February musings

Summer has suddenly arrived or so it seemed. Till mid-February the weather was quite pleasant unlike earlier years and we were enjoying the exception. Yesterday while watering a few flower plants we have, I noticed the dryness and enhanced the quota of their fluid intake in anticipation of the approval of the home ministry. At bed time when I tried to switch on the AC for a few minutes it was immediately switched off with a stern warning-with soaring electric bills, forget AC till mid-May. It was followed by a long sermon- you are lucky to have electric fans at your home. Imagine how people were enjoying their lives with hand-made fans that too for years together. They were all strong and healthy unlike you people-popping up a medicine for blood pressure in the morning, then another before meal for blood sugar and yet another for excruciating body ache and finally a tranquilizer for sound sleep. I don’t take all those, I protested. The sermon was louder this time-I am not talking about you, I am saying about people in general. Exposure to nature is the best cure. But then why don’t we go to the roof top and enjoy pristine nature instead? Stop howling, it is already late- was the curt answer. So summer has arrived at my bedroom.  

Last year the summer was terrible and adds to it there was voltage problem. I was in service then. We had to switch off regular power supply to run the ACs with the generator so that regular classes of the Academy could function un-interrupted. Ours is a surplus power State I believe I asked the authorities of power Supply Company. It was Sir, but not now-they replied.  This past tense is because of your negligence or our over consumption, I enquired. Both Sir was the indifferent reply. I had to leave it at that. You cannot improve the work culture without a sense of belonging. Amazingly we lack that, I realised.  

In our city, we have incessant programmes throughout the year. Recently many people are simply crazy about the opera or ‘Yatra’ as we call such open air theatre. I marked yesterday that the men at the milk parlour were rejoicing the narration of an inspired opera goer, ‘the heroine cried her heart out so intensely that we all, including an indifferent person like me, sobbed in unison for several minutes’. In my childhood days the Yatra or opera was the major source of entertainment in a village. After completing the household chores the women folk join their men to witness opera which lasts about six hours –from 11pm to 5am of the next day. There was orchestra, a story, song, dance, duets and comic interludes which were exhilarating enough to unwind them for weeks.  Thing are different now with ticketed shows that start in the late evening for a duration of three to four hours. No more mythological stories-now all stories are imaginary reflecting the social milieu at large with improved acoustics, stage technique, light and of course female artists not men masquerading as women. To top it all the nomenclature of all plays can be called- sensational. Taste transformation-should we call it?

The girl of a reputed Jewellery shop was probably impressed by my new found wealth and rang me off and on with the pleading-prices have been slashed substantially, please purchase gold coin if not jewellery. I admit it was not her fault. I thought of purchasing an earring set as marriage anniversary gift to my wife and secretly went to the shop. In hurry I had chosen a defective set and more importantly it did not receive the approval of the recipient. So I had to take it back to the shop with the rightful owner on the anniversary day for its replacement. She chose a better set but was unwilling to purchase because of its price but I insisted on it coughing of a few thousands more in the process. That was the mystery behind her assumption. The poor lady does not know, it was my first ornament-gift after many years of married life that too in anticipation of retirement benefits.

During college days, one of my friends’ wrote, ‘death is not dyeing but life is’. The line sounded philosophical and impressive. Should we deliberate on the existential agony or accept life in its sublime form with pleasure and pain caressing each other? ‘Why fret about those if today be sweet?’ it is Omar Khayyam all the way that keeps me moving.

           

A sequel to the Story

Writing a story is not free from worldly hazards. It is like any other human activity which can earn you fame or notoriety and at times both in the same vein. I was contemplative of the subject because of my recent venture in honing my skills of story-writing which was my passion for years. My imitative took almost a week to give shape to a story, if it can be called one. After reading the story my wife didn't say a word and took to her bed rather early. I knew she did not like the tragic ending. But then nobody loves tragedy.
I often ask myself –what are the other options available to a writer in such a situation. Honestly I don’t find any. In some of the plays of earlier years a mechanism in shape of deus ex machina was employed which was a sort of divine intervention to give poetic justice to a situation which was grievously wrong. Unfortunately life is not a well-made play with a beginning, the middle and the end. When the very existence is an enigma, if one expected the sequences to re-enact –frustration would be the answer. I curse myself for remaining aloof from the filmy trend where hero always wins and all tragedies culminate in mid-summer night’s dream with hero heroine dancing together in a scintillating duet.
Back from imagination I found myself immobile with the surgical treatment of cataract. The super specialist in ophthalmology –who happened to be my brother-in-law, advised me rest for a week with no laptop around. After the third day I rang up and said, ‘how can you be that cruel in the post-surgical treatment? Hitler must be a pleasing personality compared to your advice.’ He grumbled initially but agreed for a check-up the next day. After examining he was pleased with the developments but said sternly, ’five minutes for mail and ten minutes for Facebook- that is all you get for the next seven days and mind you, for any violation the leniency stands terminated’. ‘But dear’ I pleaded ‘I don’t need laptop for those things. I need it for writing and your fifteen minutes quota is as good as nothing’. He threw a phial of eye drop and said ‘lubricate your eyes when you are uncomfortable with your vision but use laptop half an hour at a stretch and don’t use more than three hours in a day. I would ring up Bhauja to monitor your viewing and install CCTV camera if need be. I wish I could see the footage.’ These Docs are as suspicious as women I murmured’. ‘Did you say something?’ he enquired. ‘Yes I said-thank you Doctor’. He threw me a suspicious glance.
My friend rang up yesterday and said ‘I read your nice little story and enjoyed the writing I know of. Keep it up and we expect more’.
These sorts of contradictory reactions made me sad and happy alternatively and consequently leave me in an indecisive mode. Should I pursue my passion or concentrate on poetry instead? The friend rang up once again and said, ‘I re-read your story and believe me it is poetry all through’. I wish my wife heard it too.
   

Backdrop of a Story

I have started writing short stories quite recently after a gap of almost thirty years. The moment I begin to start writing, my wife would appear from nowhere with the pleading, ’don’t give me a sad story’. I don’t know wherefrom she discovered my potential to kill the characters. True I am not a vegetarian, but does that turn me into a potential murderer? Do I look like a killer or for that matter a mercenary? I must ask my friends but they would be equally biased because of their affection. Unable to find a solution, I started writing humorous pieces on post-retirement scenario making her the recipient of all satirical blows which she enjoyed without grumbling. I believe she enjoyed the stories, in spite of descriptive tantrums because she was portrayed as the heroine. Now, enough is enough, I declared. I have already written four pieces within three months of retirement. Don’t cajole me into offering you lolly pops all the time I said in disgust. Let us do something serious. She showed me the utmost indifference a lady can offer. I put my hands on my head cursing all gods that came to my mind for this predicament. But that is no consolation either.

Come whatever may, I must fight headlong and with that promise I began writing stories. I had uninterrupted existence for a couple of days but on the third day the uninvited intruder started throwing medium-sized pebbles in shape of questions, ‘so rustic characters with amorous scenes-that you call stories hey’. ‘Honey where do you get such vulgar ideas’ I retorted. ‘It is a love story and I hope it would be a nice one’. ‘So you are on a mission to recount all your numerous escapades with those glamour girls who flirt but never love?’ ‘Stop, stop what are you suggesting honey? I am a dignified person with decent disposition. You cannot accuse me of adultery’. ‘But your friends say you were a live Casanova in your college days’. Oh my God, those innocent looking affectionate friends have turned villains indeed. I must take these traitors to task but I cannot believe it. I became impatient and said ‘give me peace of mind to concentrate and complete’. ‘You have all the time in the world to complete it, but remember if I discovered traces of your exploits in any of the romantic dialogues with the heroine or whatever you call that idiot- the story will go to the flames I usually light every day to burn the weeds’. With those stern words she marched out of the room in military style. I took a couple of glasses of cold water to regain my composure. So the volcano is active again.

I confined myself in a room and tightly locked it inside, except in the dining time, to prevent different instrumental notes emanating from the chatter-box that I call wife. Story telling is not easy once your skills became rustic because of negligence. But I tried to revive it with emotions in late nights and could somehow manage to complete only yesterday. ‘Don’t forget the censor’ my wife reminded. ‘No I don’t, how can one forget it? Even the film people come crawling. I am a mundane human being, how can I forget You Highness’ scissors?’ I humbly submitted. ‘Don’t be over simplistic and don’t put up any drama. Tell me the story in nutshell before I actually went through’.

After the Post-graduate final examination the protagonist wanted to stay an extra day in the hostel to roam around the campus and bask down the memory lane. Accidentally he came across a classmate who happened to be a lady and requested her to stay back for a day so that they could make a stroll around the campus together to make it memorable. Initially the lady did not agree but to his utter surprise he discovered the lady in the college square waiting for him. It touched a tender chord and unknowingly they started loving each other. That is how the story developed. ‘The story sounds interesting and decent without Bollywood spices. But tell me what is the end?’ she inquired. ‘Read it yourself’ I said calmly.

Unfortunately the story ends with the protagonist expiring in a road accident and his lady-love, for the last seven years has been pining each moment of their immortal love that lasted only for twenty-four hours.

I do not know what would be the reaction of my wife at the end. But am I a potential sadist?