The Short Story

The Short Story

Life appears to have an inherent tendency towards becoming one dull affair for commonplace people like me.

This is a calculated effort to produce fiction and make it a bit interesting.

And I swear this has taken so long!

Please read on to discover the nuances of an egocentric writer and the unpolished style of discussing his inexpert dealing with the female protagonist.

Prologue

There are only two characters in this story- Ana and Rov. For ease of narration, I would be Rov myself. Nothing else will be told about them, like where they live or their habits! Any other characters also do not find literary space here because not only are they inconsequential but also that would be an inept attempt to make a rather ‘out of format’ short story long. I agree that the structure is wrong for a short story, but I also trust that this was never a short story but for the title. Physical descriptions of the two characters are left to be moulded as per the reader’s caprice!

“Ana- the girl whom I simply can’t get off my head even after so many years in which I have not seen her. It is a strange dilemma I face. I cannot decide whether it is a delusion or true…”

Chapter I: The Obscure Beginning for the Uninitiated

It was my first year in college when I saw her. She was just another bespectacled female classmate.

My childhood rearing built a mental constitution inclined to be, by all appearances and opinions, shy of girls. Thus, it was only natural that I would need one damn good reason to know her! Laziness and disinterest were dishonest excuses.

On a particular day, she approached me in the break between two lectures. There were three rows in the gallery; two were occupied by boys and the third one, by girls. She came from that latter bastion, wherefrom inane giggles were emanating. Before I realized what was happening, she was there face to face to me, smiling.

That was the first time that I really saw her! And the reality of the situation was subdued by the projection of ethereality of her face and I reckoned the situation was such that I was supposed to be drifted into the realms of something fantastic, like in reel life.

I heard her say, “Rov, you are my guru. I am your disciple”.

The whole thing was set up to make a fool of me and though the idea was not lost on me, I had the least inclination to assume that it did matter! There remained only one thing in my field of vision. Everything else got blurred and gradually melted and evaporated.

She was exhilarated by the triumph over her mates in the ‘dare’ and was smirking at me all the lot more. I don’t presume myself to be smarter to read one big world in between those lines.

An incongruous smile escaped my lips and remained frozen as I tried to photograph every second of the drama in my mind. I liked to think that she could not understand the look on my face because her simper began to exude some amount of wariness and she could not perchance immediately figure out what to do next or how to make a retreat.

I moved little, my expressions changed little, although I can now picture a good deal of abashment creeping in; only my mind was let loose to be working at several times more speed than normal. I wanted to miss none of the myriad miniscule changes that were occurring in her countenance.

I was absorbed in appreciating the movement of every fascicle of her facial muscles trying to display the hilarity of the situation, the dance of her eyebrows in synchrony with the fluid expressions in her eyes filtered through the pieces of glasses that presumed the importance of adorning them.

I watched the alternating tightening and relaxing of the sinews of her neck to know that the performance was being propelled by quite a load of nervous energy, which was however disguised by the ebullient visage, though the latter, at the same time conveyed some evidences of being effortfully made up. The more than usual uneasy and semi-purposeful movements of her body helped me know that the observation was not untrue. But I did not know whether she was aware or blissfully unaware of all that, though I can always surmise and it would never matter whether I did it correctly or incorrectly.

I think that I have still not reached the point of exaggeration. I was judging the inflection of every word she spoke and the pauses in between them and the sharp intake of breaths during each of those pauses. My imagination was egging me on to do that.  But my self-proclaimed expertise in analysis of the situation was very much flawed and quasi-purposeful, to the point of reducing my own self to something unbecomingly comical. I had to laugh at myself as my sense of perception was blunted so much so that I was hearing her speak without understanding what she spoke. The words that she uttered entered my ears as disjointed syllables and were lost in the background din without enriching my memory. I would have liked to imagine that she was singing nice things to me.

At that moment, my brain directed me not to remain thus fascinated and inert but make some mechanical adjustments. So, I rested my chin on my palms with elbows supported on the desk and made an effort to throw her a vacant look and then a feeble attempt to do something of the semblance of grinning as if to help matters for her by conveying that the time she gave me to let the idea sink in had its desired effect and that such success could let her move on. Or, on the other hand, with the more plausible explanation, to help matters for myself, to let the idea sink in or else sink in the idea itself, if she moved on! She possibly took the cue, or otherwise turned to go, while her unrestrained giggles returned to reach my ears and as she moved back to her bastion, they melded with those of her mates. And in an effort to make my performance more agreeable to the drama, I concentrated to make myself aware of every step of her retreat while not looking in that side and rather assuming a look that meant to convey that I dismissed everything as if nothing happened. There was no great idea that struck me at that time. I would much later recognize it as fiction stuff. Meanwhile, the stage play rolled on.

The run of events in any script would direct me to put on the act. My performance was thus predictable. It followed along an axiomatic direction.

I wondered at the silly affection that lately assumed stronghold on me. In the days that followed, I was wont to looking at her to capture every move she made, every smile she let go, every bye she bade and every shrug that she did show and the rest of it! That was almost in the same vein as the one popular song by Sting. I however took care that she remained unaware of that covert operation.

Later on, I used to ruminate on possible variations of the role thus enacted. It required prolific mentation to invent an imagined parallel world, the motions of which I could control and let it be such malleable that both logical reasoning and paralogism found an equal footing!

In one opportune moment, I happened to be nearby her when a fellow was returning her a certain notebook. She immediately thrust it into my hands and I learnt that it was kind of an autograph book and I was expected to scribble answers to some commonplace queries. However, the answers were not nondescript. The footnote read thus, “Preserve yourself. By Jove, you are dainty!” Also published at about the same time was a piece of verse that was not so ambiguous in its description, context and design, besides being a proclamation of enamored stupidity. When I knew that the same had been read, I put on the garb of no-nonsense ideologue to escape any explanation and to render the whole thing inconsistent! Notwithstanding, the stage play rolled on. I remember her last words to me were, ‘Congratulations!’ when the results of the Final examination were out and immediately she disappeared into thin air. Thus, I missed to say the ‘Thank you’ at that time. That moment was yet to come.

Higher studies divulged us temporally and spatially. I found a peculiar relief. I organized the memories in one corner of my mind for future use and let the curtains fall.

Chapter II: Origin of Therapeutic Interference

Every malady does not have a cure. And I had a singular one.

Great ideas occur not only to great men! I know this is neither so good a one-liner nor a pseudo-masterful statement hackneyed from any little-read book of a best-selling writer. I however feel that the statement is appropriate at this moment.

The storyline had remained dormant for close to five years. The great idea was to let the stage play roll on again.

I located Ana in a far place via the Internet and gleaned relevant information. I sent her a mail and was happy to receive an elaborate reply. In the months that followed, an occasional interchange of words inclined me towards marveling at my idea! The interludes were also subconsciously well designed to tame inordinate wondrous feelings and frivolous talk.

On one occasion, Ana created a particularly long interlude spanning a few months. I almost came to believe that she might never know. The short story would remain my dream and that was disappointing.

Eventually, the disclosure of the consonance of her ability to my own to spring up a surprise with nonchalance was heartening. In one particularly hot and frustrating afternoon, I received an SMS from her that told me that she was in the same city as I was and that she was doing a job here. The news worked like a catalyst. A reply SMS declared to her, ‘The gift is ready for you.’

Chapter III: The Counterplot

At this point, for reasons I am not entirely conversant with, I am trying to empathize with an experimenter who failed because the results of his long and tiresome experiment deceived him and were tantalizingly deviant from the ones that he expected. But that thing is another matter, presumably unrelated to the present matter.

I will now proceed on to elaborate on what has been curiously entitled, “The Counterplot”. To make matters clear, my malady was the irresistible lure of the plot I had for a story and the cure to that was the opportunity that I had to write it down. Now, I am about to do something like treading on thin ice!

The difficult part, which was to find a novel theme, was never a problem. The easier part, which was to put words to paper, became one heck of a problem supposedly because I did not have a person to really take the trouble to read it seriously comprehending everything that was written.

I was clinging on to the expectation that my foray into writing must be met with some success that should satisfy my ego and for that, I needed the guarantee of a readership that would find the content intelligible and interesting. The same engendered inertia of rest and nourished it.  I wanted at least one person to make a favourable decision that my performance was well-nigh superlative and if not anything else, have a hearty laugh about it. To sum it up, I was uncertain whether any other person than Ana would qualify for being the desired medium.

The opportunity was always there. It was so evidently there, in front of my face, just under my nose. The idea was to romanticize the whole thing and thus to get a decent storyline, believing all the time that I would extricate myself well at the end of it.

Epilogue

I keep saying to myself from time to time:

“Ana, the girl whom I simply can’t get off my head, even after so many years in which I have not seen her. It is a strange dilemma I face. I cannot decide whether it is a delusion or true love for the art of writing but it has been there in my blood all the time and I had to get the opportunity for some satisfying performance. Ana is special to me. Without her, this would have never materialized. It was because of this that she came back to my mind time and again all these years until I had to give in”.

Before I wrote this desultory heck of a story, I went through a long introspection. I was undecided whether I should put pen to paper or I should not! This seemed so much of an overbold exercise. I was weighing contrasting points of view. Why should I risk being labeled as ludicrous? Just for my nebulous perception of the theatrical quality of an innocuous incident. Of course, there may be other opportunities. Or unfortunately there may be none! On the other hand, Ana being gifted this short story may after all decide against having a laugh and find the discourse enjoyable in ways other than regrettably comical.

Ana, without so much of an effort, you have been magnificent! It is time to say “Thank you!

The Talk About Attendants

The Talk About Attendants

There are people in this world who ask stupid questions designed for cheap irritation. I have found that the frequency of encountering them is manifold more within the hospital than elsewhere. Also, at times the belligerence coming along with that botheration is remarkable in an unwelcome manner.

A few days ago, in the Emergency, one fellow demanded for a polythene cover for the X-rays done on his patient. My junior told him that such a thing was not available as the authorities did not provide it. To that, the person made a sore face and raised his voice in disbelief to ask, “Why?” The intern smiled and replied, “Because it is not a grocery shop”. That witty answer unfortunately was ill-received and was the final hit on his choleric disposition. His scowl challenged an impromptu glare on the intern’s face and he mouthed a few expletives while retreating. His vicious behaviour was simply unexplainable. He was not in any sort of emotional turmoil that could mitigate our disgust at his irascible theatrics. His friend, who suffered a few injuries and received prompt treatment, was an equally foul youth. The two of them landed in the Emergency after their 200 cc bike skidded into a drain after an ego-driven failed attempt at outpacing a car around a busy traffic corner. Both of the youths were half-a-decade younger than my intern. An aged ward boy came up to me and remarked that a few slaps on their faces have remained due for a long time in their lives!

          The point about pugnacity and spitefulness having been made, it is the turn to consider some cockamamie legends! “Where is the payment counter?” You tell them that it is in the ground floor and they will ask if it is located below! Likewise, if you tell them that something is in the third floor, they will ask you whether it is above the present level or below it when they know that they are in the second floor!  There was this one fellow who even after being explained that the third floor was above the second one, waited for some more explanation! He just raised his eyebrows as if he understood nothing and then hurled the next question, “Is it just above this or the topmost!”

There was another fellow attending to a diabetic post-operative patient who first asked, “Can my patient eat an apple?” I told “No!” because his patient had just come out from the operating room. The fellow nodded as if he understood well.  Then, he returned after ten minutes and asked, “Can he eat rasgullas!” I was peeved and horrified at the same time. I told him with real emphasis “No! He can’t eat anything because he will vomit it out”. The fellow nodded and took my word like a divine commandment. I thought that settled it. But, I was mistaken. He returned after another ten minutes, as if he were programmed to do so and asked “Can he eat a bedona?” This time I realized the futility of any logical talk. I told him to draw a bedona. He complied and drew something round. I was none the wiser about what that thing was but I made a grave face and told him “Definitely no! This may kill your patient. Very harmful stuff! Such a round thing!! Bedona is bad!!!” And then I murmured to myself, rubbing my chin and looking thoughtfully to the floor, so that he could hear me and understand bits and pieces of what I was saying while he was following me for, as usual, more explanation. “…reverse peristalsis…aspiration….pneumonitis…” and thus I slowly distanced myself from him. The fellow was scared. Only technical terms could have inspired such terror. Maybe his patient won’t get to eat bedonas for a lifetime!

The real problem is the expectation that the doctor must explain every silly thing to the silliest detail! And when everything is told, some of these people are still not satisfied! They pester you till you grow red with frustration.

I have tried to pry into their mindset for some time now. I don’t expect to be totally rational with my analysis. I do it out of compulsion, to vent my frustration!

I quantify my opinions about the people in question thus:

1.     Insatiable and misplaced curiosity

2.     Unceremonious and unsought bequeathal of all responsibilities

3.     Ever eagerness to escape at all opportunities

4.     Perennial suspicion

5.     Monumental expectations or possibly the absolute lack of it

6.     Constant scrutiny to detect any fault and malicious delight at any success in this objectionable operation

7.     Delirious reaction to petty complaints of their patients. As for example: “Doctor, my patient keeps scratching his whole body all the time” (The patient in question has been an in-patient for a month and he was never given a bath or even the more convenient wet body wiping by his crazy attendant, the problem being compounded by his own reluctance, for this whole period!!) Expect only scratching then? “…Doctor, my patient only sleeps during day hours and not at night time!!” (The patient in question is bed-ridden round the clock and dozes every alternate hour. Besides, the attendant himself is asleep at night!)

8.     Watching their patient like a disease-processing object, always looking for any tell-tale signs of any new disease that may originate any moment!

9.     Unexplainable disbelief about anything turning for better in so much so that they will repeatedly question and cross-check about it from doctor to doctor. They cling to this disbelief in the same manner as they expect their patient to cling to his or her disease!

10.            Never ending gossip with fellow attendants about disadvantages of hospital stay and Herculean efforts on their part to overcome them.

These are only ten among the many that could have been enlisted. However, I fail to judge whether I have unduly exaggerated or inordinately down-toned my conclusions.

The Escape

The Escape

             Pashu Chauhan came to the Emergency at the stroke of midnight on 3^rd December with agonizing pain in his abdomen. He had a huge swelling there because too much of alcohol had damaged his pancreas. A diagnosis of pancreatic pseudo-cyst was made and he was admitted into the surgical ward.

His craving for alcohol persisted and he would both behave crazy for the lust of it and from time to time, squeal in pain in his bed beside his perpetually suffering wife, struggling with her sobs. The lyrics of a song, “I will give you reasons to continue; while you lie writhing on the floor…I am demon alcohol” could be fancied in his eyes!

Two weeks later, he was part of the MBBS final practical examination. His was a condition with ‘nice findings’ and he was perhaps the most difficult among the many ‘long cases’. Students were required to correctly diagnose and answer intelligently to questions about his disease.

Chauhan had to endure the replays of rigmarole of examination by two students every day for five days, which included queries about his complaints, censuring interrogation about his drinking habits, seemingly senseless and embarrassing inquiries about his income, daily meals, the structure of his house and his cursed poverty. Those were followed by a head-to-toe scrutiny and a repeated and much dreaded poking of his acute abdomen. During the course of such a one hour ordeal, he would have to gather strength to assume a knee-elbow position and also roll to the right and the left as wished by the student percussing on his torso. The most detested part were the ‘per rectal examinations’. His irritation was aggravated more and more with every repetition. He felt bugged to the supreme point of exasperation so that by the time Rov was in the wards at 9 AM on 19^th December, Chauhan had already fled.

The sad part of it all was that Chauhan left without the knowledge that Rov and his colleagues had made free the investigations for his disease and would have provided all the materials for the surgery of his condition. He was also perhaps unaware that practical examinations were over the very day he left. 

The Gallbladder Story

The Gallbladder Story
(ABOUT HANDS SOAKED IN BILE)

I learn that gall is the bitterness of feeling and exasperation.

In three years I have seen more than a thousand gallbladders removed from the diseased. I wonder if the fetish of our surgery department with the sacrifice of this pear-shaped organ matches the fecundity of the ever-increasing incidence of indisposition of this reliquary of bile, with the said prolificacy being generously abetted by the radiologist’s acumen.

I have been reading about Middle Age theories about humors or vital fluids of human body, of which excesses of two- yellow bile and black bile, were supposed to cause aggression and depression and I feel like distancing myself from the present day evidence-based thinking and going back into the above-mentioned times, particularly for this subject, and propose a corollary that the rise in hostility and melancholy in our society is responsible for the inimical increase in gallbladder diseases!  

And thus the blade of the surgeon is still at work, in full fervor, ever-busy in executing gallbladders and thus his hands are soaked in bile! One can only ask to soak no more!

Living Misunderstood

MISUNDERSTOOD

I wouldn’t speak up because I fear,

I will be more misunderstood!

Already in trouble for all I care,

Speaking more than I should.

Whatever few words I utter,

To convey the right or explain the wrong;

I fail to make it less bitter,

And I seek a way, ponder all so long.

What’s causing distress and so much mess,

Lot of it repressed, I can’t express;

For fear of being misunderstood,

Re-live through all the ill feelings withstood.

Every passing moment, it grows so strong,

Words scare me and infinite thoughts throng;

I am muted and this state could prolong,

It will thus remain and could be yearlong.

Someday, hate will transmute into love,

To be detested to that end I need to be tough;

For all I said in silence will be heard above,

Until then, I will think I haven’t said enough.


Two videos: One by Jon Bon Jovi and another by Robbie Williams:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0Lg_ISGGW4

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dYAifpU8S3E

Junk Talk

The 1^st time I broke the tail-lights of my car; it broke my heart too, and left me truly inconsolable. On the 2^nd occasion, my mind was shuttling among varied emotional states.

Today, when it repeats itself the 3^rd time, I am force-fed philosophy.

An inside voice is reverberating, “Seldom put your life in back gear!”

And, as I must, I am writing as such, like always, to break the ennui.

Incident One: The Post Without Peradventure

That February, Rover, my car, was only a one-month-old road-roamer, when it realized the predicament of its master’s road sense.

I and two of my colleagues went to our HOD’s home on the sad occasion of the demise of his mother and instead of returning via the safe route we had taken to reach there, I embarked on a hazardous short-cut way back. That tricky lane needs some description because regrettably, I would discover that it was a dead end.

The topography was something like this:

The main road was a steep incline of 60 degrees and the lane in question, branched off from the former at 120 degrees to the right and curved back like an ellipse, and importantly, all the time, descended several feet every second of Rover’s excursion, besides thrilling the occupants with its transverse span of just a couple of inches added to Rover’s own!

To steer back Rover in that lane craning my head behind was defying prudence and my ability was check-mated when it rammed against an electric post. The same moment, the world felt like coming to a halt. I clasped my head with both hands and froze. Mukhi and Baideo were making unintelligible noises. Gradually, I could scan people pouring out into the lane. My damaged car in that lepto-lane was scene for overwhelming pathos!

Incident Two: Baker’s Special and a Crash

Simone sat next to me in Rover, parked in front of Baker’s Special and I was waiting for her to finish chomping at a hot dog and a sandwich. As soon as it was done, I jump-started Rover in back gear and straightway crashed against a goods carrier mini-truck that had stealthily juxta-positioned itself behind my vehicle in that darkness. That served me the pot-pourri of myriad emotions; that of rage, guilt, fear, vexation and agony. Simone tried her utmost to dissolve them, partly succeeding to produce an outer calm, but inside me, the incident felt like damnation!

Incident Three: Garage woes

Today, early in the morning, I did it again, just while taking Rover out of my garage, in back gear. I, however, did not become fretful. Instead, I dropped my head and pondered for some length of time.

By the end of the day, my enlightenment features the following, so to say, conclusions:

1. In life, and always before dying, one has to spot the important things when one looks behind.

2. The penchant for repeating the same mistakes is obtrusive nuisance.

3. Repetitive patterns have a universal distribution.

4. One can never have a correct knowledge of one’s potentials.

5. A hat-trick is a milestone.

"GLOOMY SUNDAY"

GLOOMY SUNDAY

500-WORDS OF BAD LUCK

On 6^th Feb, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed!

                                                                                                          

Before waking up, as I was groping for my cell phone to see the time, it fell from the edge of the bed onto the floor and died there and then. No efforts could revive it. With its termination, all my contact numbers also disappeared. I could recall none.

It was 11 AM because my sleeping hours were not broken by the usual alarms and suspicions still linger as to whether my cell phone was long dead!

I finished ward work within an hour, and then extracted 2000 bucks from the ATM on my way home in Rover.

At 12 noon, I was cleaning Rover and had a heart ache when I saw the askew rear bumper. Knots were missing and I did not know how. I was recalling ‘murmurs’ I had been hearing for the last 100 kms that Rover was with me, out of the showroom.

Deeply bruised in mind, I came for casualty day duty at 1 PM and was battling infinite altercations with silly people for 8 hours. At the end of the ordeal, I thought of appeasing the grudges of my tummy with tasty food rather than that provided at hostel.

A bill of 400 bucks! And the remainder in my wallet was only 1100! My mathematics unruffled me! A loss of 500 bucks and I did not know how!

At 10 PM, I was standing in front of the locked door of my room in the hostel and I could not enter! The keys had vanished from my pockets. I could not ask anyone because I did not have a cell phone. Even if I did, I could not remember a God-forsaken number!

At 10:30 I reached my home in Beltola, and there too, I saw locked gates! I jumped over it and fell on the already sprained ankle and I winched in physical pain.

I retrieved the keys and I was back within less than half an hour to unlock the door to further misery!

I stumbled on the bucket full of water and within minutes I was kneeling and wiping the floor of my room. While doing so, my head bumped on the table and a bottle of Zincovit fell crashing and broke my patience! I kicked the air, threw wild punches into space and looked above with muted anger.

I tried to escape into the world wide web. An hour into that, I was almost forgetting my jinx! And that very moment, one fitful extension of my leg sent my mirror, which was lying on my bed, flying and crashing into pieces. I saw broken images of my face on those broken pieces of glass and I was so much affected that I wrote this!

But, I could not post it because my Photon plus was disconnected just then, for non-payment of bills!!

Rov and Rover

White Rover, bright Rover

My sights are set on you

Rover baby, you are proper

And not sober

Like po-faced cars

With repellant scars

With you, I discover poesy

You are so much nicety

Minus the hauteur of Altis or City

Or the corpulent Swift

Unlike some buxom lady

Of taste to a cineaste like me

You are star in any blockbuster

But tell me, what do I do

To stop the Robber?

Keep you under the lights

Stay awake in the nights

Watch over you

Constantly, from my balcony

You make me happier than money

Cute Rover, say you ain’t so mute

Your front grille gleams a smile

I imagine your headlights twinkle

Are they not like beady eyes?

Affectionately I behold your small tyres

On which you crawl the grounds

Then happiness knows no bounds

I hear the cooing of your engine noise

And my heart skips a beat

When I look at your baby poise

Or I sit relaxing in your cuddly seat

Bow-wow of dogs don’t scare you

But where do I hide you?

Do I build a garage for you?

To shelter you like you do

When I feel like you fondle me

When I feel the warmth within you

Ay! Your air conditioner just works fine

You appear like a dream; only mine

See you thus or about-turn

Do I hear ‘Crash and Burn’

Playing in your stereo

I already feel like a hero

To own you, all this description

Lost in absolute fascination

Remain absent-minded the whole day

Never remember what others say

Am I also an academic man?

I doubt if I am staying sane

Acushla! I am lost without you

That is so much true

I can’t measure my infatuation

Unlike your gadgets that tell me your state

Or the gears, pedals and steering by which I control

You are my inspiration; you are my soul!

I may sound a Joker, hallucinate war

Dear O Rover, my sweet little car!

To Argentina, With Love

TO ARGENTINA, WITH LOVE

a Argentina, con el amor

This story is not about Rov. He has a part to play just because he is the source. The male protagonist is Biku. He featured in another of Rov’s stories with the falsified name of Akram. The female protagonist is Mia of Buenos Airos, Argentina!

“Mi más Estimada Mia,

        Hace la misión de cosa imposible para mí. Pero, soy un chavo loco y yo le aseguro que pararé en nada más que éxito. Yo también soy confundido si querrá tal éxito o no. Sin embargo, yo cuido lo menos para tal confusión y yo pongo el corazón y el alma en esto.

Con mis sentimientos amorosos más profundos,

Yo me quedo,

Suyo para siempre,

Biku”

Rov would have written the above in English but for Biku’s insistence on perfection. So, the former had to download a translator program and type the e-mail in Spanish. He still has the least idea about whether he worked out the correct message. In English, it was supposed to be something like this:

“My Dearest Mia,

You are making the thing mission impossible for me. But, I am a crazy guy and I assure you that I will stop at nothing but success. I am also confused whether you will like such success or not. However, I care the least for such confusion and I am putting my heart and soul into this.

With my deepest loving sentiments,

I remain,

Yours forever,

Biku.”

PART ONE: ABOUT BIKU

The real name is Vikram. That’s also the name of a king of ancient ages. That king had married a beautiful princess impressing her by lighting candles singing raaga! I wonder if Biku is capable of creating similar magic!

King Vikram had a storyteller.

A few days ago, Biku asked Rov an opinion. Though the task was not difficult, the sudden need for it perplexed Rov.

Excerpts from that dialogue:

Biku: …slang…“What would anyone think of me at first glance?”..slang…

Rov: Possibly a great small man! To me, you are like a guru…

Biku: …slang…great guru is rather confused!

Rov (tentatively): Why?

Biku: …slang…slang…and more slang…

Rov: That’s too much slang!

Biku: You don’t like it? You don’t like slang? What do you like? What does anybody like?

Rov: Do you mean anybody or someone in particular?

Biku: Yeah! What does she like? Tell me what she likes and I promise I would say no slang no more…

Rov: Mia?

Biku: Who else, you duffer!

Rov: Most of all, she should like all the brands that you wear, from the Rayban sunglasses, Swiss watches, Reebok shoes, Levis jeanswear… After all, no offence meant, she only hails from an Argentinian village!

Biku: I know! I know! I just want to hear from someone else! You describe myself to me!

Rov: You are a smallish person and though not old enough, I have always imagined that you could play the part of Hercule Poirot well!

Biku was irritated to hear such irrelevant nonsense…

PART TWO: THE SECRET LIFE OF BIKU

“We’re going through!”

His voice was like thin ice breaking.

“We can’t make it, Biku!”

Mia’s declaration had a shrill intonation because she was experiencing the zenith of excitement!

The scene was close to romantic stuff shown in cinema. The two of them were sheltered together under a colourful umbrella that was failing to thwart the lashing rains. Their gazes were fixed forward at some challenging danger! The whole bye-lane ahead of them was inundated with muddy waters and also with filth from the drains on either side floating in Brownian motion, making an abominable presentation. The stinking smell was an additional torture. The yellow streetlight below which the two of them were standing was blinking repeatedly as if asking them to make a decision and act on it fast.

Mia perceived a gentle increase in pressure of Biku’s forearm around her waist and she looked down at his ever-jovial eyes, which were a foot below hers in altitude. The questioning glance of her serene eyes curiously generated tender warmth in some part of the left side of his chest and that made him cough a few times. Mia’s reaction to these masculine noises was that she, in an insistently incurious manner, raised her eyebrows to solicit dialogue. Biku thought of saying something but became occupied by the sights of the flutter of her long eyebrows in infinite slow motion! Her straight long black hairs, the smooth and glowing skin of her face, which he at all times rated to be of perfect description, with a dimple on either side of it and her simple nature despite such aesthetic brilliance once again became a full face realization to him that very moment like myriad occasions that whole day, and he felt very good and happy about it, besides also feeling taller, bolder and stronger! He smiled and spoke out loud only four words, “You and me together!”

Too many things were awaiting notice for Biku at that time. A hot and searing pain, felt in his left index and middle fingers due to the burning cigarette stub, a persistent irritation of his throat despite coughing a few times, the blinking screen of his laptop in screensaver mode, the wet and sticky sensation of his shorts owing to spilled beer and the shrill sound of ringing alarms of the table clock in his otherwise silent, and dark room that meant to intimate Biku that it was 2AM and time to sleep. He moved the mouse of his laptop to initiate action in the display. He read a scrap in his Orkut profile.

 “Te quiero”

PART THREE: TO MIA

“Mi más Estimada Mia,

        Hace la misión de cosa imposible para mí. Pero, soy un chavo loco y yo le aseguro que pararé en nada más que éxito. Yo también soy confundido si querrá tal éxito o no. Sin embargo, yo cuido lo menos para tal confusión y yo pongo el corazón y el alma en esto.

Con mis sentimientos amorosos más profundos,

Yo me quedo,

Suyo para siempre,

Biku”

One Hundred

ONE HUNDRED

INTRODUCTION:

Rov moves out of fiction. The following is a real life narrative about something very recent.

PROLOGUE:

…Rov looked up at the night sky. The horizon was streaked with a tawny hue that was refusing to fade, and that was a reflection of the hot day that was! The warmth was still lingering on. At 12 midnight, Rov was 10 miles from reaching the safe abode of his home. On either side of the highway, there were expanses of uncultivated fields that were devoid of human habitation…

The engine of his car was still humming as he relaxed on the bonnet. Kristen sat there beside him and half-turned towards him, she let go a smile…

At this point, I strongly feel like playing the role of this character Rov myself, in the sequences described henceforth and as such I will refer to “Rov” as “I” and “he” as “me” and so on, in the rest of the narrative.

CHAPTER ONE: HOMESICK

It was really beginning to get to me!

Day One: Tuesday.

Morning rounds were followed by OPD hours till 3 PM. By that time, there is no food in my hostel. I ate outside. Evening rounds were from 6 PM and then I had casualty night duty till 8 AM next morning.

Day Two: Wednesday.

The day was spent in Urology O.T till 2 PM. I indulged in casualty night duty once more as a replacement for a fellow first year till 8 AM next morning.

Day Three: Thursday.

By 9:00 AM, I was in the Urology O.T.  At 2 PM, it was lunchtime.

As I put the last vestige of food in my mouth, my phone rang! I learned that it was an emergency call from Unit III. My senior, Rajoo was in need of someone to prepare a case of duodenal perforation for O.T. I immediately translocated myself to the Unit III. At 5 PM, I was doing my first DU perforation case. I was elated. But, that feeling was diluted by the knowledge that ward night duty was to start in a few minutes time. I gobbled up food  in a restaurant and when I was in the middle of it, my Unit IV seniors, Daboo and Akram, rang me up to tell me to prepare two cases of splenic injury for O.T. in the night. The first case was operated from 10 P.M. to 12 midnight. The second case went on till 3 in the morning.

I was busy with retractors and suction device all the time. I came out of O.T. at 3: 30 AM.  And lot of pending work awaited me in the ward to keep me busy till the end of duty hours.

Day 4: Friday.

At 10:00 AM, I was attending to patients in the Urology OPD and that continued till 2 PM.

Just before the stroke of two in the clock, my Unit IV seniors, Daboo and Akram, rang me up to tell me to prepare two more cases for emergency O.T.

The 2^nd case was over by 8 PM.

At 9 PM, I was in Unit V station doing ward night duty till 8 AM next morning.

Day 5: Saturday.

I was in the urology seminar room at 8:45 AM and that was fifteen minutes late!

I remained part of the audience till the end at 11 AM. Lunch was served in the ward itself at 12:30 PM. It may have tasted really delicious with a variety of non-vegetarian items, but to me, it was like some edible stuff I only had to get through.

It was at 1 PM that I felt uncontrollably homesick. I just wanted one thing at that time and that was a long, peaceful sleep! I really longed for resting my head in my mom’s lap. It already felt like one dying wish!

I sought permission for leave for one day so that I could go home. But, I was denied that because I was supposed to be doing a replacement duty for one of the senior residents that evening and I was reminded that I had night duty in the urology ward every Sunday. It took a lot of coaxing by the team of senior residents to make me agree to do that evening duty. I cannot express the sinking feeling in me at that moment.

After a few hours rest, I came to the wards at 6 PM. At 7 PM, I got a call from home and when I heard my mom’s voice at the other end of it; I steeled myself and made the final decision. Come what may, I was going home!!

CHAPTER TWO: THE RELAY

I was restively killing my time in the library of the urology department. At 8 PM, I closed the fat volume of Schwartz’s surgery with an authoritative thump and got up. I made up my mind that come hell or high water, nobody could stop me from reaching home and the time to start moving was that very moment! I took my stethoscope and put it in my Diesel bag, the other contents of which were- a dirty apron,  “2 States”  by Chetan Bhagat, a 2L bottle containing water upto a quarter of its capacity, a few tablets, mostly rabeprazole, a headphone, sheets of notes- some academic but mostly random scribbling on real life subject matters.

When I reached the entrance of my hostel, I heard the vroom of a motorcycle in the corridors approaching me. The biker was Debo of Unit I. That was fortunate event number one. I rode pillion on his bike to Bhangagarh city bus stand. I bade him goodbye and then waited for city buses that would carry me to Jalukbari. Only two city buses went through that way in a matter of ten minutes and none of them to my preferred destination. I understood that I hadn’t much of a choice. So I boarded the next one at 8:20 PM and that vehicle took me only to Paltanbazar Nepali Mandir. From there, to Panbazar “Pani Tanki” city bus stand, I ran like a long distance sprinter. I clocked it at fourteen minutes!! And then I waited again. This time, no city buses came by. So I had to board the backside of a tempo and that thing took me to Bhalarumukh. A group of stinking manual labourers shared that ride with me and they were singing popular bollywood songs from the 90s.

CHAPTER THREE: DISTRESS CALL

I found the ride a distasteful experience and formed the opinion that I had enough! I called up my dad as soon as I de-boarded!!

“Hello!”

“Dad! Can you send one of the cars? I am stuck here in Bharalu. I am planning to come home…”

There was a 20 seconds silence at the other end of the line following my declaration. I re-checked the call status of my phone, shook it twice and then put it back to my ear to hear something that sounded like scolding.

“What!! At this hour?! Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

I replied in a weak voice. “I thought I could manage”

A lot of other things were said that cost me two to three minutes of talk time balance and at the end of it, I heard the thing I knew I would hear.

“You wait there. I am sending Ali. He will call you when he reaches there”.

CHAPTER FOUR: DELIGHTFUL TALK

At 9:20 PM, I was thus strolling to and fro at Bharalumukh, opposite to a police station! My movements were interrupted when a girl came up to me, holding a heavy airbag with both of her hands, and she spoke to me.

“Where are you going?”

“To Mangaldai. You going anywhere?”

Rather than replying to my question, she opened up her mouth to form a big “O” and then bit her tongue. I could only surmise that she was inwardly deliberating on something. Then, as if throwing the dice, she blurted out.

“Really!!!”

“Yes. I am not much of a liar and certainly I don’t say silly jokes at this hour to some stranger…”

She smiled, may be because she thought it was a profitable thing to do so.

“Your dad is coming to get you?”

I jerked my head and made subtle movements of my eyes, forehead, and shoulders and tried to refocus on the girl who stood before me, buying time to understand how on earth she could possibly know.

“How do you know?”

“I overheard what you were saying on phone”

That thing probably explained it and many more things.

“Not my dad, but our driver is coming to pick me up”

“Could I ask for a lift? Please…”

I expected her to ask that question but she did it a little bit pre-maturely and so I answered with a guarded tone.

“Really? I can’t say no but what are you doing here at this hour?”

“I came from Delhi today evening by plane, came here to stay at my aunt’s home but I learnt that she has gone to her husband’s place. I had a friend here in Bharalu but unfortunately her family has also gone somewhere. No other place to stay. I came here to take an auto to any nearby good hotel…”

“That’s tragic! You can come with me if you like though I still don’t know where to! What do you do in Delhi?”

“I am doing a fashion designing course in NIFT, Hauz Khas”

“Really? Hauz Khas is really a hi-fi locality. You stay there?”

“I stay in Gautam Nagar”

“Oh! Then there is some possibility that I may have seen you some day!”

“So, how is that?”

“I stayed there for 2 months in a Punjabi household with two of my friends”

“Why were you there?”

“That’s one question a lot of people ask me and I also ask myself!”

“Why is that?”

“Which one to answer?”

“Means?”

“Whether I should answer why I was there or why people ask me why I was there?”

“Both, if you please”

“Firstly, the part concerning why I was there”

“I am all ears!”

“Just after PG entrance examination…”

I could see a questioning look in her face.

“…I almost thought you also knew that I am a soon-to-become-surgeon”

“You, a medico? Which semester?”

“Semester! I told you I am almost a surgeon!”

“Which means?”

“I completed all semesters for your knowledge”

“You already MBBS?”

“Yeah! Are you slow?”

“No! I am not! Actually, you don’t know how to talk!”

“Is that a rebuke?”

“You should not think so…constructive criticism”

“So you are the constructive kind?”

“Which is supposed to mean?”

“You like to direct how others should be according to you? Thus construct lives that are lived the way they should be!”

“You are really shifting the topic to abstract grounds! Are you stable in your mind?”

“Right now I am stable enough to know that you are you and I am me!”

“Then, I think you should go back to what you were telling about your questionable existence in Delhi!”

“Ok…you win!”

“Win what?”

“Never mind!”

“I was telling that as soon as the results of the postgraduate entrance examination were declared…”

“So, you are a postgraduate in Surgery. MS. Right?”

“Awesome! A tour-de-force!”

“Is it like embarrassing me?”

“Nopes! I can’t do that”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t. Is it so necessary for you to put a ‘why’ everywhere?”

“Man, you are making me like you to dislike you!”

“Isn’t that abstract?”

“Equiprobable!”

“Make-belief!”

“Unintentional!”

“Undeniable!”

She smirked at me. I could only laugh…

“Will you at all listen to what I have to say or is it that you could not be less interested?”

“I have no choice. You are the best available option. At least, you are not drunk!”

“Actually at this hour, I am a comfort to you”

“Really chivalrous! I am aware of it only now!”

“Is it like you are used to a lot of boys liking you?”

“Yeah! Is it sad that you are not one of them?”

“That part, I would have liked it if you would have known better. Frankly, it is not a sad thing!”

“Then everything is well, I suppose. We may continue with your story”

“Do you really want to hear it?”

“Yes! I want to hear only that”

“May I say that you have excited enough resentment responsible for killing my spirit about telling you that?”

“Oh! Come on! I thought you were a sport when it comes to wordplay!”

“How do you know so much about me?”

“You are only imagining things!”

I was suddenly disconcerted with that remark. I jerked my head a couple of times, opened my tired eyes widely and then shut them tightly and repeated that maneuvre a few more times, rubbed my face and shrugged my shoulders, and tried to re-focus on the girl in front of me. No! I was not imagining things!

She was there standing with her hands on her hips and with a benevolent smile in her countenance possibly amused by my comical behaviour. She was expectantly waiting for me to speak the next words.

“I haven’t asked your name yet!”

“Kristen!”

“Kristen? Is it real?”

“Does it matter?”

“My name is Rov and it is real and it would matter to you that it is real because you would not like to be with someone at this hour who is telling you a wrong name!”

“That’s a fine case you have put forward. Kristen is my real name”

I remarked more to myself than to her, “Really uncanny”.

And then I was scratching the hairs on the back of my head and then rubbing my chin. These movements took up quite some time but Kristen did not seem to mind that I was considering her for all that time. She even did not mind the last two words that slipped out of my mouth, may be because she did not hear them or probably, as I would like to believe it, she did not understand them for being more of the kind of  mumbling.

“I was saying that when the results of PG entrance examination were declared in February last year, everyone of our batch was going somewhere, doing something or the other thing. My two best friends, Zeet and Pal, were moving out to Delhi and instead of feeling over the moon because I cleared it the first time itself, I felt like my own effigy with ‘indecision’ plastered from above down. When, a week later, Zeet and Pal were packing their luggage bags with books, I also followed their example. After being almost six years with them, I could not all so suddenly bear to be left alone and so I also boarded the plane to New Delhi along with them. While they were going with the objective to rack their brains to crack the Examination the next year, I was going along with them to shake off my fears of monotonous existence”

“So that tells me why you were there. Now the next question was why do people always ask you why you were there?”

“That is because people don’t know me. They don’t know that I am impulsive, capricious, and reckless and like some product of uncertainty principle, and a phobic to wearisomeness, an addict to whimsical speculations and fascinations in a constant search of an egress into my own dream world…”

“Are you freaking out?”

“Eh!”

“I mean, are you already in your dream world?”

“Why do you ask?”

“It seems like you are consumed with the conflict of so many emotions right now and that is a cause of anxiety to me because I fear it to be a contagious thing!”

“Contagious? Like contamination? You calling me a vector?”

“Definitely no!”

“That’s good! Let me ask you something else. How long have you been in Delhi?”

“Two years”

“That means you have been eating North Indian food for two years now! Must have been a terrible pain to your stomach!”

“Why?”

“Because I could not tolerate the punishingly hot and spicy food for even two months! There were days when I ordered only rice and curd with heapfuls of sugar in restaurants there!”

“Really?”

“Yeah! And the fellows who took such an order for meal would look at me with wide open eyes like I was some alien! Possibly they even smiled at my back!”

“I like North Indian food! I am a frequent eater of tandoori chicken. Don’t you like that?”

“I like Chinese food best. There were other times during my stay in Delhi when I used to search for Chinese restaurants to appease the grudges of my tummy”

“You should go to China then!”

“I could, but I am doubtful whether I would like any Chinese girl!”

“Do you like any girl?”

“Eh! That is some question! Now, you are making me really think about it!”

“Don’t think about me! I am already engaged to somebody”

“I was not thinking in those lines”

“You should think of it as a pre-emptive statement!”

“Is it supposed to mean that it was required to be like in the lines of you making me like you and then declaring your engagement status?”

“You are so intelligent!”

“Is doing such a thing a satisfying experience?”

“Kind of!”

“And how many times have you done that?”

“Plentiful!”

“And have you ever thought of not doing that again?”

“Oh! Come on! Cut the crap! I was saying all these for fun sake. I do not intend to make you like me and I have never consciously done anything like that. Even, I am not engaged to anybody. I suppose you know what made me tell you that bit of lie”

“Are you trying to be mysterious?”

“No!”

“I find your talk very engaging!”

“Yeah! You are a very likeable fellow as well”

At the exchange of the above statements, Kristen and I were looking at each other steadily for some time, and to the best of my beliefs, with an identical wave of feeling rising in each of us and fast approaching a crescendo. During those moments, I realized that I knew her in toto as well as I knew that she knew me likewise. I really liked it that she could understand that whatever I was saying was only like some kind of theatrical performance and appreciating the vibes, she was responding to me in much the same manner. All in all, she was proving an equal, or in other words, was someone similar to me, and I found it to be an utmost satisfying experience and wanted the thing to continue.

Kristen smiled at me and it appeared like she knew what was going on in my mind.

Just then, my cell phone rang.

CHAPTER FIVE:  RELAY CONTINUES

“Sir, there has been an accident at Saraighat Bridge. I can’t get to Bharalu. Can you please come here by any means? I am at the other end of it”

That was Ali’s tidings with imperfect timing!

So, at 10:30 PM, I, or for the matter, we, were desperately looking down both ends of the almost desolate street for any sign of transport vehicle. Suddenly, Kristen shouted “An auto! An auto!!” I turned around almost in disbelief.

“Yeah! That’s an auto”. “Hey! Auto!! Stop! Stop!! Stop!!!....Stop!!”

And thus shouting, I was running behind that three-wheeled vehicle till I forced it to halt at a hundred metres distance.

“What happened?”

“To Saraighat Bridge please”

“What?!”

“Saraighat Bridge”

“No!”

“Please! You call a price…I need to be there. My car is there. My driver is there. He can’t come over here because there has been an accident. I am a doctor…There is a girl with me…You can’t leave us alone here…Please”

“No! No time for work. I am only going home”

“Ok! Where is your home?”

“What?”

“Where is your home?”

“Jalukbari”

“Take us to Jalukbari. I will give you 50 bucks!”

“50?!”

“Yes, and 100 if you take me to Saraighat Bridge!”

“OK! Get in. Who is the girl?”

“My neighbour”.

The whole thing was now becoming too eventful. I just felt like scrolling down to the end of the script.

When we reached Saraighat Bridge, the auto driver stopped his vehicle and demanded

“200 bucks to cross the Bridge!”

I fumed. “This is crap man! Plain extortion! At any other time of the day, I would have taught you some lesson. Anyway take these hundred bucks! You may leave”

I took the hand of Kristen and helped her out of the auto. Then, we started the next part of the adventure by crossing the kilometer long bridge over a matter of half an hour.

But, at the other end of it, there were no vehicles! That came as a shocker!

Suddenly, we grew frightened and realized our mistake. I tried to call Ali but there was no network now. Kristen’s cell was already switched off due to lack of power.

I looked at Kristen and drew my face close to her ears and whispered.

“Run!”

We ran for 20 minutes when I saw the first vehicle of the long line of traffic at our end of the jam caused by the road block. Only at that time did we slow down, and then ambled confidently ahead till we could see an oil tanker rolled over in the middle of the highway and the whole place did smell of diesel.

I heard Ali call me “Sir! Over here!!”

I shouted back, “You told me the wrong thing Ali!! This place is far from being the other end of the Bridge!!”

“Sorry sir! I had no idea how far the Bridge is from here but people were saying that the accident was in the Bridge when I called you. After that your phone went dead”

“Man! You could have killed me! Where is the car?”

“Over there! I have steered it clear of all traffic”

“Lo! Kristen, finally!”

She displayed the most pleasant smile of the evening!

“Who is she?”

A quick word in his ears. “Memsahib!”

“Oh!”

CHAPTER NINE: ABOUT BLANK

I suddenly woke up to voices calling out my name. I opened my eyes to see my mom and my sweet little cousin sister hanging their faces close to mine and regarding me like a just discovered cast away person lying like some dead fish in some shore.

I took the four year old Hiya in my arms and kissed her in both her cheeks and then I was thinking hard and over and over again.

“Where did I leave Kristen?”

EPILOGUE:

…I looked up at the night sky. The horizon was streaked with a tawny hue and that was a reflection of the hot day that was! The warmth was still lingering on. At 12 midnight, I was 10 miles from reaching the safe abode of my home. On either side of the highway, there were expanses of uncultivated fields that were devoid of human habitation…

The engine of my car was still humming as I relaxed on the bonnet. Kristen sat there beside me and half-turned towards me, she let go a smile…

I am still in the process of remembering more…

A hundred bucks were paid to the auto driver the previous night for being part of this story. My wallet weighed lighter by hundred bucks the following morning that I woke up…

Thank you for reading!

APPENDIX:

Kristen Stewart is my favourite Hollywood actress.

The events in this story are all real life minus Kristen ;-)