Staccato.

After enduring a hopelessly predictable year 2009, which was alarmingly similar to 2008, 2007 and so on and so back, I still agreed to greet 2010 with doe-eyed hopefulness. A myriad different stories, each associated with different loved ones, stand out as reference points. While lamenting after the end of each year that life is so supremely lacklustre, I had suitably ignored these reference points. I wonder why it is general human trend(?) to utilize misery and insist on it being the main vein of life.

As I was saying, however, life as perceived superficially hadn't changed one bit. I continued to remain an Other to my over-sensitive self. But nothing does really last forever. And it was in the most unlikely chain of events that I found my liberation— selved my-self.

It is abnormally, even obscenely, easy to love the Self. And once that feat can be achieved, life goes on without any glitches. Smooth sailing.

Significantly, at least a few of the myriad stories that led to this realization require to be told. Hence begins the difficult exercise.

1. The Spinner: Passing Inferno

I had never really walked home before. Come to think of it, I hadn't even considered it. Perhaps it was because I was afraid to spend that amount of time with myself. It would lead to thoughts and considerations I kept deferring for no practical purposes. I kept telling myself I wasn't ready because it seemed easier to simply go on this way. The sad monotony of depression was something I had gotten used to. Was there really any point in exerting myself to try and get used to something new all over again? I carefully trained my psyche, my intellect and my rationality to tune out the possibility of such a change— it scared me.

Like all other kinds, this change too happened suddenly, unexpectedly. On a whim I decided to walk home. I hitched my sari up, plugged my iPod in my ears, and with Aerosmith blaring hurtfully in my ears I began the Climb. Right when I reached the mid-point of my path, the neutral ground, the invisible line of control which, if I crossed it, would imply my acceptance of rationality and more importantly, my Self— I could of course turn around and run like my life depended on it, erase the course I had walked like hitting "backspace" on the keyboard, undo my ritualistic exercise and go back to the dark place, my corner of solace, the loving arms of my unhappiness— something happened. I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the decision at least, unsure whether to ridicule myself furthur, or, as the Regulars would say, "Get on with it already!"

As I rocked unsteadily on the balls of my feet, bouncing gently while my mind was gripped by a plethora of uncertainties, I heard a soft laughter, a child's singsong gurgle. I was startled out of my dilemma. I turned my head to locate the source of the derision, the cynicism that was so obviously directed at me. When I saw her, I smiled to myself. Of course it would be her. Soothsayer/ Fortune-teller/ Gipsy-Princess/ Witch/ Lover Lady. My Spinner. She looked at me with her soft, liquid eyes full of translucent tears. She smiled again. Mocked. As I looked on in helpless wonder she spun the sheerest gossamer on an old old yarn. The filmy sheen slid through her fingers like smoke. Intricately patterned with a million images, it would make your eyes swim and your head dizzy.

Her purpose? She was the first light, the guide through Hell. She was my Virgil. Her gossamer? She spun it exclusively for me. It told the composite story of all the petulant, childish complaints I had made her listen to. And listen she did, patiently, full of understanding and compassion. A grown child. A solemn prophetic presence. My salvation. With calm, soothing and cool touches she healed my burnt and ravaged insides. Wrapping her protective web like a bandage around my soul, she took my hand and gently pulled me forth, across the line of control, toward my home. My transition, my progress toward life, would have been impossible without her presence, her support.

I am grateful. And I love her.

2. Solomon: Beginning Purgatorio

(i)

He was never really a part of her life. Not physically at least. But their "saga" predated her despair, her loneliness. So it was only natural that Solomon assume the role of Virgil when she transgressed from the Inferno into Purgatory. As she continued walking in the direction shown by her Spinner, she could feel the Change vibrating through her bloodstream. It was vital. A sign of triumph. Now all she needed was liberation. When she first encountered— encountered, and not met— Solomon, he seemed so much like what she had thought he would be. His words seemed hypnotic, charismatic. She was pulled to him instantly. They spoke like old mates. There was never any tension. Never any unease. Not while they communicated with silent words. But whenever the chance to meet— meet and not encounter— arose, they shied away. Like they were afraid to break the mysticism. Later she was gripped by her own daemons, and her Demons. They made meetings seem impossible. Like sins in light of the then situation. However, my Spinner had taught her to be strong, to understand how important it was to feel love for herself. Solomon taught her that loving herself was rewarding. It was pleasurable. As he sang his way into her vision, she was touched by the warmth he exuded. Cocooned in his sureness about himself, Solomon generously extended his warmth and drew her into it, fed it to her. Until it burnt inside her like a bright sun. It lit her up. It made her smile. And then he said "Well... Pleased to meet you."

There was no sadness when he departed. He had left her armed with her own cloak of warmth. A security blanket if you will. She wrapped it closely around her, amazed at the exhilaration she felt within herself, and walked on through Purgatory to meet Beatrice.

(ii)

I knew she would be waiting for me. Impatiently counting the moments till I would finally be able to shrug off the offensive personality I had carried with myself for so long. Fidgeting, her beautiful eyes flitting from side to side, darting from object to object, she would not give up till I regained my splendour and youth and gushed forth toward her in my exhilarated freedom. Beatrice. She held her hand out to me. When I took it I was bathed in the magnificence of her beauty, her quiet confidence. Her unspoken love for me wrapped itself around my heart in a tight band. It seared right through what little was left of the pain. I looked at her with sparkling eyes and trilled, "He was just a boy!"

The lights in my eyes lit hers up and at last I knew I was truly free. Free of the painful self-deprecating little secrets I had nursed for so long. I walked with her thereafter, hand in hand, finally sure of where I needed to go. I didn't even once look back.

Solomon gave me the courage to step into Purgatory. Beatrice gave me the strength finish what I had begun in there. When it was time to leave, she stopped. As I turned to her questioningly, she raised her hand and silenced me. I waited and watched as she took off her magnificent crown and placed it on my head. It was mine. She had only been keeping it safe for me. Then she leaned in and embraced me, parting with the tenderest of kisses. Then she urged me forward. I took a step and looked unto the wondrous sight with bewildered awe. As I turned to thank her, she was gone. I could see her in the distance, skipping through the smouldering valleys, on her way to show another blind soul the way to Paradise.

3. Beatrice: Welcome Paradiso

I am Beatrice now. She has allowed me that privilege. I turn and walk into my home, my Paradise.

—finito—

Inspersion

I was in eighth grade. School started at 9:15, but I had to board the schoolbus at 7:50 from Mouchak, Golpark. I'd be the fourth girl on the bus, Ananya, Sukanya and Anna being the first three. Everyday Janki Di used stuff all four of us into the second-last long seat on the bus. Empty bus. Four girls stashed and squeezed into one seat. Bippity-bumping along the way. Janki Di retired that Pujo and the day school opened we each waited at our usual stops, tingling with excitement. When I got on that day, they ALL had window seats. We made wordless pacts to honour each others' chosen seats. I got the nice one. The two-seater which was above the back tire on the left of the bus. And just like that, I saw him.

We used to go on straight from Golpark cross the bridge and take a U-turn at the 8B bus-stop at Jadavpur. Three boys used to wait there for their school bus (or so I reasoned). White shirts, white pants. Tie with stripes. Needless to say they were cute. The one that was especially cute used to go on tiptoes to try and see if I were on the bus from the moment we started making the turn. It was quite amusing, in retrospect. But my 14-year-old heart would be all a-flutter. And every day I consciously avoided his gaze and looked ahead, out the front of the bus. This went on for about two years. Everyday I would wait eagerly for that moment. It was marvellous really. Everyday I would steel my heart for a no-show. But he never missed a day. Like he was designed to never be sick. Always there.

On "our" second Valentine's Day (yes, as cheesy as that), I had decided to finally give up the cold shouldering. I would look. And if I could overcome further shyness, I would wave. And that was the day the impossible happened. He wasn't there. I frantically twisted around in my seat, looking for him, willing him to appear, but he didn't. And never did again. I was miserable for days. It was like a break-up. I cried. I moped. I wrote sad letters and poetry. I started growing up.

My last day on bus No. 8 was my last day in school, right after my 10th grade Selection Test and before we went on prep-leave for the board examination. I had almost forgotten by then. As bus No. 8 turned at 8B bus-stop, right at that fated moment, it rumbled to a halt, mid-turn. And refused to start. There was a problem. We waited anxiously because we didn't want to be late for our last day. It was important. Pictures, signing shirts, eating, crying. As calls were being made to the school for alternative transport, we were allowed off the bus with Maya Di, our new bus-ayah, to buy chips at a store. And I saw him. He wasn't in uniform. Maybe his school had already closed. My heart skipped a beat. I panicked when I realized he was coming toward me. He reached the shop and asked for a tiffin-cake and a packet of biscuits. Then slowly, ensuring no one saw, he leaned closer and "accidentally" brushed my arm with his. I sighed. He left.

While returning from school that day, I was happy. We had cried, hugged, and made false promises. And I was especially happy. I felt like what had happened was proper. When I got off the bus for the last time, I felt strange. A bit sad perhaps. As I slowly started walking back down the road toward my house, I saw a back that was instantly familiar. The boy was sitting on the back seat of a bike, in front of Hallmark. My heart skipped yet another beat. As I walked past, he grabbed my wrist. We looked at each other blankly.

"I followed the bus from when it left your school," he said sheepishly. Then, "I'm Himadri."

Snap.

I ran away.

Never saw him again.

Till today.

And we both recognised each other. Skipped beats. Stared. Went our own ways.

"Kisaan ki juti,

Pardesi ki biwi,

Hoke bhi na hone ki barabar hai."

-Arun Jha, Taxi Driver, Kolkata Taxi Service.

Akhtar

Akhtar has a busy life even after all that has happened. The closing of the Khidderpore docks led to the loss of his 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. steady career. Akhtar used to ferry sailors and food to and from the ships. Once the Calcutta port ceased to function, he and his brother were forced to switch to a more trying and less gratifying job. Now he rows across the Ganga, laboriously ferrying wide-eyed tourists and locals while they enjoy the soft water breeze ruffling their hair. There are the newly-in-love couples who are still in the phase where the list of 20 most romantic things has not been completed; there are college groups happily smoking pot and guzzling beer; there are artists, intellectuals and pseudo-intellectuals; there are general noisy families. All these people, however, have one thing in common--- they do not give a fuck about the tired, thin and greying little man who is spending every ounce of energy his frail body yields with each pull of the paddle, just so that the selfish little comfort-mongers can have their moments of bliss. Each earning, says the ferryman, is split 45 ways. His wife has long given up hope of the quiet togetherness that old couples share after they have achieved life and its necessities. She has given him "license". He rows along minding his own business, smiling his secret little smiles, chuckling soundlessly at the witless little people.

We think we have hardships galore. Each one of us believes that his/her problems alone are the gravest. We listen attentively to our friends, faithful confidantes. But we inwardly mock them their misery. We think their stories are oh so pathetic. Wonder what they'd do if we started on our own problems. A boyfriend. A break-up. A fight with the family. A few harsh words from the boss. Akhtar smiles on. His body paints a frantic blur against the pink sky. He seems to be putting in so much effort. But Akhtar smiles on. He has not a care in the world.

Is it just me, or has the world gone awry? It has been over three months since it last rained. My parched and arid world seems to be dying a dry death. It is as if everything has reached a peak in stagnation in unison. My life is reflective of the unchanging weather. The beauty of life has aged in a flash. Rain for me is a life well lived in a few moments. It soothes me. And like so many other things that have gone amiss, I have lost my will to live.

Some small moments seem to make up the essence of living life well. A smile from my mother. A hug from my father. A long-distance phone call from my best friend. A student saying "Good morning, Ma'am." An evening of very bad carrom with best friends. My baby niece calling me "Maa!" in a moment of dislocated confusion! Yes. Those I believe make my life a life I love living. Yes I am trying. Retrying. And I am getting there faster than I ever thought I would. The rain will come soon. And I shall sing again.

Yes. I officially went crazy. Guess I needed some banality to combat the cruelty I endured.

I drove a car. For the first time. Crashed it. Wrecked it. And it wasn't even mine.

But, for the record, I made a perfect turn around a pretty tricky corner.

And I realize now that I have been lamenting without a cause. Lamenting has become second nature and all this has happened so often that I have taken to lamenting each time without even thinking whether it actually deserves all the attention.

Bleh. Closure.