The journal entry (a short story)

"29th May 2014

I spent the last five minutes trying to start this entry with one of my epigrams. But all I can think of is - I am 86 now. Well, I presume I can be lax and not keep up my "witty and profound style" in my journal entries. I am not deluded into thinking nobody will read this- I am certain somebody will find this 5 years from now and put it up on Twitter for all those silly people to read. Yes, I said silly. I doubt that ten years from now writers would have the courage to call their readers that. I doubt they can do it now, but at least there are a few Shaw fans still around so there is hope. Anyway, I think I can be lax because I choose to be, whether anyone ever reads this or not.

Getting back to business. Today was like any other day in the last 4 years since I lost my hearing. I went through my regular morning ablutions and breakfast and then sat at my writing table for an hour with a book review that I hope to send out tomorrow. Somehow, my writing seems to have mellowed with me, so it takes me much longer to write words that count. Not that it matters in this day. When any buffoon (I am actually thinking baboon here) with a phone camera is able to make it to a few hours of fame like a firefly, it seems moot to even to attempt to write meaningfully.

No, I am not a sour, grumpy, old man in general. I know have had my good days- getting out alive after a World War was a biggie (notice how I keep my language updated. Mr.Dickinson at grammar school would have considered that a sacrilege, but I am the adapting kind. Yes, I am no grumpy old man!), then there was the Pulitzer and more recently the Peace Prize nomination. I am sure I would have got that last one if they had not decided to give it to a politician before he did anything at all. Lest you think I care- I don't. Knowing you shall be one with the mud in a few years leaves little room for desire. When I was younger, I used to want people to think great things about me "after I am gone". Maybe I imagined that I would be watching from the heavens or something. It seems preposterous because it's obvious to me now that if I am not around to notice, how can I give a damn what people think about me.

I have had my bad days too. Death of a spouse, paralysis of one leg and so forth. But I don't want to drag this entry down with the weight of useless immutable sorrow.

I only have one desire. Something that shall not come true, but a desire nevertheless. I wish I had died a century ago. There would have been a quiet ceremony with just a few people that mattered. Of course, there would still be that neighbor Mr.Jones jumping around my grave trying to look like he was my closest friend and like he actually understood me. But at least it would have been just one person like that. The rest of the congregation would know I desire quiet and would leave me alone.
You see, all I desire now is to go quietly. I don't care if nobody understands my work, as long as the ones that don't, remain silent. I don't even care if nobody notices - I could be that tree that fell in the forest for all I care.

But as I said, that is not going to be. Millions of people are going to tweet away their "RIP"s- the ones that had never known me the loudest to proclaim the sorrow at my loss. There will be the auctions next, where men with wads of cash and vain old ladies with inheritance but poor eyesight would want to spend millions on my first published work and my first typewriter. To be honest, I'd rather someone just burn up all of my personal belongings or donate it to someone poor. That auction money could definitely be used better. A fan who wants to own my pen probably never understood that I never thought it was about the person. If someone understood my ideas, what do I care if they did not even know my name. 
Oh well, I assume I will have to put a clause in my will against the auctions one of these days, if I find it worth the effort to make one at all.

But they won't stop with the auctions. There will be the stupid blogposts- what Tamajong's work meant for racial equality, why Tamajong's loss is too big for mankind, and so on. Then the life portraits- "Tamajong moved into the US at a time of great strife", "He shall remain a beacon of hope for millions to come" etc. If I had any life left in me at that point, the din of insincerity would finish me off.

Actually, I don't mind what people would say about me half as much as what they would do to my writing. I do not want those memes with my quotes (and quotes of people I completely disagreed with) on them. And I definitely do not want people sharing a piece of my novel with "This story will make you cry and change your soul forever" (Notice how I started this sentence with "And". Mr.Dickinson is turning in his grave now!). I do not want the commentaries and the throwing around of my name at dinner parties where hosts try hard to impress upon their guests the idea that they are elite and well-read. In fact, I wish I didn't even have a name.

And if someone owns my first published article and think it is to be treasured, what d
" (the handwriting trails off here)

Detailed above is the text of Peter Tamajong's last journal entry. This page shall be auctioned on Sunday the 21st of June at the African-American Writers' Museum; the auction is open for the public. The offered price is 2 million USD but the bids are expected to go up to 10 million.
Peter Tamajong, considered one of the most remarkable writers of the 21st century and certainly one of the most influential, passed away on the 29th of May while writing his last journal entry. This newspaper joins the millions of fans in praying his soul rests in peace.

(Also see Page 4: Interview of Toni Morrison on Tamajong's demise,
Page 5: Fans assemble at the Tamajong house in LA for last tribute
and Special Supplement on Peter Tamajong: One small word for a writer, one giant leap for mankind)

Ironically..

Going back to the routine of posts based on stuff I read- here is something I read today: Why some people might be bad at understanding irony.

If this were an SOP, I would have started with "I have always been fascinated by Irony (and sarcasm)", but since it is not... oh wait, I just did. Anyway, let's just say that unlike the hyperbole, irony is my device of choice. Except that sometimes people don't get it. I remember one time in high school when I had to write a goodbye note to someone I particularly despised (I believe the feeling was mutual, but given the way we were all smiles on the surface, it is hard to tell..). I filled the note with cloyingly sweet compliments in the hope that anyone who read it would know that I really meant the opposite. To me, it was obvious that I couldn't have meant it at all , especially because I use to be much more parsimonious with compliments then, and I was very proud of my handiwork. To my disappointment, only about 2 people who read the note really got it! (I don't regret that anymore. Sometimes it is safer not to have people understand the exact meaning of your words, but I digress. )

Of course, later in life I realized that the best way to combat sarcasm (which is closely related) is to pretend not to understand it.* Unfortunately that knowledge is of no use to me because I simply cannot not get sarcasm/irony - it is one of those things that is hard to 'un-see' once you see it.

Anyway, it turns out that a good number of people don't get irony because it is more complicated than regular speech. I feel this should have been obvious if I ever gave it a little thought- understanding irony requires the brain to perform the additional step of noticing that the literal meaning of the sentence uttered is in fact untrue (while regular speech requires you only to understand what is being uttered). Obviously, this means that people with sociopsychological problems would find it harder to understand it.

The amazing thing about the link I read is that it actually shows how some ironic statements are better understood than others. Basically, some ironic statements are used so often that the brain processes them just like it processes regular sentences i.e. at the same speed. I find that kind of optimization in a system amazing, really!

Anyway, that brings me to the sentence I really began this post for (I should warn you that it is not great, just something too tempting for me to let go without posting :P )- It's ironic that a statement meant to be ironic is still processed like a regular statement, even when you know it is ironic! It almost defeats the purpose of making the sentence ironic.

Thankfully, there are enough new ironic sentences you could make that the brain hasn't had a chance to learn yet.. So there is still hope, folks! :P
 
--
*By the way, I am sure there is a comic strip about not-understanding-sarcasm being the best way to handle it, but I am not quite able to find the strip :(

Day 3- On Enid Blyton, the extended transferred epithet and religion

If I had to name just one person I spent most of my childhood with, that would be Enid Blyton. I remember spending whole summer months letting myself get sucked into her world- with flying cars and pixies and adventure lurking at every turn. In the early years I even wondered how it would be if all my toys came out at night and had little fights or skated on soap.

Anyway, there was one story (one of my favorites) about a boy who sees an enchanted book at a store. The book opens from both ends- each tells a different story. Both stories are about the boy's own life and what his future would be like. On one story, he makes his choices based on ambition- spends more time at his business, is often cruel etc. On the other- his choices are based on family and love, and though he doesn't make too much money, he is content.

As a kid reading the story, it was obvious which side to pick- the kind side. But you see, that's the problem with the stories kids are told. They have not one inch of the gray that fills real life, or to use the cliched phrase, they are too black and white. Anyway, that's not the point for today.

The thing I really want to highlight is how authors tend to bunch qualities together. In this story, for instance, the boy (when he grew up, that is) would not only spend too much time at business, but would also be mean to his customers and get angry all the time. Then the reader's mind would almost automatically associate the making money with the other "bad" qualities of being cruel, when in fact it is possible for a man to make money and still be a good person.
In contrast, if you pick a story like "Atlas Shrugged", there are the people who make money and sound cruel but are actually kinder through their actions. But there, Ayn Rand also has some fictional associations- like the fact that the smart people are all blunt, arrogant AND successful, while the villains are all not just evil and people-pandering but quite stupid; or the fact that all the "good" people speak the same kind of language and anyone who uses any amount of subtlety in their speech is some sort of conniving villain.

I see this as a very interesting literary device. It is very close to the transferred epithet in the sense that the effect (or our judgement) of one quality is actually transferred on to others. Which is why I want to call it the extended transferred epithet. But the reason it is interesting is because it is also very very powerful.

Take these verses, for instance..

"But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death."

"Know that a king who heeds not the rules (of the law), who is an atheist, who is rapacious, who does not protect his subjects (but) devours (i.e. mistreats) them, will sink low (after death)"

The first is from the Bible (Revelation 21:8) and the second is from a translation of the Manusmrithi (Ch8, Topic17, Verse309).

In both cases, a set of negative characteristics are combined with the "faithless" and the "atheists". Of course, with most religions "faithless" is bad enough to warrant prosecution- it is often considered evil by definition. But the subtle propaganda that lets religions persist, especially in the age of technology and information, exists in these places- in stories where the villains are evil AND non-believers, where the books proclaim that the faithless are also always immoral (conveniently skipping over the faithless moral human being). Religions are not only full of these; they are so prevalent that most people tend to actually believe them (like believing all faithless people are also immoral). Which is why I said it is a very powerful device.

Anyway, let me finish off today by saying that I think the extended transferred epithet is a beautiful literary device. It is convenient and powerful. But that's precisely why one should be wary of it.

P.S: There may be a real name for this literary device. I tried looking for it but couldn't find it. So I came up with my own name for it instead! :P

Day 1- Confessions of a born grammar snob

I am an almost-a-grammar-snob. I'm not half as annoyed by bad pronunciation or poor vocabulary as by bad grammar.  You see, I am in love with grammar (mostly English, but where my knowledge is sufficient, Tamil/Hindi as well). I love the fact that sentences should be written in a particular way to make sense and writing them differently would change the meaning. I love all the rules that go into that process and can spend hours (in reality just minutes, but that doesn't quite have the same effect as saying 'hours'!) debating a minor grammar point.  
However, I do not usually try to correct people's grammar unless I know them really well. Not to say that bad grammar doesn't irk me (it drives me up the wall really), but I don't want to come across as picky or rude. And sometimes, I think it is just pointless. It is part of my general "let them be" philosophy.

Anyway, one of these days when I was talking to someone, I ended up making this statement- "The most beautiful thing about language is how it evolves. We look at 'Sense and sensibility' and think one thing, when in fact Austen meant to say 'Sense and sensitivity', which sounds completely different to us." (Reminds me of my watching the old Fountainhead). 
Notice I said 'evolves'. That is one beautiful word. It is like a river that takes things in as it flows- forever accepting and rejecting, and yet growing with time. It is not just 'grows' or 'changes', but 'evolves'. Slowly. Beautifully. Almost imperceptibly. 

And then I caught myself. Am I not contradicting myself here? How could language evolve if everybody followed the existing rules? Where would the change come from?
For sometime, I thought I had just been a prude (or an elitist) with double standards. You know, the kind that thinks- "When Shakespeare does it, it's the language 'evolving', but when some regular Indian IT support guy does it, it's murdering the language and hacking its limbs." But then again, that's not true either. I often try to draw a line between colloquial language usage and grammatical errors. To me, "prepone" is ok. "Can able to" is not. "Lol" is ok, but the infamous "entry from backside only" is not. I justify it to myself as- 'as long as the meaning is retained, it's ok'. So maybe I am not that bad a snob after all. 

But wait, maybe I am. After all, this line I draw, like most lines people draw, is arbitrary. And subjective. Why should "lol" be ok when "can able to" is not? "Can able to" may be ungrammatical but most people can understand it if used in a sentence. So why should I frown? And what people in one region or country might understand is completely different from what the rest of the world would.  I am definitely being a bad snob there.
Maybe it is just one of those instinctive things. Something I am conditioned to for too long to give up even if I think I should.

Anyway, in sum, that discussion made me realize I should be less reproachful of people with  bad grammar. And the funny thing is that, apparently, I summed the sentiment up pretty well in a poem I wrote when I was in high school- "Is not every 'wrong' note the beginning of a new song?"  


--
P.S: I have been avoiding writing for a while- mostly because I was busy and writing seemed to be a luxury that I could not afford. (Aside, I did in fact waste a lot of time watching meaningless TV, but maybe writing takes more effort than that.) Anyway, now that I have some time upon my hands again, I am thinking of going back to the one post a day routine. It takes a lot of time, but maybe it's worth it.

The point of no return

That space beyond the shadows,
that pause between sentences,
that gasp of hastened breath,
that electric silence...

leading to that point beyond the horizon,
to that minute that screams passion,
to that gentle caress of breeze,
to that musical warmth...

inching inevitably towards a point of no return.

We struggle hard against this vortex,
yet the more we pull out, the more we are sucked in-
and we only hope we will return unscathed.

But deep inside, indeed we know-
tomorrow shall dawn, and the world will laugh at our carcasses-
we who thought we could defy the point of no return,
and had to watch as it slowly consumed us.

You.

(I keep mentioning the beauty of words on this blog- and I usually mean individual words, not grammatically correct or complete sentences- but somehow I never explained what I meant by that. So wanted to show what I mean with a small experiment- a slightly unusual but not particularly new form of poetry!)

Eyes closed. Turbulent music. Your face.
Evening walk. Slow drizzle. That unsaid word.
Driving to work. Cacophonous roads. Brushing accidentally against your skin.
Smell of sea. Cold wet feet in the sand. Husky voice.

You engrossed. Focused eyes. Breathtaking.
Innocently joking. Playful twinkle. Inflamed.
You lifting. That single muscle flexing. Weak.
Fleeting sideways look. A half-smile. Surrender.

First ray of sun. Your success. The intoxicated revelry.
Rushing to celebrate. Her. Losing myself in the shadows.
Wilted flower on the footpath. Your loss. The ruthless silence.
Reaching to comfort you. Holding back. Guilt.

Gray skies. My dreams. Minutes. Days. Years.
Consumed. Love. Addicted. You. Eternity.

Tooth fairies, fantasy and dasavatharam

I know I haven't been writing for a while. Blame it on a super hectic month followed by an India trip followed by an even more hectic month and then the holiday season. Anyway, I wrote this post before leaving for India, but couldn't get around to putting it up. So here it is.. Also, hope to write about the India trip soon.. We'll see when I get around to doing that..

I read this post on Hallucinations about a conversation between 2 six year olds about tooth fairies- one girl knows they do not exist and the other doesn't. It made me wonder what I really thought about fairies and stuff when I was a kid. Very early in life, my mom told me Santa Claus was just someone I know dressed up with a fake beard. And my dad told me that the people you watch on TV are just acting (that was because I would get way too depressed seeing characters die or get hurt on TV!). I remember reading way too much Enid Blyton (I think I read everything from the Red story book to the Book of pixies) and trying to imagine that my toys could talk at night. It was fun to imagine, but even then I knew it wasn't true.

The fantastic things I truly believed in then were quite mundane. Like the fact that there is a supernatural power watching your every move and waiting to restore the balance in the world. Or that good begets good. That if you keep hoping, everything will turn out alright. They are nice to believe in as a kid. Sometimes, even as an adult. It is nice to do your part and assume that "there is somebody who made you and cares for you, and who will help you if you do the best of what you can".
But as I grew older, I decided that these ideas were as fantastic as the idea that tooth fairies exist. That the reason to do the right thing is not because you will be rewarded in the end, but because the doing is itself the reward.
Funnily though, I admit that the made up sentences(or ideas) work. Telling yourself not to give up because all that hard work has gotta pay back does give you enough confidence to last the last mile. (You see what I did there? :P) When you have been back-stabbed or are generally cynical, telling yourself that good begets good motivates you to go on doing good. So you see, even though I think these sentences are made up, I use them all the time. 

Then, the truly amazing thing about all this is not the fact that I realized as I grew up that these ideas are made up, but how these conflicting ideas can co-exist in my head (and in the head of the kid about whom that author was writing). I can drown hours in imagination, I can tell myself confidently that it will all work out in the end. And yet I know these are just sentences I am making up. (To some people, this might smell of hypocrisy. But maybe I will write about my justification for it some other time).Anyway, that reminds me of the Tamil movie Dasavatharam. There is this conversation in the end which beautifully sums up all I have to say about the co-existence of rationality and fantasy.
 
The translation goes this way-
Asin: Why do you say there is no God?
Kamal: I am not saying that God does not exist. I am just saying it would be wonderful if he did.

That surreal stroll

In the early hours before dawn,
When the world seems to be holding its breath and
waiting, waiting with pinkish grey skies
yet more beautiful than the miracle its waiting for...

I walk along this solitary lane,
the moon glowing away on one side
and the light breaking at the horizon,
listening silently to my heart's music..

I think of the beautiful moments in my life,
Catching the sunset on the silent shore
Chasing the moonlight till my eyes sore
People. Places. Words. And some more.

I think of you and the long conversations
The world that seems rosy in your presence
Flowers, spring, rainbows, sunshine.
And yet all we have are our thoughts
And that precious space where your mind meets mine.

I'm half asleep, the air's a tad cold.
But I walk on, with your ideas like a hand to hold.
Trying to preserve this moment in my head
To look back on a day when we shall be old;

I know on that day we shall not remember
We shall walk on- just another couple
vanishing in the anonymity of life-
dying but not dying, like a piece of ember.

The jarring noise of familiarity
Would choke that space we treasure now
And then we would wonder how
we ever thought we knew love.

Yes, some day we shall grow old
and the magic will be gone
The flowers would droop, the rainbows will vanish
And it would be dawn.

But maybe it doesn't matter
that this treasured moment doesn't last-
We may forget and we may breed contempt
We may move out of the past-

Just to know I had this minute
- this sacred moment before dawn
when I was waiting in excited pleasure
contentment. joy. desire.

That life had given me this one instant
that the ennui cannot snatch away
That I could feel the magic of love
the idealistic romance that poets say

Just to know I had this minute
it does not matter what price the future demands
Just to have known this surreal headiness
it does not matter that there will be dawns..

Raga

The bittersweet lingering of filter coffee in my tongue

and the incessant noises of a hot humid Indian city

are all I remember of our first meeting-

the other memories washed away

by the dirt and grime

of daily life.

For long I had not noticed you enough
to even take you for granted.
But unknowingly I searched
for you in song after
song, in vain.

And many years later, our love rediscovered

you stood before me like Lord Krishna*-

your innumerable faces glowing

with inexplicable grace.

I had thought you were a mere construct,

To force order in the random, to impose

the strict boredom of regularity.

But now I stand before your infinite greatness

unbounded by notes but binding.

Today, I discover you as the universe-enveloping

Consciousness.

--

Note:

1. This poem is about my discovery of the beauty of raga(m)s in Carnatic music. Of course, I am treating the concept of raga(m) as one entity here, which might be arguable. But in tribute to her beauty (or should I say their?), I have tried a new rhythm/meter :)
2. I dedicate this poem to the many many teachers who have tried to force some essence of music into my unrelenting head. Especially one of them who taught me enough to inspire this poem and who played a major part in my experience of the beauty I just mentioned. Thank you!
3. *The reference to Lord Krishna is the scene where he takes vishwaroopa(m) in front of Arjuna on the battlefield.

The damned little cheat (Part 3 of 3)

(Continued from Part 1 and Part 2)

“What about her husband? I thought you said she married for love?”, I said.

“Well, I guess they had changed by then. Grown just so slightly apart. Or maybe grown too comfortable with each other. As they say, familiarity breeds contempt.” There, MY theory. I see it all the time, in every marriage. I don’t know why it is not obvious to people somehow.

“Anyway”, she continued, “she could not bear to remain without telling him. But, if she could tell, what would she say? ‘Hi, I am married, but I like you’? What would he think about her? What if he said- no, he didn’t want to ruin her marriage? How would she ever be able to work with him again? And what if he didn’t? Would she continue to love a man who was ok with cheating on someone? And what if it magically worked out? Wouldn’t it hurt her reputation?

Even if he understood, what would everyone else think? And how would that ruin the careful image of dignity and respect she had created around herself through these many years? It was not just the question of a woman who ended her marriage. It was the question of the manager who was most probable to become the VP in the next 5 years who would fall in the eyes of her colleagues to the level of a cheating woman. An adulteress. Or if all went well, a divorcee. Was she even ready for that possibility?

She didn’t know. But whenever she saw him, she forgot all her doubts. When he joked and she saw that smile, her brain seemed to melt. And all she ever wanted was to tell him. Nothing more. Just tell him. And hear him say he loves her too.

And then it happened. Yesterday, he told her he likes her, and would she join him for dinner?”

“What? He knew she was married and still wanted to see her?”

“Oh, I don’t think he knows. She has this thing that wedding rings and other such symbols are signs of bondage of the woman to the man. It’s an idea I also agree with. Why should women display prehistoric symbols of their slavery to their husbands? And why should women announce to the world they are married? It’s a personal thing.”

“But husbands wear their wedding rings too...”

“Not in all cultures. Anyway, I agree with her idea. Though, of course, at this point you might think it was just to make her situation convenient. It wasn’t.” 
And as if she realized she was speaking irrationally, she moved on quickly. 

“Anyway, I guess he didn’t know. And she told him that this was a tricky situation and she needs time to think it over. So what do you think she should do? Remember she loves him deeply. And he loves her too.”

“I still stick to my answer”

She looked up at me, “You know where this story is going, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. That woman is not someone else, right? It is your own story and you didn’t want to say it in first person. But I repeat- she should refuse”

“You are right about it being my story. But don’t you have any pity for someone in my position? Don’t you think I deserve to live with the man I truly love?”

Now I had to tell her my reason. It was going to be weird, but still.

“In fact, for the very fact that you love him so much you shouldn’t break your marriage to be with him. You shouldn’t let a love like that come to the sorry end that it definitely will, once you get married to this new guy, if it even lasts that long."I paused and looked up to see her reaction. Not much surprise.
"Besides, you might have noticed it is unfair to the husband?”, I said still looking at her.

Yes, her- the woman opposite my table. The woman I have been married to for the last five years, and have been cheating on for the last two, but never once thought of breaking the marriage.

It WAS unfair to the husband...

__THE_END__

The damned little cheat (Part 2 of 3)

(I know I said I will put this up in 2 days, but I got busy over the weekend so could put it up only now. Sorry about that! The concluding part will be up on Wednesday for sure. :)
Continued from Part 1.. )

“I mean you can tell me whatever it is. I won’t use it.”

“So tell me one thing- have you ever been in intense passionate love?”

I tried to play safe here- “Of course, lady. With a woman who to me is the most beautiful on Earth. But go on”.

“No, what if you found the love of your life, your soul-mate now? And you know you are committed to someone else?”

Ha, that one’s a toughie. Saying I would go after my love would put me in bad light. Saying I wouldn't was plain untrue and she would probably realize it. Stick to generalizations, I told myself. “That’s easy.  Well, I think of it as a contract I made. I might hate it, but I gotta stick with it.”

That was partly true, by the way. Underneath all my cynicism and general negativity, I had some old-fashioned ideas about sticking around even if you hate it. Though my reason was different. I believe that the legitimacy of something kills its pleasure. You see those young couples madly in love? See them after 20 years of living with each other. A sulking couple worrying about their children’s college tuition. You see, the charm of intense love always dies in a marriage. The passion gets lost in the grocery lists and sorting the laundry. It rusts and cobwebs grow over it- and the love dies so slowly you don’t know until it’s too late. So late that it doesn't even get the burial it so deserved. My take is: if you ever find the love of your life and want to keep it alive, don’t marry the person. The distance nourishes the tree of love and lets it grow.

Of course, I wasn't going to tell her that. That would have been very weird.

“Ah well. You are playing it safe, aren't you? So be it. Let me tell you a story...

There is this woman I know. She is about my age and is a project manager like me. One of the youngest managers. And you know how much that says for a woman. Very smart, works very hard. Tries her best not to let men misunderstand her.  And I can tell you how tricky THAT is. Oh, and she is married too. Just like me. She fell in love with this man- a very nice man he is, and they got married five years ago. So far so good.

About 2 months earlier, this young analyst joined her team as a new team manager. Smart guy, lots of fun to be with, very witty, very ethical. Extremely talented too. And single. I think he looks ok, but you know how people start looking good to you the more you know them. As you might guess, she started liking him.

It started as a simple appreciation of him as a person, but then it grew with every minute of his presence around her. And of course, as her direct report, he had to spend a good amount of time around her, alone. With his every smile, every word, the air between them became more electric. She started spending hours waiting for the minutes when she would meet him. She spent whole evenings just imagining that somehow things would work between them. She started trying to find excuses to talk to him. Her whole life began to revolve around his every action. There were times when she thought her heart would explode with the amount of passion she was feeling. And yet, she couldn't tell him.

She didn't know if he felt anything for her. Of course, he respected her and liked her. They got along pretty well and hung out many times as co-workers. Their chemistry was very good, but it was just a work chemistry. There was a line which both of them were afraid to cross. Sometimes, though, she thought he liked her. You know how some actions can acquire meaning depending on how you look at them.. A simple compliment can seem like a sudden outburst of his love which he dare not express, when it might really only be a simple compliment. When he didn't say much, she would think he was aloof and trying to avoid her because he couldn't stop himself from liking her. And then again, she would think ‘what if he really wants to avoid me?’

I don’t know if you have ever felt that kind of love, most people haven’t. But she was really going crazy about him.”

In her own words, 'It is a feeling whose magnitude can not be fettered by the shackles of a mere word- feeling. The phrase 'driving one crazy' makes so much sense now. Because I AM going crazy. It was like being permanently drunk. Except that I haven't even touched alcohol. I want to tell someone, anyone about it, and yet I can't. Nobody would understand. And worse still, they would think badly of me.'"

I was getting bored of this description. What the hell, I thought. She was in love. Period.

(To be concluded..)

The damned little cheat (Part 1 of 3)

(Starting another story in 3 parts. Will publish each part 2 days after the previous.)

The coffee was bitter. Yes, I know all coffee is bitter, but I had never noticed that before. That misty morning, I was sitting outside the coffee house in the cold breeze, newspaper in my left hand, the coffee on the table. I was swirling the coffee in my mouth, like wine tasters do wine.  Somehow it was as if everything in the world had added up to that moment- the breeze, the newspaper, the wine tasters in my imagination- adding up to that moment when I actually felt the bitterness of my coffee.

Well, well. I know I am rambling. I always do when I can’t find a story idea. You see, I work for the NY Times. Ya, I know. Prestigious newspaper and all that shit. I had to work my ass off before I got there. And it hasn't gotten any better- now I am working more and not even making too much. I am just one of those low ranked filler journalists- you know, the ones who work in departments that never hit the front page- but need to write so we can fill the space. Everybody here is so well-known already that even a good ex-journalist like me only gets filler jobs at first. I used to write education pieces in my previous job. My editor used to squash main pieces to give mine space. Well, at least he did that twice. But not at the NYT. No sir- I am a nobody here. To be swept onto the dustpan with all the junk. And to write dingy filler columns on Fall leaves and stray pups.

My job is really the opposite of my relationship. All prestige, no love. My girlfriend is no trophy woman but for the first time in my life I have known true love. Even though she is not even pretty- she is just beautiful in a quaint sort-of way. And that’s such a contrast to my first marriage- my wife was drop-dead gorgeous, came with a pile of inheritance money and was cold. But now I am in roses and candles love. I would say I am a has-been, but you can’t say that when you work for the NYT and have a girlfriend you truly love.

And still no ideas.

I was just looking around- trying to squeeze one tiny idea from my head. Zilch. I had got two leads this week- and both led to nothing. One was about some professor who had published a paper on Tarantino movies. I had almost done that piece when my editor decided the movies expert would do a better job covering it. And the other one was about a man who could swallow 170 serrano peppers without having anything else in between. I went to his place and found out he would only do that with peppers grown in his own home and that sounded a little fishy to me. Turns out he is growing some new hybrid variety of pepper. So that was dead. Anyway I still had to find something. Something that was important and true. But not so important that one of the front pages would snatch the piece from me.

I looked up from the newspaper- wait, what do I see? This woman sitting opposite me- so so pretty. At least SOME silver lining this morning, I thought, noticing she didn't have a ring on her finger.

“Hi” I smiled.

“Hi” She smiled back. “You don’t mind me sitting here, do you? I could leave if you want a table to yourself- sometimes people do. But I am very tired from my walk and the place is full.”

“Of course not.”

I didn't know what to say next so I started sipping my coffee and thinking of ideas for my piece. Maybe I would call up Sonia. She might have some spare pieces- she reads a lot of online material, so there might be some “most popular in social media this week” thing there.

“What’s up?”, I heard a sweet voice. Had her voice been this sweet throughout? Not that I remember. Maybe it was like the bitterness of coffee- had always been there but took so long for my brain to get it.

“Oh, you know... I am just another journalist trying to think of story ideas” I said.

And thus began our casual conversation. We went on talking randomly- flitting from one topic to another like butterflies on spring flowers. But trying to avoid the serious ones. She was surprisingly interesting (yet another dawned-on-me-suddenly type discovery) and anyway I had nothing to do but wait till 11 when Sonia gets to work. So I chatted away happily.

Until she said it- “If you don’t mind, I want to talk about something that’s been disturbing me for some time now. It’s a little weird, so I hope you won’t judge me on it. I just needed to talk about it to someone when I walked in here, hadn't thought of whom to. But now that we are talking, I thought I might tell you. I hope you won’t use it for some newspaper article.”

“Of course not”, I said, while thinking to myself- ‘It depends on what your story is!’ Actually I didn't mind her saying it was weird. If it was good, I could definitely use it somewhere. Besides I was observing how perfectly beautiful she was- especially with her super sweet voice.

(To be continued...)

Laura- Part 3 of 3

(Continued from Part 1 and Part 2. And part of the one-month challenge.)

Maybe it had been too good to be true and that's why Laura stopped turning up for tennis. The first few times, I waited for an hour. Then I stopped waiting. I tried to reach her, but she wouldn't respond on phone/email/nothing. I asked someone I knew in architecture and he said she was attending classes though she did miss one or two. “She does look a little pale”, he added.

I was very angry with her. What did she mean by not responding? Maybe she got tired of me. Maybe she got busy with Mike. Did he say pale? Maybe, maybe… I didn't let myself think about that.  Maybe it was just a game she was playing- to see if I would talk to her on my own. Sometimes she did crazy cute things like that. Well, if it was a game, I wasn't giving in. I wasn't going to ask her.

But maybe I should have gone then. 

******************
I stood there, shell-shocked.

“How did it happen?”

“It looks like she slashed her wrists”

“Do they know why she did that?”

“Nobody knows. Some say it’s because the guy she loved rejected her. Some say she had been looking dull for a few weeks now. Sad and lonely. Seems she spoke to many people but wasn't close to anyone. Except one guy. Maybe he’d know.”

I could feel something tugging at my heart, Something knotting in my stomach.

“Didn't she leave a note or anything?”

“Most kids who commit suicide do, but she didn't. No message to the world. Not a single word.”

“So it could have been…” I didn't finish my question.

“No the evidence is quite clear. She slashed her own wrists. Period. It’s sad. Such a beautiful girl. And so young too.”

That day, I didn't think whether I could have done something to prevent it. I didn't wonder whether I had guessed wrongly about Mike- maybe it was me. Or whether her decision was even prompted by love.* I wasn't filled with regret about not having seen her in the last few days, nor any burden that I let someone’s life slip through my fingers. I didn't think that God was punishing me by taking her away. 
I thought these things a million times many days later. Over and over again, my mind going through every possibility, with no trace, no hope of an answer. 

But that day, I didn't think anything- my mind was numb and frozen. I couldn't stand there any longer. 

I just walked away.

__END__

*Edit 1: Added this line because it was part of what I had thought from the protagonist's perspective, but somehow missed conveying. Thanks to my friend whose question indirectly prompted it...