The City that never sleeps...

The coffee was getting cold, steam rising from it in large swarms. A table lamp shaded its warmth alongside its plight to light its space. The silence of the room was suddenly disturbed as she crumpled a piece of paper and hurled it to where a herd of them lay. Something seemed to annoy her as she tried to work…

She stood up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and stretching her hands. The numbness was getting to her. Walking over to the window she looked at the street below her. From four floors up, everything seemed miniaturized. There was a storm raging outside the window, cold and merciless. Yet, it did not seem to disturb the preoccupied people, except the inch of desperation to reach home. She looked lazily at the table, bringing work home was the last thing she wanted to do. But deadlines stared at her from the small yellow papers stuck on the wall next to her table. And the coffee she had made to keep her warm, oh, she never had time for it. Every morning she would have to pour it down the sink, making a mental note not to repeat it again…

It was the city that never slept, she knew…  Busses and trains literally groaned under the weight of the people crammed into them, taking them to their diverse destinations.  Every eye reflected the struggle and passion to succeed.  Just like hers, when she had vouched for journalism. Being a reporter, she loved the spotlight, the risk, the travelling and sometimes, putting her life on the line. The thrill was enchanting. But as they say, everything in life came with a price tag. From tall towers touching the sky that glimmered with lights like as though a million candles were lit in mid air, or the dark eternal stretch of roads, or cars speeding away with blaring flawless engines; to the selfish, heartless people masked in pleasantness, they had all imbibed the spirit of soullessness.

She was amongst them, the crowd of hollow men. Though every time she would find herself wanting to do what she had almost forgotten to do, trust. But pain was always a consequence, searching her soul in the past, among lost relations, among sleepless nights, bewitched work timings, strangling deadlines, a bit of jokes and happiness under the hood, thoughtless adventures, a list of things on the purchasing list, countless acquaintances and camera flashes, mindless dancing, alcohol and smokes, heartbreaks and scars…

Sometimes, some choices in life always caught up to you. It was a matter of time if you’d see yourself regretting the choice or you fight with it along the years and look back a day and find nothing but the struggle. It was just a question of which day came first. But somewhere in that struggle lay all her life. There was no changing it. There was no looking back. That was all a couple of years, triumphs, sorrows, and failures ago…

 

 The storm raged on, inside her. Yet, tired with work and fighting off emotions, she fell asleep with her head on the table. The cold coffee lay forgotten…    

23 years and Counting...

Life kick started with a certificate. A birth certificate...

 A carefree baby. A carefree yet curious toddler. Lot of doodling and playing. And before I know it, I assume the glorified role of the whining school boy. I am taught how to write, read and some behavioral aspects. I'm good to go. For my ability to write ABC and 123, I still remember, I was given a certificate in UKG-G. More like it was for mom and teachers who taught me all of it... Oh and I still remember the maths teacher comparing a girl's round and sweet looking handwriting with the narrow and broken one of mine. I slapped the girl later and got punished for it. :) And yeah, she's my best friend now.

Fast forward a few more years. The competition, pressure & tension started... Though I don't remember much of it now, there I was, wanting the "honour roll" certificates for good marks. I also had a load of friends obsessed about it. One night before exams, I sat by my dad's favourite music player, playing with its volume knob. I had a Hindi exam the next day. Mom came up to me and asked me what I was up to. I told her I studied some poem by-heart. Then she enquired about the second which was the last one left. I smiled at her, still playing with the volume knob and said, "No mom. That poem won't come in the exam. I've told God not to let it come" Well it did come and my total was a bit low, I missed honour roll again. :)

When I was in 5th grade, I was suddenly so motivated. My teacher loved me. I always managed only a 70% in exams till then. And 80% was silver honour roll and 90% was gold honour roll. I played less, carried more books in the bag on my shoulder, slept less, crammed my head with more. But sometimes it really got to me. The previous night of the results day I sat awake all night with a calculator and question papers thinking on how much I would get. The results day tided away. I walked home with the progress report with an 81.4%. And it was the first time I was gonna show it to dad first and not my mom. Coz when marks are less, mom will sign :)  And the day finally came when I was standing on the stage, sturdy and proud. My first honour roll!

Years passed. I was writing the board exam for 10th grade. My hands were shivering like it never had in my life. A teacher came up to me and tried to tell me it was ok. No it was not ok. This is the end of my life if I don't get a honour roll... And this time it was gonna be gold. Or else what was everyone going to think. All those who were hoping and praying for me. It's my life on the line. I don't remember anything much between the exam and the time that I walked into class one day a few months later and my friend Umar was annoucing my marks. I simply hadn't had the nerve to check it online. I had made it, my first gold honour roll.

And a few years and a disastrous 12th grade (hehe!!), I was there like a fool in an entrance coaching centre darkening bubbles for answers of questions. (1)-a, (2)-c,(3)-e and so on... And well it wasnt too good but there I was in an engineering college. 4years of notes and assignments, exams and presentations, lecture and harassment, shouting and screaming, attendance and proxies, leave's and fake medical certificates, fun and fun making and yeah, CERTIFICATES... Loads of them!

It was all over for the moment. A break...After 23 years of my life. I sat by my bed looking at all the certificates in my life. Papers that defined what I was. Papers that shaded evidence on my conduct. Papers that showed my nationality. Papers that showed where I belong, that showed how good or bad I was at a subject or how lucky I was at the exam. 23 years of my life was in those pages. These were the pages for which I,  faced all those frost nosed teachers (not all- just some of them who think we were a pile of shit in front of them), spent lots of money in colleges, tuitions, places to stay, food and  also lost most of my sleep, faced people's ego, wrath, sometimes even cried... These pages were what I lived for.

Though everything else along the years is a funny thing to think about. Friends, the good times, love and a lot of beautiful things... Its something that the final page of the file I was stashing the certificates wasn't decided. Tests were yet to come and so were certificates. Even failure was a certificate added. Along each certificate is attached a lot of memories of all the incidents before getting it. I guess the path was always more enjoyable than the destination. The destination was after all just a certificate. Be it in someone's heart or a small piece of paper neatly stashed in a file...      

Smiling... I thought... "The birth certificate... Thats where it all started..."

The Predicament...

I've pondered long for how this write up should be. Give it a third person perspective and I could express more. But I guess I have to be myself for this once. Life's been a race and sometimes you have to wear a mask. It's not to prevent yourself from getting hurt. Its coz you dont want anyone to see you, or you dont wanna open it up and look yourself in the face. Coz you know you're living just a big lie. You can't accept the fact that you are stuck, knowingly or otherwise...

Happiness is a moving target, maybe coz you have seen and lost something greater in the past, or probably you were so content with it, that you can never let go and accept anything else. It was her. I know I may have mentioned, and may have bored people with the story. But this is my story, I cant get tired of it.

I had once read a forward text on my cell phone. Love just happens once and everything else you feel is your mind trying to get that old love again. You look for her in others eyes. You look for her in the broken bits and pieces in the shackles she has left you in. I'm not saying that you can't move on. I have, in fact. Like another million dreams that have been persuaded to be pushed down in the gutters of the mind, she lays there. But its just that she has a voice. She has a temper. She still loves you... All in the depths of your mind. She taunts you and life becomes a surreal reflection of the past. Every moment of life reminds you of her, like a bad replay.

Sometimes when I walk to faintly lit rooms of my house, I can find her waiting for me. I touch her hand and she's gone. I have a long list of friends, most of them who are really close. I talk to them, accept them for what they are and support them whenever they need me. And I never hurt their feelings. I get a lot of love and attention from my female friends. Probably coz of what I am to them. But sometimes I feel, I'm just filling up the emptiness in me. Getting some love and attention from lots of people, and searching my lost soul in it. At least my soul glimmers in the happiness of the others around me. When I love again, I search for her, for the words, the kindness and everything I got from her. Its nice to cower behind something and try to be someone your not. At least life is a fantasy and you're a third person to everything, u can think, postpone, come back to things as and when you want. Further more, dreams and fantasies are beautiful places to live in.

 It becomes a memory that I simply cant change. A set of dreams in this labyrinth that I entered once and have been forbidden not to leave. Sometimes I feel that its just me,  I cant leave coz i dont want to.It is one of those things even I cant do anything about.

Simply coz I wish to and another side of me, wishes not to. I feel hollow sometimes, wondering who or what I am.

Maybe just a mere memory, who's soul has long ago ceased to exist...