks that his love object would cure his pain, he immediately creates a small world consisting of two people - himself and his object of love. My theory of world says that, that world has been created so as to gain power and fame in that world. All he thinks about is : How can I gain control of that women? How can I be powerful to that woman in this world? He goes through lot of shit to gain control of that woman. He buys her gifts, spends money etc etc..only to gain power over her. He continuously thinks about the world, and this fills him with anxiety. From that anxiety, comes jealousy, and from that jealousy comes distrust, and from that distrust, the girl tries to run away from his world. A man cannot be alone in his world, If he is really alone, then what would be the meaning of power and fame? Once he becomes alone in his world, his soul dies, and he throws acid on the woman. very simple!
When a man says to a woman that she is the whole world for him ---- Run away. It is not about love, It is about power.
Forget about romantic love, lets talk about parental love. Does parents really love their kids or are they emotionally using their kids to escape from their own pain? In order to understand what I am saying, we should study the extreme case -- A borderline personality disordered mother. A BPD mother is always in terrible pain, a pain I am sure you would never have experienced. It is almost like death. A BPD woman runs from man to man, as if the whole race of men will be getting extinct tomorrow. She feels a bit like human only during the times of fresh love. When unfortunately, A BPD woman becomes a mother, She clings on to the child. It was not with love she was doing it, but with the thought that her child is gonna cure her pain. And by doing that she converts her child to BPD religion.
In the same way, the normal mother who has pain, creates her own world containing her kids. Even the facade of freedom she gives to her kids is a strategy to gain power over their kids. When the kids get struck in her world, they become exactly like her. When the mother hurts her own kids and says that she did that because she loves them -- that's all a drama. There are some instances where the mothers are jealous of their daughters especially when they goes away from their control. I am not saying all mothers are like that, I am talking about mothers who has more than normal pain in their hearts.
That begs the question, why even normal women have soo much pain in them? That logically leads to Female Oppression. Let us not talk about the old school female oppression of widows and all that crap. Lets talk about institutionalization of modern women. The modern women never accept that they are oppressed. This is because they were programmed to think in a certain way since their childhood. For example, they are forced to think that they are supposed to get married at a particular age Forget about parents, even the so called modern woman feels anxious as she reaches the age of 25. In that anxiety she chooses the wrong partner. All is well till the honeymoon.Then, she realizes that she got stuck. She sold her dreams for the sake of security, and I ask, security from what? Security from the programmed fears written by the society. When she feels that she got stuck in that world, and that circumstances are deciding her life, She feels anger directed at herself, and that is nothing but pain in her heart.
Marriage is not a security. Marriage is a security in the same way that a jail is a security against road accidents. Thats not to say that there are no successful marriages. I have seen some wonderful marriages. There are as many kinds of marriages as there are kinds of women. Until now, I was talking about men and women in general. But, in reality, each human being is unique. Every human being suffers from at least one psychological disorder. The only solution for all the problems is self-knowledge, which can only be possible if they try to unprogram themselves from the societal programming.
Holmes, I need to cut short here.I didn't sleep the whole night and I feel delirious. I also feel bored of all memories, women,men,marriages and what not. I think I have exhausted my mojo of inspiration. You may ask me, "are you a saint? are you perfect". Of course not. I am just like all those people I am talking about. I go thru ups and downs just like every body else. But, sometimes, a moment of clarity hits me and I have to use that moment. That is this moment. Thats not to say that I don't have a muse, Of course, I have my own muses.
A story is a memory. All we have is our stories. All we leave to next generation is our stories.When we get old, as our memories get weaker, what saves us from that horrible situation of losing our memories is the stories we write.
A man is never alone, Holmes. A man can only be defined by his relationships with the humanity, even in his solitude. We express our emotions to the humanity. We tell stories to the humanity, and we read stories from the humanity. A person's stories, irrespective of the style, always tells something about himself. This is because a person creates art, as every art is a story, in his solitude. Only in his solitude he can be his real-self. Thats why art is powerful, and it needs to have the maximum exposure.
Hope, Watson understands this.
Your biggest fan,
The young man.
PS: Why I don't have a brother? You should put that question to my parents.
2PS : I was really hurt when you commented on my BO. I am always hygienic.
cutshortPS: its okay. well iz all.
There was a silence for couple of seconds.
"Holmes, I thought this letter is going to throw some light on this case. But, it doubly confused me now. What kind of letter is that?? Does it have any relationship to this case? and what the hell is 'Hope, Watson understands this'? What I got to do with any of this? Holmes, please answer", pleaded Watson.
"Where shall I start?", asked Holmes, with a look of immense satisfaction in his face.
"Okay, lets start with the question : is there any mystery in this case?"
"The only mystery in this case is that there is no mystery"
"Okay, I didn't get that answer. let me ask you another question : Who is the victim?"
"I don't call it exactly a victim, But if you insist -- You are the victim, Watson.The victim is you"
Watson was spellbound. For him, it all looked as a never-ending nightmare.
"Me???? I am the victim? That is a fantastic statement, Holmes. I am afraid to say"
"Watson, you have been duped by the young man right from the beginning"
"Holmes, I am not going to ask any more questions.But please explain me the whole thing from the beginning with out stopping as you used to do before, during our glory days"
"Watson, It is actually a very simple story. There once lived an young man in Hyderabad. He wanted to tell a story, and pass on a message,and he wanted to have the whole world as his audience. But, he neither had the money nor resources to do that. But, he had some intellect. He came to know about our visit. He knew that I was interested in mysteries. He knew that you were always interested in writing about my cases. So, he constructed a mystery for us. He wanted to dupe us, and make us work, and then in the end he wanted to reveal that he duped us. He hoped that would a good story for you to write, which of course, includes the story he wrote. I was duped in the beginning, that was why I started liking him. He weaved some absurd stories only to sidetrack you.I am sorry. I let him do that"
"What made him think that I am going to publish his story?"
"Thats because he knows that you are just like him. Just like him, you want to write stories. Just like him you want to share your joy of working with me. You both have this itch of telling stories. You both can never hide anything in your hearts." , explained Holmes.
"So, how much of his story is truth and how much of it is a lie?"
" I don't want to tell you that. Lets leave the facts, write what you feel. A story always writes itself, Watson"
Watson sank bank in his couch, and replayed all the events once again. The key given by Holmes unlocked all his confusions. But, he still didn't know which part of the story was true and which wasn't.
"So, you mean to say that his entire story, including the girl and half-Saree, is a figment of his imagination?"
"It could be, Watson."
"that illegitimate son of queen Elizabeth!", Watson cursed, and then smiled.
"Let me give you a suggestion, Watson. See, we have here four sources of information. 1. Psychology of the Young Man 2. The story he wrote. 3. The story he told 4. His letter. Write the best story you can write using all these sources. That story will be the truth, and its life", suggested Holmes.
"I think I am going to write this story, from my heart, Holmes"
"Excellent, Watson"
"What shall I name this story : Mystery of a soul mate AKA How I got duped?"
"Its better if you name it : Mystery of a horny Buddha"
"What Buddha? What the hell is horny Buddha?"
"You didn't read his 7th hour story?"
"NO"
"Okay, read it then", Holmes handed him a sheet of paper.
Seventh Hour:
When I came back from the washroom, I saw her talking animatedly on the phone.Then she suddenly started crying. I went to her and inquired what was it all about. She sobbed uncontrollably. She said that she lost her promotion in her company, and her colleagues back stabbed her, whom she had trusted with her life. It was not about the promotion she was sad about, but she was in lot of pain because she lost hope in the humanity and its trustworthiness. Her sentimentality moved me. She is just like me, I thought. .Sentimental and compassionate!
I said to her, " Forgive those who hurt you. Forgive yourself. Call them and ask forgiveness.Then only your pain will go away"
"OMG! You talk just like Buddha", she said with smiles among her tears.
She looked very beautiful.
So, I am Buddha for her, I thought.
Then, out of no where, she came and hugged me. I was shocked. I didn't know what to do.
where to put my hands now, I thought.
Then I slid my hands behind her back, but it slipped, and I held her harder, but it slipped again,and I hugged her harder, but it slipped again..
and then I felt.......horny for her.
You know, people ask me why I call myself as Horny Buddha.
Simple reason : I felt as a Buddha for her, and Horny for her at the same time.
Hence, Horny Buddha.
The End.
3 comments:
!
I read it
I even loved it
(existentialism) :)
its acutally a love letter to all women :) have elements of existentialism..
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