The Finish Line

The elevator was out of order.

 

THAK. THAK. THAK.

 

Her footsteps echoed as she climbed up the narrow and deserted staircase. She kept rubbing her sweaty hands against each other, repeating the word “Breathe” to herself over and over again. The irony of it struck her. She knew that her destination was waiting to snatch her breath away.

 

She paused for a few seconds and closed her eyes to calm down. Her mind was filled with an incessant babble, however hard she tried to quieten it. She could hear his voice ringing in her ears, “I should have never met you!”

 

As she opened her eyes, a tiny teardrop rolled down her cheek – the cheek that he used to kiss every morning before going to work, and every night before going to bed. Used to…

 

Remembering that her tears had lost their worth from the first month they’d been together, she wiped them off. “Enough!”, she told herself. “The Finish Line is waiting for you.”

 

For a fraction of a second, she blamed her parents yet again for her ache, for giving her a loveless childhood, for increasing her hunger for love to such an extent that she found life’s meaning in nothing else. But then, it was all futile. Her marriage was already over. Her faith in love was gone. Her ache would also be gone. Soon.

 

She dragged her feet along, to ascend the final flight of stairs. She knew that her descent would be quick. She was prepared.

 

THAK. THAK. THAK.

 

And there she was. 200 metres from the ground. She was afraid of heights as ever. “Finis. You HAVE TO do this.”, said the prodding voice in her head. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

 

She jumped with her eyes open, and her arms spread out. She was scared, but for the first time, “good” scared. The fall, the wind, the thrill, the bungee cord tied to her ankle. The bond that freed her.

 

The Finish Line was only the beginning.

A Moment

**Some fact, some fiction**

They'd taken a 70 km tuk tuk ride from Siem Reap to see Beng Mealea. It was not cloudy like the previous days in Angkor Wat, and although the ruins were covered with a thick shelter of trees, she was worried about her tan from the ride. She'd purchased new walking shoes for the trip, and the shoe straps had formed a black and white pattern on her feet, thanks to the merciless sun. "Wrong choice! I should've bought the ones that covered my entire feet." she thought, and complained aloud about the heat for the hundredth time, fanning herself with a hat.

"Sshhh, just be quiet. And listen." he whispered.

Ignoring him, she kept on looking at her once-upon-a-time pretty feet with a mixed expression of pity and adoration. As she was staring at them, something pricked her right arm near the wrist. "Ouch!" she cried, rubbing her arm, "Do these insects have something against me? That’s the fourth bite since I’ve been here. And look at these creatures; I don't remember when I’d last seen mosquitoes as big as these!"

"Better you than me!" he laughed. "You should've worn full sleeves instead of half; they don't allow sleeveless here anyway. And FYI, that's my hat you're using like a hand fan. May I have it back?"

She handed him the hat with a scowl, as they continued their stroll on the wooden walkway constructed for tourists to admire the ancient temple. There weren't too many visitors, and she wasn't surprised.

"Who'd want to travel all the way in this heat? I'd rather stop by one of those cozy-looking stilt houses that we passed during our journey."

"They are rural Khmer houses."

"Of course they are, Mr. Wikipedia!"

"Guess why they're built on stilts."

"To avoid floods?"

"Wow, look who’s getting smarter!"

Even though she knew that he was teasing her, she couldn't help but smile a little.

"Stop." he said all of a sudden.

"You want me to stop smiling? I thought you liked my smile!"

"You know I love your smile. I'm only asking you to stop walking. And talking."

"Okay, but why?"

"What's that pranayama you taught me, the one in which you make a humming sound to calm your mind?"

She said, "Bhramari" and looked around. She was too busy fretting over bugs and the hot weather to notice the enchanting beauty of the place she was in. The crumbling temple was more than a thousand years old, with motifs depicting two major religions in the history of Cambodia. The trees, the chirping birds and insects, and the fragrance of pure air mingled with the ruins to magnify its antique charm. But she needed a moment to absorb this aura.

She understood at once. "Shall we? One. Two. Three."

As she opened her eyes slowly after the yogic hum, she saw it all again. But this time, the still of her surroundings had seeped into her mind. She stood there for a minute and turned towards him.

"Let's go." she said.

"Don't you want to stay here awhile longer?"

"I don't have to."

"Hmm. And what about the scorching ride that awaits us?"

"I promise not to whine about it; if you give me your hat!" she chuckled.

"No. Seriously."

"Oh come on! I'll bask in the sun and then show off my tan to my friends at work."

Daphne

My brother-in-law and his wife put us up while we were in Melbourne. I noticed something interesting in the city - people (mostly the elderly) moved around with their own trolleys to carry their belongings. My husband and I saw a lady pushing her trolley while exiting the supermarket. She was really old, maybe in her 80's or 90's, and was walking in the slowest possible pace. While another old lady (younger than her though) gave her some space to pass through, I took a quick glance at the trolley. It was a box with the symbol of a bat on it, exactly like the Bacardi logo. I was wondering why someone so old would want to buy a carton of Bacardi breezers during winter, which compelled me to move my gaze to the box's contents. There was a purse and what looked like a sweater or a jacket. I looked at her face - she seemed to be in pain. I called my husband's attention to it and asked him if we should help her, and if it was a good thing to let old people go about such activities on their own. In spite of the infrastructure in developed countries allowing the aged to be independent, I found the whole "senior citizens living alone" thing to be a bit sad, especially when I thought about my parents in the same situation. My husband, on the other hand, pointed out that it was better for old people to carry on with their daily jobs on their own, however slowly, rather than having them lean on their family or friends for support. I agreed with him eventually, and the topic was forgotten once we were home.

 

About 45 minutes later, my sister-in-law accompanied me to the mall. It was my last day in Melbourne, and I still had some shopping left. After crossing a few houses on our way to the tram station which was near the supermarket, we saw an ambulance outside one of the houses. Two paramedics were attending to a woman who was lying flat outside her doorstep, and a couple of youngsters (I'm guessing neighbors who called the ambulance) were looking on. My sister-in-law said, "Oh my God, I hope she's okay." I asked her if she knew her. She replied, "Yes, that's Daphne. She's been living all by herself after her husband's death. She spent her childhood in India and came to Melbourne in 1959. I speak to her in the supermarket sometimes. She's really old, you know. She cannot always maintain pace with her trolley, so she puts a couple of bricks in it to slow it down."

 

As she was telling me about her, I couldn't help but pause for a few seconds to notice something familiar - the trolley that the old lady possessed. It was a box with the symbol of a bat on it, exactly like the Bacardi logo.

Ode to a Mannequin

Lo and behold, I'm a mannequin!
I speak in dialects with no din.
Adorned in colors and fabrics diverse,
I beckon you to empty your purse.

19 months old, my white begins to peel;
She who dressed me says I cannot heal.
A dark and dingy storeroom is my new home;
I peep through a crack when I feel alone.

And then I see you! What a fine day!
She sells you garments in a coaxing way.
I cry out in dialects with no din;
Alas, I'm just a mannequin!

A Torn Page

Dear Diary,

You know what, I think happiness is overrated. Okay, I am in a philosophical mood today, so be patient with me. This is something I've been thinking of for ages, and it has to come out.

So, where was I? Oh yes, happiness is overrated. See, don't get me wrong. I do admire someone who has the capability of being happy always, but, let's face it - we're only human, and there isn't a single human on this earth who hasn't faced sorrow. True, happiness is linked to positivity, and I myself have been accused of being melancholic, and hence, negative at times. Of course, I disagree. Yes, happiness could be equivalent to optimism, but I do not think sorrow is pessimistic. Rather, I believe that sorrow increases our ability to appreciate and feel happiness. For instance, imagine a painter who splashed his sadness on a canvas. Maybe it was sorrow that created it, but what came out of it was art - a thing of beauty. And a thing of beauty can only give joy - joy to the artist, and to anyone who beholds it (Keats, yes!).

Sometimes, I realize that I look for a chance to be sad, and to express it. It's just because I get tired of pretending to be a forever-happy person; because I feel as if I'm losing touch with my real self - as if I'm a phony living in a phony world. I have met people who wear bright smiles on your faces when they have so much bottled up inside them. Don't you think they'd feel at peace if they could let it out - by crying, or shouting, or writing, or painting, or singing, or dancing? Don't you think that a few tears might actually be the pathway for their smiles to reach their eyes, and fill warmth in their hearts? I love what Sandy (He's the male nanny from FRIENDS. You know how much I love that show!) had once said, "It's all right. Crying is good. It lets the boo-hoos out."

Maybe it's not happiness that is the key to living a good life, but simply awareness of our emotions, and our ability to embrace them as a part of life. I haven't stopped breathing yet, and this is proof of the fact that my life isn't over, and it can't always be bad. Okay, maybe I want to cry now because my heart feels heavy. Once the tears are out, I'm hungry or sleepy, and I'm thinking of what to wear to work the next day. Now, that can't be too bad, can it? What if, instead of crying, I spend a sleepless night, then end up wearing my bathroom slippers to office, and commit a big blunder while working on an important project?

Yes, yes, I am sure that very few people would agree with me, especially because I mentioned crying, and not singing or dancing. But that's just my way of letting out my sorrow. And, dear Diary, I don't know if I'm right or wrong, but I know one thing for sure - you won't judge me. You may not slip me a kind word, or try to understand why I am sad, but at least you won't be angered. At least you won't abandon me. That is why you are my only shoulder to cry on. You are more human than this living world where expressing one's sorrow is a crime.

Okay I'll stop now. Sometimes, I can actually hear you saying "Enough!"; but man, that felt good to offload!

Now, before I doze off, here's something I came across. It's by Rumi, and I couldn't agree more-

"Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place. It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow. Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their place."

Good night!

The Red Train

Rahul got stuck at the railway signal - again. Of course, this was inevitable. After all, Atul chacha was never late. Chacha halted his auto rickshaw in front of Rahul's house at 9 a.m. He did not honk; he wasn't one of those people. Rahul, too, was bound by his own chains of punctuality. He couldn't make anybody wait. They reached the railway signal at 9:20 a.m. As he watched Rose pass by like she always did, Rahul wondered if she recognized him. It'd been almost a year since he'd been following this routine, and the red train never failed to say hello.

The 12X14 room, or Rahul's house, was perfectly neat. He had to keep it that way. He just had to. As he lay on his bed that night, he felt restless. Something wasn't right. He got up several times to ensure that the doors and windows were locked, and his bag packed for the next day. His clothes were ironed too. What was bothering him then?

The next morning was no different. Rahul looked out of the auto rickshaw at 9:20. He knew that she would greet him customarily. But Rose was nowhere in sight. "How can this be?" he asked Atul chacha. Chacha turned back and smiled, "Maybe you are ready." "Ready? Ready for what?!" Rahul asked him to stop the vehicle, and began looking for her at a terribly frantic pace. He inquired with every single soul in sight, but nobody would speak about her. What if she'd already left? He raced along the railway line to catch up with her. He raced till he ran out of breath, till he tripped over. And his eyes opened to the white ceiling of his 12X14. "Phew, a dream!" he thought to himself. He dove into a blissful slumber.

Atul chacha arrived on time, and Rahul was ready. As chacha braked his three-wheeled carriage just ahead of the railway track, Rahul peeped, and then, somehow, he couldn't sit there any longer. He sprinted towards the track and started running along it, just like he did in his dream. He saw her approaching him, and this time, he wouldn't let her go. He ran towards her. He ran and he ran. He did not stop; at least not till he was breathing.



I had taken an alternative route to office that day, and I ended up being stranded for over an hour, somewhere close to a rail line. I saw a man squatting on the side of the road with his hands holding his head, looking extremely grieved and lost. He was wearing the uniform of an auto rickshaw driver. I walked up to him and asked him what the matter was. "I'm so forgetful," he said. "If only I could remember his name." He was talking to himself. "His wife died here, exactly a year ago. Just like he did. Can you imagine?" I didn't know what to tell him, but he was completely unaware of my presence. "I took him for his daily visits to the doctor. He could never get over her death. His wife. What was her name? I think it was the name of a flower. Or was it? I'm so forgetful. If only I could remember her name."

Who Am I?

Hello darling, it's been so long. How have you been? Do you know me, you ask? But of course you do! It breaks my heart that I have to remind you, how you loved me and placed me above everyone else, how you looked for every possible chance to be with me, how you spent your days and nights in my arms. Why else would I be speaking to you today, when you don't even remember me?

It only seems like yesterday that we met, hours after you were born. Years passed by, and we became inseparable. You'd be ready with endless excuses to see me, irrespective of where you were. Your parents never understood why you enjoyed being with me, but they let us be. For some reason, they had faith in me, and they knew I'd keep you happy, which I always did. I'd sneak into your classrooms and meeting rooms to pay you a visit. Neither your teachers nor your bosses liked me, and your better half was always jealous of me, but you never cared! I gave you company both in your good times and bad - when you went for picnics with your family, after you finally received your first job offer, when you were sad about leaving college, when you were travelling places, when you were tolerating a horrible movie, when you were tired after a hard day's work, or when you were sick. In some of our meetings, I'd take you to mysterious places with unknown faces, and you'd love those journeys. Oh, how I miss those days!

Sweetheart, I know I've been mischievous now and then, but I never meant to hurt you. I didn't realize that hide-and-seek with me would torment you so much, when you always enjoyed the game with your friends. I was just being playful, I swear! At times, I'd arrive late to see you, but only when you reeked of coffee, which I cannot stand. Then, there were days when I lured you into spending more time with me, and you ended up being late for work. Yet, that was only when I thought you really needed to be with me! Those mysterious journeys I accompanied you on, might have been scary at times, though my part was only to take you there. The demons belonged to you, and I'm sorry I couldn't take them away. Maybe I wronged you with my childish misconduct, and that's why we aren't together anymore.

Too many barriers stand between us today - barriers made of anger, tension, anxiety, and stress. I can no longer hold your hand, let alone embrace you like I used to. This is but a last attempt of mine to bring you back to me. I want you in my arms, but not when it is too late, and your body is cold and lifeless. Because then, even though you will be with me forever, I will not feel the warmth of your presence or hear the sound of your heartbeat. My love, I know you can still hear me. Please, darling. Please come back to me.