It's Easier That Way

The Jones’ house lay in the suburbs of Berlin. A double story, five bedroom villa in one of those neighborhoods where uniformity is exalted and every house looks the same. All the houses were painted white as if in defiance to reality. Every house had its secrets, guarded jealously, and the facade of a peaceful suburbia was encouraged both consciously and subconsciously by the whole community.

In light of this love for normalcy, it is perhaps understandable why the story of the Jones’ child became a legend and was told and retold with countless embellishments and conspiracy theories in later generations. I shall here attempt to give an honest and accurate account of the events that took place.

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The Joneses were a nuclear family. Wilhelm and Minerva Jones, who married when they were 21, and their child, Snigmund. Wilhelm worked as an engineer, a profession he found himself well suited to, and he did quite well for himself and his family.  Minerva was a college lecturer, but was forced to leave her post for reasons that will soon become clear. Snigmund was born on March 12, 1989, three years after her parents had gotten married. She showed signs of incredible intelligence and was speaking in full, fluent and coherent sentences before the age of two. This aptitude for learning greatly pleased Wilhelm, who was an academician at heart. He remarked to his friends repeatedly that his daughter would surpass both her parents’ achievements with considerable ease.

Snigmund was brought up in a strict disciplinarian household. Excellence was expected in every field that was related to cognitive exercises. She was homeschooled; her father had no patience for the school curriculum. She studied arithmetic, logic, Latin, Greek, English and German and  all before she was ten. From the moment she woke up, she was bombarded with devilishly tricky on-the-spot tests, impromptu classes, problem solving exercises and the like. Her “playtime” was two hours a day where the only games she was allowed to play were Sudoku and chess. A tutor also came to her house twice a week to teach her how to play the violin, but she was not permitted to listen to music once he left.  She was not allowed to play with the kids outside, and lived most of her childhood within those four walls. That was the only world she knew. She often begged and pleaded to be allowed outside when she heard the other kids frolicking and laughing, but a stern word from her father would send her scampering back to her arithmetic.

The one thing Snigmund never lacked was reading material. Her father had filled his library with books which were all meant for her. He bought only those books which he approved of and which fell within his disciplinarian view of how his child should turn out.

Books were Snigmund’s one escape. She was a voracious reader, and this was the only activity she could enjoy without going against her parents’ wishes. She read literature, biographies, scientific books, philosophy and historical accounts. Her tree of knowledge had branched out to cover an incredible amount of subjects of which ordinary children her age would not even have heard of. By the time she turned 15, she could hold her own and indeed dominate a conversation with anyone, regardless of age. Visitors to the Jones household were overcome with awe at this teenager with the wisdom and knowledge base of an old man. On these occasions, Wilhelm would outwardly show his pride in her abilities. Otherwise these moments were in short supply.

Outwardly, then, everything was going to plan. Snigmund was a prodigy, picking up complex and convoluted problems and coming up with the simplest solutions, speaking 5 different languages fluently and a virtuoso with the violin.

However the cold, relentless discipline of her timetable from her infancy right up to her mid teens had begun to affect her mind, though the effects went unnoticed for a long time. The first signs showed in minor, subtle ways. Where before Snigmund had been meticulous, obsessive even, in the manner in which her activities were carried out, a hint of absent mindedness began creeping in. She would walk into a room and forget why she came there. She would start a conversation and forget what she was saying halfway through a sentence. Once in the dead of winter, she forgot to wear a muffler and gloves and walked all the way to the grocery and back seemingly unperturbed.  On returning, her mother let out a scream of horror when she glimpsed Snigmund’s face which was blue and seemed to have been drained of all blood.

These incidents were brushed aside by Wilhelm as the eccentricities of genius. After all, Einstein was absent minded too. She simply must have her mind occupied by more important musings.

Then began the sleepwalking.

Minerva awoke one night to the sound of scratching on the wall. Afraid that it might be robbers, or worse, mice, she awoke Wilhelm and made him investigate the source of the noise. Outside, he found Snigmund sitting bolt upright in a chair, scratching paint off the wall and eating it. On waking her up, she had no recollection of being there and did not remember any dream or reason that caused her to act this way. Their fears had no chance of allaying as this soon became a regular occurrence. The perfectly whitewashed house showed the scars of this latest manifestation of mental unrest in the youngest member of the household. Her nails would bleed, leaving a red mark on the spot where she picked at the wall. She was taken to a psychiatrist, a physician and even a homeopathic doctor, none of whom could explain the reasons behind this behavior.

Around this time, (she was now 17) Snigmund was often found walking aimlessly around the house, mumbling to herself. This had been a habit of hers since childhood, it was her way of ideating when faced with a particularly tough problem, and her parents had learnt to give her privacy so as to avoid disturbing her train of thought. But these wandering rambles started increasing in frequency, and her mumbling got louder, and on hearing what was being said, neither Wilhelm nor Minerva could make any sense of the words they heard. It did not seem to be coherent speech. 

Up to this point, her quirks had stayed separate from her academics, and she had continued to excel effortlessly at any subject she put her mind to. Wilhelm was considering her future already, planning her career for her, bringing her books meant for doctorate students, and the 17 year old continued to absorb and understand the intricacies of the subject without particularly taxing her mind. But her increasingly erratic behavior soon began wreaking havoc with her timetables.

Once, on a visit to a relative’s house, Snigmund suddenly went missing, and after two hours of frantically scouring the house and neighborhood, she was found her on the street, staring up at a blank wall, repeatedly mumbling loudly to herself,
“There must be something to it. There must be something to it.”

When confronted, Snigmund had no idea how she ended up on the streets and her last memory was of walking into the kitchen to drink some water.
Soon her mental state abandoned any form of uniformity and she spiraled into complete derangement.

Her condition aggrieved none more than Wilhelm. The best doctors were summoned to analyze her condition, but none could seem to point out a single reason with enough evidence to back it up. All her test results showed a perfectly healthy, indeed highly intelligent girl whose brain functioned at a higher level than average. Psychiatrists suggested that her grueling schedule may have resulted in a breakdown and that she must be given a month’s rest and she would recover.

But Snigmund still retained some remnants of lucidity and in these, she could not function without working in some form or the other. Her mind was simply too used to being worked to its limits, and lethargy seemed dangerously alien to her and unsettled her. And so she would immerse herself in her books, working away as long as her lucid stage lasted and then would suddenly abandon it, cackling loudly and spouting a whole jumble of words, in different languages, completely unrelated to each other. She began screaming at random intervals for no reason, her sleepwalking had become a daily routine, and she had in the past week wet her bed on three occasions.

Wilhelm watched the process of mental degradation reach its zenith with grief born out of crushed dreams and helplessness. His child, who had promised so much, shown so much potential, was today being helped out of her bed and needed guidance to perform the simplest actions. Try as they might, her situation only got worse. In three months time, put under observation for a couple of days, she was declared mentally unfit to function in society without a guardian.

Minerva subsequently went into depression, not having the strength of character to see her little prodigy now being fed meals while shackled to a bed. Wilhelm had a decision to make. He had two options, he could either admit his daughter into an asylum, hoping that they would find the cure that had eluded every doctor so far, or he could take Snigmund home and accept that she would for the rest of her life remain as she was now. Incontinent, incompetent, a retard. He suppressed a shudder as the word crossed his mind.

Wilhelm had now had just about enough of seeing his daughter being pricked, scanned, sliced open and tested. The doctors had done all sorts of horribly invasive tests and each time they came out of the ward looking just as clueless as they had been going in. Minerva was in no state to venture an opinion, and so the burden of responsibility fell squarely and exclusively on his shoulders. He made his decision, the papers were signed, and Snigmund was brought back to the Jones household.

Minerva eventually recovered, quit her job as a college professor and devoted her entire day to Snigmund. Speaking incessantly, bathing, washing, cleaning and changing her, handling all the household chores and also keeping Snigmund away from the walls. It was a full time job in itself, and it drained her energy till she walked about zombie like, performing her chores in a dull stupor.

Wilhelm drowned himself in his work to alleviate his grief. He became volatile and short tempered and fought with someone or the other almost daily. Once he got home, his fractious tone rankled with the already overworked Minerva and their marriage descended into a daily verbal duel followed by a whole evening of icy silence between the two. Amongst this cold war Snigmund continued, blissfully unaware of anything around her, to show more and more manifestations of her mental ailment, each more alarming than the last. She suddenly developed a crippling fear of doorknobs, screaming violently until there were no more doorknobs visible. Wilhelm had all the doors changed to sliding doors, so as to remove any traces of doorknobs from the house.

Snigmund began throwing tantrums, only calming down when she was escorted outside in the garden. Once outside, she would show an insatiable appetite for destruction of property. She would pick the prettiest and healthiest plants and uproot them, spend hours prodding at slugs with a stick, and amuse herself by putting mouthfuls of grass in her mouth, much to the consternation of Minerva, who would always accompany her to the garden.

Minerva, in a rare moment of clarity of judgment, remarked that despite all that had occurred, the one comfort they could take as parents was that their child laughed a lot these days. Something which was unheard of in her glory days. Wilhelm did not reply. He never could fathom these emotional interpretations of situations. His heart was consumed with despair and disappointment.

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Snigmund's Viewpoint

I laugh a lot these days. I have a lot to laugh about. It is really surprising to me that more people do not resort to this. Could it be that I am actually deranged? Or have I just hit upon something that did not occur to many?

It does not matter. I am happy, and that is all one can really wish for.

I still shudder to think what would become of my life if I had followed father’s plans for me. My whole life could have been drawn on a chart paper, reduced to nothing but a very long and meticulous time table. What a waste of an existence! No new experiences, no profundity, merely a machine built to solve problems. If for a moment I believed that I was being pushed to work harder so that I may do well for myself, I may actually have made an effort to justify their belief in me, but I have long since realized what father wanted was not success for my sake, but success that he could flaunt to his relatives and counterparts. It explains how his preparation of my studies and the harshness of my punishments  would pick up in intensity the day a relative or a friend was dropping by. Appearances, that’s all he cares about. That’s all this whole damned community cares about.

It was a good plan from him, I’ll give him that. Homeschooling ensured I did not have a perspective on what I was missing out on in life, strict timetables were almost set up to ensure I didn’t have any time to think of myself. Every ounce of my brain power was engaged in meaningless, obsolete, childlike problems. If only these “scholars” knew what I knew. I could walk out today and revolutionize the entire foundation on which the empire that is German industrialism is based. And father would be so proud, yes, he would be. He would gloat to his colleagues. “I homeschooled her, and look where she is today.”
Yes, it was a good plan, but there was one flaw, one major flaw. They gave me books.

Books are exceptionally good shapeshifters. There may be only one book on earth and each one of us 6 billion could take away 6 billion different truths from it. Father did his utmost to only buy those books which served his purpose, but books are deceptive. I think someone somewhere had issued a warning about not judging books by their covers. But clichés are rarely taken seriously anymore.

The books dad got me would have served his purpose, yes. But only to a mind like his. My mind is nothing like his (and thank god for that).  I have always understood books. I do not only speak of the black marks on the white page, I mean the essence of it, the truths you learn and the application thereof in the real world. Something as mundane as a metallurgy textbook can teach one to permeate the mysteries of interpersonal relationships, if one has the mind to grasp the connection.

I had seen the path I was set upon a long time ago, I must have been about twelve then. And I had decided there and then that it was not to be. I did not want my life to be an example for countless other children being similarly enslaved in pursuit of bragging rights. But this was not my main motive; the real reason was much more selfish. In today’s world, and in Germany especially, there is an unhealthy  obsession with rules and conformity. Discipline, obedience and submissiveness are worshipped. My mind rebels at uniformity. I gave my whole childhood up to rules. Now I have had enough. I will never follow another rule for the rest of my life. Today I was declared clinically insane. I am, as of today, absolutely free.

It was all too easy. The very books my father gave me as stepping stones to fulfill his dream, the books that were to be the making of me, those very books gave me my way out. A careful study of symptoms, the rate of occurrences, the possible causes, means of detection, treatments and curability of any particular disease, all these factors can be researched upon while reading a perfectly acceptable book according to my dear father’s standards.

After that it was merely a case of choosing the moments. I had to be careful, my parents are not stupid. Overdoing it was bound to have caused an overreaction, or raised enough suspicion to put paid to my plan. And waiting was not an option, my mind would have imploded if I was forced to live this way for another month.

Once the execution stage began, it was actually quite fun. Behaving like a lunatic seemed so natural and so free to me that I am inclined to believe humans were naturally insane and later evolved to a state of sanity. I feel animalistic, instinctual, raw, untamed. And it never fails to amuse me that these so called sane people have to scurry about and turn their lives upside down at the whim and fancy of one 17 year old who decided to be a little different. Just goes to show you how unstable today’s society is. Today I could wipe my own feces on the house walls, and it would embarrass everyone but me. Such freedom and unrestricted living is intoxicating. I know now I can never go back to what they call normalcy. If I were ever found out, I would commit suicide. I will not allow myself to be a captive once more.

Soon I will legally be an adult. Just another label to stick on me. But I will be different. I get whatever I want. I don’t have any fiscal responsibilities. Actually, while we’re at it, I don’t have any responsibilities at all. I am an autocrat in my own house. In that way I suppose I take after my father.

"I have the right to answer all accusations against me with an eternal "That's me". I am apart from all the world and accept conditions from nobody. I demand subjection even to my fancies and people should find it quite natural when I yield to this or that distraction." - Napoleon Bonaparte

I have all my demands fulfilled, and I am not expected to fulfill any in return. I am treated as a queen wherever I go, not to mention the freebies I score at the shop. People go out of their way to be nice to me, the world isn’t out to get me, because they don’t believe I am a threat. I’m just a girl who pees her pants.

Well, I will allow them their delusions, as long as I am allowed my freedom.
It’s easier that way. 

It is Time

Nawaf Ahmed sat at his desk, working away, typing furiously into his laptop. His eyebrows knitted in concentration, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead, trickled down the bridge of his nose, and hung there, as if in expectation. His jaws were clenched shut, his teeth grinding against each other as his mind flew faster even than his hands, always thinking ahead, formulating the next train of thought while the current one was materializing. His headphones were plugged in, playing a furious Wagner symphony, spurring him on to greater thoughts and greater speed.

His desk lay against the wall, the window open to let in the breeze. There was none to cool him today, though. The leaves of the trees nearby seemed to be set in stone. No rustle would be heard this night. His house was perched near the top of the hill, and at night, the view that one might behold by the light of the moon was breathtaking. Nawaf, however had eyes only for his screen. In this mood he rarely ever noticed the world around him.

A tap on his shoulder jolted him out of his trance. It was only when he stopped typing and unplugged his headphones that he realized how his hands were hurting and how long he had been working without a break. All the aches and sores came alive, his brain overwhelmed by the sensations, did not at first comprehend the source of the disturbance.

“Sorry, what?”

“Haven’t you been working late enough? It is 2 AM. Sleep now, the work can wait till tomorrow. This is no time for us to be awake.”

His mind focused on his mother’s face. She was a hardened woman, having raised and supported him completely on her own with no outside help. She took a fierce pride in her son’s professional excellence, but she was, in the end, a mother.

“Only an hour’s work left, mother. I have to submit this article before 7 AM, it’s best to get it over with now.”

“You haven’t had anything to eat either, working for so long continuously is not healthy. You are only 24 and already your bones creak and groan like an old lady’s.”

Nawaf smiled, gave his mother a hug and walked into the kitchen with her. One glass of tang and a perfectly cooked omelet later, he actually felt much better than he would dare to admit to her. She was always right, but he didn't need to let her know that.

“I ate now, mother. May I go work?”

“Night time is the time of the devil, us humans are supposed to be asleep.”

“Well, you did raise a devil of a son, you must make some allowances.”

His mother heaved a sigh, a mother’s sigh. One that indicates approval, disapproval, resignation and exasperation all rolled into one. She kissed his forehead and retired into her room. No matter how late she stayed up, she was always awake at 6 AM every morning, cooking for him and cleaning the house right after her morning prayers. Nawaf often wondered when she got any rest. His body was on the verge of a breakdown, and he decided to finish his article quickly so he could sleep till late in the morning and recuperate.

“All right, last session, let’s get this over with.”

Continuously working nights alone had caused Nawaf to develop peculiar habits. Constant conversations with himself out loud were one of them. He had found it a tough habit to get rid of and now spoke to himself even when in company. People always referred to him as half schizo, well on his way. His boss didn't care, as long as the articles kept rolling in.

He resumed his position at the desk, took a moment to gather his thoughts, and soon the fingers took flight once more. Words poured out of him, his lips moving in silent pronunciation. Soon his article was finished. He reread the whole thing, ruthlessly slashing out any part that did not meet his exceptionally high standards, adding a clarifying note here and there. Within an hour, he was quite satisfied with his creation and proceeded to mail it to his boss.

“Game, set, match, Nawaf,” he said, with no little amount of pride.

 He stretched his stiff back, gave an almighty yawn, glanced out of the window and took in the view. The hillside stretched down towards the river, dotted with trees and other houses. Pathways crisscrossed  in a labyrinth of intersections, creating a wondrously symmetrical  design in the dark for Nawaf’s weary eyes. At this hour, the whole town was asleep. Nawaf had hardly ever seen a light on past 11 PM.

Mist had just begun to swirl in and obscure his view, lazily wafting into his room through the open window. Nawaf shivered. The night had turned cold all of a sudden and his damp forehead amplified its effect. He leaned out to shut the window to the cold, when he heard the tinkle of jewelry. He paused, ears cocked, wondering if he had imagined it. He hadn't, he heard it again.

He squinted into the night to try and identify the source of the noise. The mist made it tougher to see anything. But in the gloom he saw a lantern flickering some way down the mountain. From the light of the lantern he spotted a shape, a crooked shape, bent almost double as one is in extreme old age. The lateness of the hour made Nawaf curious as to what this villager was up to. His sleep suddenly forgotten, he stared intently and tried to make sense of the occurrence.

The shape stepped into the light of the lantern and sat down on a chair. Nawaf saw now that it was a woman.  But she did not seem to be any ordinary woman. She was bedecked with jewelry of unimaginable quantities. Nawaf was not sure if her crooked gait was due to her age or the sheer weight of the gold she wore. Ornaments of the most extravagant nature were on display, reflecting the lantern light and tinkling against each other at the slightest movement.

“What in the world is she doing wearing jewelry at this time of the night?” wondered Nawaf.

He encountered a strange feeling in his stomach. The kind that tells you that you’re seeing something not meant to be seen. A fear gripped Nawaf, and despite the growing cold, a sweat began to form on his forehead once again. He wanted to sleep, but he could not take his eyes off the woman. The woman, on her part, seemed oblivious and sat motionless in the chair, almost as if in a trance. For how long Nawaf would have stayed there staring, he did not know, but he was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of the call for morning prayers from the nearby mosque.

Nawaf remembered suddenly that his mom would be up soon and dreaded the lecture he would get if she saw that he hadn't slept. He glanced at her room nervously, then looked back out the window. The lady was gone.

He crawled into bed, intrigued, but thoroughly perplexed. He had never seen that woman around the village before and was very interested to know who she was. He made a mental note to ask his mother.

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Nawaf awoke late in the afternoon, his lunch lay cold upon the table, his mom was outside tending the vegetable patch. He ate quickly, hardly tasting what he ate, washed his face and rushed outside to help his mother.

“Good morning, mother.”

“You live in India, Nawaf, in these parts we call these evenings.”

“I prefer not to dwell on unimportant details. However what I am interested in, is whose house that is.” He pointed out the house he had watched the night before to his mother. She gave it a cursory glance and said, “That’s Waseem Uncle’s house. Why are you interested in it?”

“Who lives there these days?”

“No one. Waseem Uncle used to live there alone. But since his death that house has been deserted. The land is not particularly precious, so the villagers keep their hands off it. You were young, you did not know him so well.”

“How did he die?”

“It was very strange. He was about to get married after a very long wait. He was, after all, 45. And just two nights before his wedding, he took a walk at night in the mountains, he slipped and fell into the Chenab. And you know what they say, once you fall into the Chenab, your next stop is Pakistan.”

Nawaf thought about it all day. So he had died just days before his wedding, and now there was a woman who waited outside his house every night wearing tons of jewelry. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out, Nawaf had seen enough movies. This must be the woman to whom Waseem Uncle was to be married. And in her loyalty to him, she would wait outside his house, in full wedding apparel and look for his arrival. She must be unable to accept his death. Nawaf’s heart went out to the lady, to bear such heartbreak at such an advanced age was terrible.

That night Nawaf stayed up late again. But not for the sake of any article or other work, but out of pure curiosity. He was enthralled by the idea of that woman waiting out there and he wanted to know more. He waited for a long time with no sign of her, but around three o’ clock, he saw the lantern flicker on and there she was, dressed in exactly the same way as the night before. Nawaf did not hesitate, he took his overcoat, stepping lightly around the house to make no noise, opened the backdoor and slipped outside. Once outside, he hurriedly walked towards the flickering lantern, shielding himself from the biting wind. On approaching the house, he wondered how he was to go about the conversation, apprehensive of her reaction to his intrusion. Presently, he reached the gate to the house. The lady sat there motionless, taking no notice of him,

“Assalaam - u - alaikum,” he began, tentatively. He received no reply.

“I’m sorry to intrude this way, but I noticed you have been sitting here in the dead of the night waiting for something or someone. May I know who it is? Is there any way I can be of help?”

The lady did not say anything, but the faint trace of a smile began to show on her features. She looked much younger than Nawaf originally imagined her to be. And he could see she would have been beautiful in her day, but her face now seemed worn and beaten with the cares of life.

“I have been waiting for a long time.”

Her reply did not come loaded with emotion, she did not say it melodramatically. It was merely a statement. Nawaf looked at her, she was wearing a heavy gown under all the jewelry, but she wore no coat or sweater.

“Do you want me to get you a blanket or a jacket or something,” he asked, struggling to keep the conversation going, “you must be really cold.”

The woman’s smile widened. “Yes, I am cold. Weather does not affect me now.”

“This woman is seriously creepy,” thought Nawaf to himself. He regretted having come down here to talk to her and longed for the warmth of his bed. However he still hadn’t received any answers. The journalist in him stood strong.

“Are you waiting for Waseem Uncle?”

The smile vanished, the lady suddenly looked terrifying, terrible. Her face seemed to age a thousand years in an instant. She glared at Nawaf, stood up, switched off the lantern and walked away. She went not into the house, but behind it and disappeared from sight.

Nawaf hurried back home and fell asleep. The night’s events were too much for his mind to figure out, he would leave it till the morning.

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“I met her yesterday.” Nawaf said to his mother, munching on some butter toast.

“Thank God you are meeting girls. You are 24 now, it is time for you to get married.”

Nawaf chuckled to himself. Before his mother could lecture him on the perks of early marriage again, he corrected her assumption.

“No, no, mother, not a prospective bride. I met Waseem Uncle’s fiancée. She was outside his house yesterday.”

Nawaf’s mother stopped cooking for a second and looked at Nawaf to check if this was another one of his jokes. She was his mother and knew him inside out, but somehow she could never tell when he was kidding. This time though, he seemed serious enough.

“What do you mean you met her? How do you even know it was her?”

The point hadn't occurred to Nawaf before and he considered it now.

“She was wearing wedding clothes and she reacted violently when I mentioned Waseem Uncle to her. I did not confirm her identity, but I think it is a safe bet, don’t you?”

His mother stared at him with increasing concern, her face becoming pale, she began muttering a prayer under her breath.

“Mother? What’s wrong”

“Nawaf, promise me you will never go there again. Swear on my life.”

“But mama, what happened?”

“Waseem Uncle’s fiancée is now happily married with two kids in Mumbai. I have her photo with me, wait.”

She showed Nawaf a picture of a beautiful woman with a radiant face and a charismatic smile. This was not the woman Nawaf had seen last night. This perplexed him even more.

“Then who was that last night? Why would she be waiting outside his house in a wedding dress?”

“Nawaf, please leave it alone. It could have been a djinn or a spirit, I’m very worried. Uncle Waseem’s death also occurred under mysterious circumstances. Just promise me you’ll leave it alone.” She was tearing up now.

“Okay, okay. Calm down, mother, I won’t ever go there again. I promise.”

His mother looked at him for a long moment, then kissed his forehead and continued with her day’s work. Nawaf banished the memory of the lady to the back of his mind and immersed himself in another article.
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That night, around three, Nawaf heard the tinkle of jewelry again.

“I promised mother, I cannot break my promise. Just ignore it.”

He stood up and walked away from the desk and lay down on his bed, nervously muttering a prayer. He was not a religious man, but under the circumstances, he figured it was better to be safe than sorry.
Just as the clock struck three, Nawaf heard a whisper, as if emanating from right beside him. “It is time.”
He jumped and looked around, there was no one. But he knew he had heard the lady whisper to him.
He looked out the window and saw the lantern flicker in the distance.

The light held a strange attraction to him. He forgot all about the promise he made his mother.
He forgot all he had heard that afternoon. He did not even remember why he was walking out of the house. All he knew was he wanted to get closer to that light. He quietly unlocked the door and stepped out.

He was never seen by human eyes again.
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Many years have passed since that tragic incident occurred. Mrs. Ahmed lives alone in the same cottage.
Nawaf’s room has been preserved just as he had left it on that night. Every night, she offers her prayers to God, though now she has precious little to pray for. Every night she glances at Nawaf’s bedroom with tear filled eyes. Every night she asks the darkness why Nawaf broke his promise.

The White Curtain

“Wake up, Amir. It’s time for school.”

Amir opened his eyes and blearily looked out the window. Every morning since he could remember, he had awoken to the sight of that stunning landscape. The Himalayas stood proud and mighty, like a wall of white guarding the very gates of heaven. Clouds floated leisurely up towards the mountains and, finding them impenetrable, contented themselves with lazily milling around and creating fantastic shapes for those lucky enough to see them. Amir saw them now and the overwhelming whiteness of the clouds and the sunlight reflecting off the snow removed the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes.

“Yes, Ammi, I am awake.”

His mother turned away, smiling. She never once had to check on him once he had awoken. Amir was the definition of a morning person and it made life much easier for her. She had six other kids who laid claim to her attentions.

Amir bathed, got dressed, shoveled down his breakfast and stood waiting for his brothers at the door, impatient to get going. His brothers glared at him, they could never understand how a child Amir’s age could ever be eager to go to school.

“What in the world do you like about school anyway? They make us do so much work, it’s so boring.”

“It’s fun if you stop looking at it as work,” said Amir, wisely.

“Sometimes I think you must have been adopted.”

Amir giggled, his brothers’ irritability amused him. And what secretly made him even gladder was that no one, not even his mother, knew the real reason for his eagerness. That secret remained within Amir, and its warmth made his face positively radiant.

The brothers set off towards school, situated three kilometers away near the base of a particularly beautiful mountain. The school had no classrooms, the students were taught in the open air, under the shade of a tree or in the adjoining meadows. The daily trek took the brothers forty minutes each way, mostly because they spent the majority of the time chasing each other, getting into fights and organizing impromptu races. Amir always stayed out of these games; however he was secretly glad of these delays.
They gave him an excuse to tarry a while longer and listen to the voice he so craved.

 Every morning for the past five years, when walking these streets to school, or on weekends to the grocer’s, Amir heard the most beautiful voice ring out to him. He had never heard a voice that could so effortlessly pierce his heart and from the very first day he had been lovestruck. The voice would sing songs of love in perfect English, and the purity of the voice held Amir in thrall no matter how many times he heard it. Over the years he memorized the songs and would hum along quietly as he went on his way. He liked to think she sang only for him, and indeed he seemed to be the only one who ever paid any attention to her voice. His brothers remained immersed in their fun and games and never once mentioned or wondered as to the origins of the voice. Amir was careful never to show his excitement, fearful that he would never be allowed to listen to her voice in peace if his infatuation became known amongst his brothers.

Where the voice came from, Amir himself did not know. His village was a large-ish one, with the houses spread wide over the plain on one side, and climbing up the mountain on the other. The houses near the higher end of the mountain lay hid from view by the expanse of clouds that collected at the side of the mountain. Amir had never ventured that far up; the clouds formed a vast, white curtain, hiding all behind it in a luminescent veil. From behind this curtain it was that the ethereal voice emanated. The silence of the mountain valley allowed it to carry over great distances and it was always clearly audible to Amir for the duration of his treks.

He would often sit at his window at home and try and put a face to the voice.
“Such a voice must have a face most beautiful,” he would say to himself. But then he would remember the pain in her songs and he would feel depressed, cursing at the world for its heartlessness in dealing out misery to even its most beautiful creatures. He would chide himself for not being brave enough to cross the white curtain and see her with his own eyes, to rescue her from her worries. He imagined himself as a white knight, disappearing in the whiteness of the clouds, to re-emerge with the maiden in his arms, safe from the world’s troubles. But they were a mental block for him. Try as he might, Amir could never muster up the courage to go and see what lay beyond the clouds. He would rage at the clouds, cursing them for denying him the pleasure of setting his eyes upon her. Then he would snap out of it, shake his head sadly, and say to himself, “What can you do, Amir, you are only a boy of ten.” And so shaking his head, he would put himself to sleep. Every night, Amir’s hopes died this death, and yet he always found them alive and kicking the very next morning.

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“Wake up, Amir, it’s time for work.”

Amir opened his eyes and blearily looked out the window. He was a strapping lad of 17 now, and the years had brought a muscular toughness to his frame, but his eyes remained as soft as ever.
Lots had changed over the years, his brothers, all elder than him, had married and gone away.
His father had retired and now spent his days helping around the house. The house expenses were taken care of by Amir, who now plied his trade as a highly competent carpenter.

Lots had changed indeed. But for Amir, the most important thing remained the same.
 He still heard her voice every morning.

He got ready for work, ate a hearty breakfast with his parents and then bade them a hurried goodbye.
Once on the street, his ears immediately strained to hear her voice ring out over the valley. The village had changed so much so fast, technology making it seem so rigid and geometrical where it had once been flowing and natural. But neither technology nor time seemed to affect her voice in the least. She still sang today with the same clarity and the same feeling in her voice as she had in the days of his childhood.

Amir trudged on slowly, reluctant to move on from the spot where her voice seemed the closest. He stopped for a while, deep in thought. Suddenly a look of determination set upon his face.

“I am no longer a child. I am no longer afraid. I can seek her out and confess my feelings. I could put an end to her pain and misery. I can marry her and bring her to live with me. Then I can listen to her sing to me whenever I wish.”

Such thoughts ran through his brain as he stood listening. There was nothing stopping him, yet he hesitated. For twelve years now, this woman had lived in his dreams. She was a spirit, beautiful and otherworldly, he attributed qualities to her which had no basis in reality. Amir was afraid that his trespass beyond the curtain may put an end to that fairy tale. He was afraid of the voice losing its aura once he had glimpsed the singer. He was afraid of his dream dying forever.

But he was more afraid of being a coward. And so he made up his mind and turned to walk up the mountain. The climb was steep and the streets were unfamiliar. Amir kept glancing nervously down at the village, as if unsure if he would ever return. Higher and higher he climbed, looking about him, taking in every new sight and sound. After climbing for a while, Amir glanced down again and gasped.

Before him stretched out not the village below him, but an immense sea of white. He felt almost God-like, standing upon the clouds, staring away into nothingness. He marveled at the view and felt a pang of irritation at himself that he had never before witnessed this spectacle. The melodic voice did not seem out of place in this setting, it seemed as appropriate as the harpist would in heaven.

Amir continued along the streets, guided, almost beckoned by her songs. He stopped to ask directions from an elderly old man.

“Excuse me, could you point me in the direction of the house from which the woman sings?”

The old man gave him a strange look and then pointed at a dilapidated building up the street.

“Thank you,” said Amir, turning to look at the building.

“I swear this generation’s kids are getting nuttier by the minute.”

Amir ignored the man’s comment. He had ears only for her voice, but now his eyes craved her too.
He was unsure of how to approach the matter, he couldn't very well just barge in. But in the end, he decided honesty was the best and simplest way to go about it. At worst he would be turned away at the door.

He reached the building, her voice almost tangible to him, tantalizingly daring him to enter. Amir knocked twice. The woman stopped singing immediately.

A man of fifty or so opened the door. He was in his night clothes, wearing a loose t-shirt and  pajamas and did not look like he had washed his face. His eyes were moist as though he had been crying, but upon his face was the most joyous smile. He looked at Amir curiously, as one does when one is visited unexpectedly by strangers.

“Good morning, sir. My name is Amir, I am from this village, I live a little further down. I was wondering if I could have a few words with you.”

The man did not say anything but stepped aside to let Amir in. The house looked even shabbier on the inside. Pieces of paper lay strewn all over the floor, dishes lay unwashed, the shelves coated in dust.
“How could she live in such a place?” Amir thought to himself.

He could not spot a chair to sit on, so he cleared a few feet of space and sat on the floor, the old man sat on the table.

“I realize this visit is sudden and unexpected, but I came to speak with you about the lady upstairs who sings every morning.”

The old man’s face lit up, no longer suspicious, but bore the expression of one who is conversing about his favorite subject .

“Ah, you mean Ella. I hope she has not troubled you with her voice?”

Amir indicated that this was not the case.

“Then you are a fan, wonderful, wonderful. It is rare to find boys of your age who appreciate the quality of her singing. Most of the visitors I get are complainants who are tired of her voice and want me to make it stop. As if I was anyone to stop her singing!”

“She has the most wonderful voice, I have listened to her every day since I was five,” said Amir.

“Wonderful, wonderful. This makes me very happy. Won’t you have some tea?” the old man asked meekly. Amir got the impression he did not have any tea to offer. He refused politely.

“I was wondering, sir, if it would be possible for me to meet her?”

The old man let out a great laugh and slapped his thigh. “Why certainly, nothing would make me happier.”

Up he pranced and took Amir by the hand and led him up the staircase. He led the way into a small corridor at the end of which a closed door was barely visible. Amir’s heart thumped loudly in his ears as he approached.

The door opened to an empty room. It consisted of a bed, a cupboard and a table. The man walked to the end of the room and busied himself fidgeting with something on the table.

Suddenly Amir’s ears were filled with her voice, coming from within the room, as loud and as clear as if she were singing from within him. He glanced confusedly at the old man, and he pointed at his table, grinning widely. Amir looked at the table and understanding washed over him.

On the table stood a tape recorder.

“This is my faithful old tape recorder. It belonged to my father, it came into my possession when he passed away. I own only one tape, and I play it every morning from start to end.”

He held up a cassette cover, Amir read the words, “The Best of Ella Fitzgerald.”

Amir did not speak. He sat in the room for an hour, listening to the voice he was so familiar with. Finally he took his leave from the old man, thanked him, and left.

Out in the streets, Amir walked aimlessly. He was unsure of how he felt. Eventually his footsteps took him back downwards towards his workplace. He gazed about emptily, the picture of the tape recorder stuck in his head. He reached the spot where he had made his fateful decision and looked up.

The clouds were there, they always were. Her voice was still there too, as clear and real as ever.
Amir smiled. He had gone looking for a woman and he had found music, unchanging and eternal. Time or weather would not affect her, he would hear her voice every morning, coming to him from beyond the curtain.

The Laughing Buddha

Gautum was a sports fanatic. His entire childhood had been spent using his innovative mind to manufacture that extra hour of playtime everyday that every child craves. He had been brought up in a strict household, one that demanded academic excellence. He realized very early on that for his sporting activities to be given a loose reign, he had to ensure his academic proficiency never came into doubt. To this end, he worked hard, almost feverishly in school, always ensuring his marks were at a respectable level. But academics never interested him. They taught him nothing of value. They were a means to an end. In his free time, Gautum would sprint outside to the neighborhood playground and put his heart and soul into whatever sport the boys were playing that day. He did not have a preference, tennis, badminton, basketball, football, cricket, volleyball, Gautum loved every sport the same. He was in his element. His diligence quickly made him the best sportsman in the neighborhood, he was always appointed captain, and his opposing team was always loaded with the strongest players to make the teams equal. He never bothered with books about sports. He didn't believe sports was something that could be taught from a textbook. His entire sports philosophy rested on two pillars, passion and hard work. Once a match started, the only thing that mattered was victory and excellence. The usually genial child’s face would contort into a red, sweat drenched mask of concentration. His eyes had grown so used to concentrating on the ball, he developed a squint which remained on his face throughout his life.

The only time he skipped a day in the playgrounds was when one of his countless sporting idols was on display on TV. He would sit for hours on end, studying every move in minute detail, practicing it himself in his room. His game evolved to emulate those he worshipped on TV. He would even copy their mannerisms, not knowing which one would hold the key for that transition from excellence into genius.
When he slept, he would dream of one day playing in a huge stadium crowded with thousands of fans and watched by millions on television. He dreamt of kids who would watch him, worship him, and try to emulate him just as he had done to so many of his idols. He was notoriously difficult to wake up on these nights as his mind was reluctant to leave this world of dreams.

Gautum matured into a stout, athletic adult, and his talent had developed to a fearsome level. High school passed in a blur of trophies, medals and outstanding achievements. He had qualified for the Under 14, Under 17 and Under 19 nationals and was a class apart even at that level.  He got into a Commerce college without any hassle under the Sports Quota and another flurry of certificates and trophies followed. He was a star, students loved him, teachers were proud of him. The transition into professional sports was thought of as only a matter of time.

But life seldom follows the track set out for it. His family had hit upon financial difficulties over the years and his consistently respectable marks had given his parents hope that he would graduate and take up a job in the corporate sector and alleviate their monetary concerns. On graduation, his parents set down the rules, put their foot down and absolutely refused to budge. Gautum resisted, fought, pleaded, begged, but their stance was resolute. Gautum was shell shocked. He saw before him, in a matter of days, his dreams of 20 years crumbling into a fine layer of dust which proceeded to leak out of the now gaping hole in his heart. He got a decent job at a decent company and proceeded to do decently well at it for the rest of his days. His parents were content and his dream was dead.


“I'd like to fly,
But my wings have been so denied” – Alice in Chains
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Fifteen years later, Gautum sat on the balcony of his fifth floor apartment, watching some kids play football. He was a senior executive now, doing quite well for himself. His parents had passed away recently, he lived alone. He spent his evenings watching matches on television or watching the kids downstairs play their games as he had done so many years ago. His love for sports had never gone away.
He noticed a boy of twelve or thirteen struggling to keep up with the elder boys around him. The boy was not lacking in ability, but struggled to physically compete with his stronger, faster athletes. Gautum watched him closely, noting many errors in technique and a generally unpolished game. He could see the boy get demoralized every time he was outmuscled, out maneuvered, outwitted. But the boy kept coming back to play, no matter what the weather, and no matter what the challenge facing him.

One day, after a particularly tough match in which he was hopelessly mismatched, the boy broke down, crawled into a corner and began to weep. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Gautum.

“You will be a great sportsman one day.”

It was not a grand announcement, it was not an empty sentence of encouragement. It was a simple statement, one spoken with conviction and based on experience. Gautum had seen the two pillars of excellence in this boy, hard work and passion.

The boy he took under his wing. Every day for four hours he tutored him. Teaching him the tricks of the trade. Telling him how to use his opponent’s strength against them, how to maximize his skill and compensate for his weaknesses. In the boy he found a willing and sincere student. He never missed a session of practice, never made the same mistake twice and most importantly, never thought he knew enough and retained his hunger to learn even more. His game came along in leaps and bounds and soon he was not only competing with his earlier tormentors, but comprehensively beating them. His mental strength increased, but he never became complacent, he strove to better himself even when there was no one who could compete with him. Gautum taught him the intricacies and subtleties of the sport, pouring a lifetime of knowledge into this expectant sponge.

Their relationship grew stronger over the years. They would sit long after practice sessions and discuss their favourite moments or the sportsmen they admired most. They would regale each other with funny anecdotes. And all the while, Gautum held within himself the faint hope that this young man would become what he couldn’t.

One day, getting ready for the day’s practice session, Gautum looked up to see the boy standing in his room, his bags packed, clothed in a suit and tie.

“I’m leaving, Gautum sir. I got through the entrance exam at Delhi University.”

Gautum stared for a while, unspeaking. Then he went into his room, took down his favourite poster of his footballing idol, Ryan Giggs, and presented it as a gift. The boy, tears in his eyes, accepted the gift and left.

Gautum sighed, took off his shoes and settled back down on the sofa to watch the match.
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A few years passed and Gautum was now a middle aged man, balding and obese. He had always retained his athlete’s appetite, but had stopped any physical activity years ago. His belly protruded forward and hung down, as he sat munching on a beef burger. It had been a boring Sunday so far, but a football match was about to start and he waited expectantly.

The show started and the pundits discussed both the teams.

“Very exciting news for Millwall FC as they confirm the signing of the bright young talent from India. 
From all accounts, this boy is the next big thing in the footballing world and we cannot wait to see him ply his trade in the best league in the world.”

The beef burger lay still on the plate, confused by the sudden lack of interest from its holder.
Gautum stared at the screen transfixed. The picture of the young boy from his neighborhood popped up on screen. Only now it was of a young man. A young man who had just joined a professional football team in England. He was on his way to stardom.

Gautum felt something bubbling inside him. A smile broke upon his face. He began to quiver and shake with glee. Soon he was in raptures, laughing heartily, open mouthed, with his hands raised above his head.

That laugh never died.

Walking Home from College

It is a curious thing, the Indian mind.  One can never really truly fathom it unless one has lived and experienced it in all its glory and learnt to differentiate between the subtle variants that are present in such abundance in this country. It is almost criminal in India to not belong to any faction. The logic being that if you pledge allegiance to one or the other group, in a country with such a vast population as this, you make classification a tad easier. One can immediately be described as the tall, fat, bald Kashmiri Muslim or the pissed off, over-gelled Delhi brat, or the sweet, slightly preachy social worker or the intellectual, artistic Bengali writer. It helps make some sense of a situation that has long since spiralled out of control.

The classification I am most concerned about, as I make my way down the narrow streets of Palampur is the lecher. Not just any lecher, but the Indian variant. The one that believes he is unnoticeable and invisible as long as he keeps a distance of 10 meters and looks the other way when I meet his eye.

I am not a large woman. 5’3”, thinner than the atmosphere in Mars, and a face that betrays fear far too easily. If Darwin’s survival of the fittest theory really worked, I’d be the first in line for extinction. I might as well have a neon lighted sign pointing at me saying, “TROUBLE WELCOME HERE”.
But I live on, a perpetual “Fuck you” to Darwin.

My diminutive stature has not gone unnoticed, wherever I went, my family ensured I usually had an escort. I was to be picked up, dropped, accompanied and guided to every activity in my life by a “strong figure”, usually my father or brother. Today, though, was an exception. My personal security firm had failed to turn up and I faced the prospect of walking 5 kilometres back home alone, with Palampur, still deciding if it is a city or a town, looming large and menacing before me. The same buildings that were insignificant blurs and blotches on the landscape every other day, suddenly seemed to teem with possibilities of unspeakable horrors. My furtive eyes took in every detail, and my imaginative mind (I am of that artistic Bengali class) refused to calm down and played out every single scenario in gory detail before my eyes.

When a woman walks alone on a street in India, she is an instant celebrity. Every male in the vicinity gawks, nudges his partner, passes a comment which he sincerely believes to be witty and original, and then aloofly tries to get as close to her as possible. Those fortunate enough to be in her way suddenly feel an inexplicable reluctance to walk quickly or to give way for her to pass. They become stone like, almost under a spell, immobile until the wielder of sorcery has passed from their eye line.

I braced myself, heaved an unnecessarily melodramatic sigh, and set on my way. Past the coconut vendor with the dangerously sharp sickle, speeding up to cross the tea shop where a possible underworld meeting was taking place, hurriedly jogging past three middle aged women who were sure to judge my clothing in unabashedly loud voices. The first street had been negotiated. Victory!!!

When one leads a sheltered life, one must celebrate one’s accomplishments with embellished vigour. 
I congratulated myself and beamed a smile at my reflection of a car window. I looked up and my happiness vanished quicker than a man’s when he hears the word “headache”. Before me stood a street with cars flying past and no pedestrian crossing in sight. Not that it made a huge difference. A pedestrian crossing is only effective when those in the vehicles understand that it is meant to ease the activity of crossing roads for pedestrians. Indian drivers seem to interpret it as the chequered markings that mark the starting point of a race. A person who has learnt the art of crossing roads in India is at least on par with a state level dodge ball player.

I, on the other hand, had never been athletically inclined. My frail frame ensured I was kept away from dangerous sports like basketball and football, in cricket I was graciously “selected” as the umpire, and dodge ball was as alien to me as diabetes. So crossing this main road seemed to me to be an unnecessarily sadistic test of faith by the Eternal Prankster seated up above.

I checked left and right to see if anyone else wished to cross this death-trap. In this matter of life and death, I was willing to put my trust in a complete stranger’s judgment rather than mine. But the sidewalk, full of milling passerby’s, failed to produce one single Christ figure that was willing to help me bear the cross. (See what I did there?)

A few minutes passed, the traffic did not thin out. The entire driving population of Palampur seemed to be racing for road position at this very junction. Finally, I spotted the exact sight I had been hoping for. An elderly lady driving a beat up Maruti 800 which had obviously seen many “lapses of judgment” from its owner, driving at a snail’s pace right in the centre of the road, blissfully ignorant of the procession forming behind her and obviously deaf to the cacophony of horns blaring at her. This provided me with the much needed gap in the traffic, I darted across, covering the ground in quick, short steps, fighting hard against the urge to close my eyes, and found myself on the other side of the road.
Victory!!!

I checked carefully for any more obstacles and, seeing none, allowed myself to smile once more.
These unprecedented athletic demands on my body and problem solving demands on my brain were beginning to take their toll. The one slice of toast I had in the morning lay alone in my stomach and it sounded like it had begun to contemplate the meaning of life. And it didn’t seem to like whatever it contemplated. My wallet, almost empty from my ill advised splurging on needless luxuries at the start of the month, could now provide no relief to the moanings of my internal machinery.

I continued walking, ignoring the smells of frying chicken and boiled corn on the cob. A passerby seemed to recognize me and waved at me, but in times of crisis, one does not have time to exchange pleasantries and I hurried on, ignoring him as comprehensively as Canada is in matters of World Politics.
I later learned he was my uncle, and he took great offence at his treatment, but I felt guiltless given the dire, life threatening circumstances in which I had been placed.

Half an hour had passed since I left the booby trapped college road behind and I was beginning to approach familiar neighbourhoods and recognized the bakeries I was in the habit of frequenting.  Home was not very far away now, and hope grew within me with every step. In the field of achievements, this would rank right up there with the time I managed to negotiate a whole night at a friend’s party without making a literary reference that no one understood. Those were fond memories of victorious days and I was keen to add to them. Finally my magnificent, sprawling apartment complex loomed large in front of me. I greeted the Nepali watchman with more than the usual amount of cheeriness and mentally admonished myself for all the racist jokes passing through my head. I almost, in a rush of blood to the head, decided to take the stairs two at a time, but then sanity prevailed and i abandoned the daredevil attitude and climbed them as usual, still managing to trip myself twice. My front door greeted me with a warm smile, i greeted it back, stepped inside my house and found a note lying on the dining table.

“Tanu, we have gone to Bubble Aunty’s house for dinner. Leave immediately and come, we are waiting for you before we start eating. Love, Papa.”

I was found lying unconscious four hours later, lying right next to the dining table with the note clutched in my hand, an expression of agony etched upon my face. The doctor told my parents I had fainted from severe shock and advised a week’s bed rest. My parents decided then and there never to let me walk anywhere alone again.

I listened in on all of this while pretending to be asleep. An imperceptible smile crept into my features.

Victory!!!

The Four Seasons

SPRING

Usman picked himself up with some effort from his warm bed. It took him a lot of effort to do anything these days. A comfortable lethargy had set into his life, the sort that comes with the knowledge that any serious responsibility is still years away. There were no real life pressures as yet, he still received monthly allowance from his parents, and he worked a freelance job alongside his Masters degree.
The extra funds allowed him to live comfortably, if not lavishly, he had no urgent need of anything, and when necessity is absent, initiative sees no reason to hang around. He was not an ambitious man, the simple pleasures were quite enough for him. An outing once a month, an occasional feast, a room full of books, a few close friends and a videogame as a relaxant, he could not see too many reasons for complaint.

He had just moved to this city, he didn’t have a lot of friends here, but met a few people who seemed nice enough. He was still in the process of getting to know them and was negotiating the awkward phase where neither is sure if they are a fit, but are giving it a try anyhow. One girl in particular had held his attention from the first day, he definitely connected with her, but past experiences with quick connections had made him cautious and he repeatedly reminded himself not to read into it too much.

Having completed the daily formalities of bathing and brushing his teeth, making himself look mildly presentable, he contemplated what to do for the day. He had no classes that day, and the work had been light that week, he did not have any immediate plans, which is just as he liked it. He decided to take a walk around the neighbourhood and brainstorm for ideas to add to his poetry collection. He wrote poems as a hobby, an amateur undertaking at best, but recently had begun increasing his output as a result of all the time he had on his hands.

The world outside carried on in its usual hustle and bustle, and they remained as ignorant of his presence as he of theirs. He covered ground quickly with his long, loping steps, walking to the cheerful sonatas of Mozart. Two kilometres and four cigarettes later, he still had no concrete ideas, and he gave up and turned back towards his house. Fixing himself a quick meal, he settled into his bed and watched eight episodes of The Simpsons, his favourite television show. He would have been quite content to continue in that vein for the rest of the day, but a call from his new friends put an end to that plan. They were going out for a night of drinking and dancing, and he was to accompany them. Stifling a groan, he got up and got dressed, walking down to their house, in the next lane from his, he met them with his customary jokes and quips which were so amusing to new acquaintances and which got old so very quickly. The night turned out to be quite a riot, the group had just the right amount of crazy in them to win his respect. He sat next to his potential love interest all night, and they had a wonderful and stimulating conversation on a wide variety of subjects, ranging from the farcical to the absolutely profound. The dancing went on late into the night, by the end of which he banished his caution to the deeper recesses of his mind and admitted to himself his obvious attraction to her.


SUMMER

Life went on along the same lines for the next few months, his bond with his friends deepened and his attraction to the girl grew more concrete. She and he shared an understanding that immediately elevated their friendship to a level far above anything he had experienced before. It didn’t go unnoticed, and before long he was on the receiving end of much good natured teasing within his circle. Never one to back down from a good laugh, he joined in and had many a fun nights playing along to their theories.
A lot of truth is said in jest, however, and before long he confessed his feelings to her and they became a couple.

Usman spent these days whistling, listening to The Beatles profess their love, and dancing in his room whenever he found himself alone. Almost every evening was spent with his friends. His quick wit and sarcasm made him an instant hit at parties, his love of reading won him the respect of his teachers and he was the beneficiary of a particularly good deal on an apartment, which he shortly moved into. The apartment was rather large for its price range and commanded a view of three different streets from different points in the house. He spent many hours staring out the windows at the busy Indian streets during the daytime and staring at the twinkling stars at night.  His writing had reduced, but he did not mind, because his world was filled with people amongst whom he felt appreciated, and he was having fun. Life seemed to be on track and he was just along for the ride.

During this phase of his life, Usman was full of plans for the future, which seemed to hold for him unlimited potential. He changed his mind often, almost from day to day, and in his companions he found a group supportive of his fanciest whims. He thought of learning how to play the guitar, learning martial arts, writing a play, writing a novel. Every day he would think of a new idea, and discuss it, and every day they would nod approvingly and discuss the pros and cons of the undertakings in question. None of these plans ever materialized, but that did not seem to matter.

 His relationship with his girlfriend too deepened into a solid bond. They shared everything with each other, talking for hours on end, whilst walking hand in hand down the streets or lying side by side in bed.
He found her a wonderful partner, they shared many common interests and the conversations never seemed to run out of steam. This was the first relationship he had had where it did not take a monumental effort on his part to keep the peace. He was a man of many eccentricities, of this he was aware, however they did not seem all that bad when he was with her.

All in all, Usman decided he was happy with his decision to move cities, and looked forward to years of fun and frolic. He also considered, in the long term, the possibility of settling down with his girlfriend.

AUTUMN

The first cracks, however, began to appear soon after. It began with the city itself. It was a lazy city, still in its adolescent stages. It hadn’t yet grown into a metropolitan which necessitated the evolution of the populace into the hardy, competitive type. People always had the time for a chat in the middle of the road, no one seemed in any hurry, even the office going population seemed casual and laid back about their work. All this suited him fine. However, he had immediately upon arrival felt a disconnect with the culture. One that only deepened with time. He had come from a city of lazy geniuses into a city of lazy laymen. His past had been filled with people who were lazy and content with the knowledge that they excelled in their respective fields and thus did not bother expending too much effort in its execution. Here he found a people that were content with the knowledge that they knew or excelled at nothing and did not bother expending too much effort into changing that state of being. A subtle difference, but one that was immediately apparent.

As is usually the case, these differences did not come to the fore immediately. However, gradually, as he got to know his friends and the city around him on a deeper level, the casual attitude towards mediocrity began to rankle. It was all well and good for a person to be ignorant of a subject as common and relevant as world history, but then to profess pride in that ignorance was one step too far for Usman to bear. He felt alienated by this acceptance of ignorance, and he was not a person who dealt with alienation well. Repeated rejections and betrayals in his past had hardened Usman into a stubborn, opinionated man, who did not appreciate the necessity for diplomacy when speaking one’s mind. If faced with a mindset not to his liking, his usual recourse was to mock and jibe at the person in question with relentless sarcasm with copious amounts of snobbishness. A one off case would have been forgiven, but these situations seemed to arise with increasing frequency as the days went by. His friends began to get uncomfortable around him and repeatedly advised him to tone it down. It was far too ingrained a habit for him, however, and the well intentioned advice to the contrary only served to aggravate his feelings of alienation and misunderstanding. He began brooding in silence often isolating himself in the midst of a party, listening to Beethoven rage at his ears with his fantastic, angst filled melodies.

His girlfriend too, patient as she was with his idiosyncrasies, began to show frustration at his lack of tact and uncompromising nature. His conversations with her had morphed from stimulating debates about musical and literary geniuses into long, whining rants about the sheep mentality of the people of the city and the lack of initiative on the part of the people to educate themselves about what he considered “proper art”. Nothing was exempt from his criticism, from the food at restaurants, to the music played at clubs, to the books available at the bookstore. His girlfriend tried waiting it out, hoping the choppy waters would calm down soon and that he would return to his original self, but the possibility had begun to occur to her that maybe this was his original self and it had taken this long for it to come out.

WINTER

Usman was not unintelligent; he could see how his tirades were affecting his relationships with those around him. Often, at night, while staring at the stars, he would chide himself for his pigheadedness and resolve to calm himself down the next time he faced a similar situation. However, the next time would inevitably turn out to be identical to the last, if not worse, and his friends’ patience began to run out. His girlfriend and him had their first big fight, a four hour long back and forth that was meant to reveal and appropriately deal with the problems, but never quite achieved that goal. Usman walked back home that night, his mind a tumult of thoughts, his heart of emotions. He did not have any intention of repeating the same cycle of forced amiability in a crowd in which he was not welcome. He had seen those situations through to the end, and none of them ended nicely. His mind’s over eager self preservation instincts kicked into gear and he decided to distance himself from them, before they could do it to him. He couldn’t quite bring himself to distance himself from his girlfriend; his feelings for her remained too strong. But the rest of them, they could be handled.

He began by reducing his visits to their house, going there only when no excuse was forthcoming and if his girlfriend was coming too. The friends seemed only too happy at this turn of events, and Usman took this as confirmation that his decision was the right one and it stiffened his resolve. His evenings, suddenly free, allowed him to resume his voracious reading and he restarted his creative exercise and began writing poems and short stories again. He craved conversations, he craved verbal stimulation, but he convinced himself that books and television shows could provide him with all the stimulation he needs if he gives them enough time. He became more and more of a recluse, shutting himself in his room for days on end, only emerging to eat and then retreating back into his shell. He stopped taking calls, sometimes went without human contact for days on end. He would read a book a day, then contemplate its meaning, have discussions with himself, and come to a conclusion in his own head. The only evidence the outside world had of these mental ramblings were the occasional cryptic SMS’es he sent to a select few friends. His nights were spent listening to the desolation in the music of Erik Satie.

His seclusion did allay his fears of rejection from his friends, after all in this case it was he who was rejecting them and not vice versa, but it had a side effect which he did not foresee. Even the most sympathetic and understanding companions have a saturation point, and after his moody episodes, his girlfriend found his intermittent disappearances too much to handle and one day called him to let him know that their relationship was over. Somewhere, Usman had known this was coming, its arrival nevertheless was a thunderbolt. She was his last remaining friend in this city, he now found himself completely alone in a city he abhorred, and the two years he still had to spend here seemed to stretch out in front of him for eternity. He glanced up at the sky and immediately identified himself with the lone star, twinkling within full view of the world, and yet completely and utterly alone.