The Story [Part 1]

The letter had lain on the desk for a week. There seemed no point in reading it. And anyways, I could still smell her around me. No point in reading the constant reminders of one’s failings.

I had anyways survived an extremely bad week at work. The boss was about to be laid off; the next man in seemed to be extremely hostile to my continuity--not just at work, but in the world in general! Worse, I had failed to deliver on time, for the second time in a week. Now, that was a first. It had hurt on Monday morning. I spoke with the CDE and decided the transparencies would not be ready by the next day. We had yet to begin ideating on the copy, much less start writing the copy. The hurt was slowly replaced with embarrassment as we hurtled from one failure to another. It was all falling into place—a dark alley that seemed to be running up my now-much-abused arse. And there was this throbbing headache to handle. The weekend was truly to be a refuge from stress.

But how would the stress go away when her clothes still lay strewn on the bed? The formidable rack of shoes had fallen over, spewing its contents all over the hallway. A few perfume bottles had cracked, evidently remnants of a struggle. The room smelt pleasant, almost as if she was around, hiding behind a couch waiting to spring a surprise. The smell was too much for my now-sensitive nose. Perhaps the cat was still around, and had soiled the bed. Surprising how her room repulsed me already!

We stayed in separate rooms, but she usually slept in my bed. We fought all our battles there--wondering how long before we would reach a point of no return. Her career was just shaping up, and the ego hassles from work would find their way back home. I had enough on my hands to think about where she was coming from! We usually began with the genial abuse and ended up slapping each other before hitting the bed to quench our animal passions. It was a strange love by all means.

She loved the strange melancholy nature of our pad. I loved the view of the river, even though the mosquitoes and the stench explained the low rent we had to pay. It had been rented from a pensioner safely lodged in a city 300 miles from here. As long as the rent checks reached him before the end of the month, he'd stay out of our business. She loved lighting those infernal scented candles on the long windowsills. We had lovely French windows that were never left open, lest the stench slinked in.

Even so, I wondered if her true fear was that her husband would someday see her lighting those beloved candles of hers at a stranger’s house. It was the typical precursor to a night full of passion, and short on sleep. They had been a happy couple.

I hated myself for triggering off the worst argument of their married life. She was barely an acquaintance then, an object of animal lust, who was to be leered at in the private sanctuary of one’s mind. I loved taking off her clothes while she walked past at the Gym. She had that figured out much before we spoke for the first time. It seemed to be the fuel for her vanity. As every beautiful woman figured, she hated being told she was pretty; or so she pretended. She desperately wanted every male on the floor to lust for her, to beseech her for a glance, perhaps even kill each other for a chance to sleep with her.

It was probably my harmlessness that helped her choose. Darwin could screw his nose and turn over in his grave for all I cared. We hit it off right-away. She pretended to be fascinated by my profession, “Copywriters are quite the romantic sorts, eh?” I had nothing to say, as usual. A silent mysterious smile was a nice weapon for the dumbstruck. It struck me as unusual that we had begun getting so intimate within a week of acknowledging each other’s existence. She was truly living in the fast lane.

It was then that she told me about her husband. Globe-trotting, versatile, gifted, much-venerated academic. In contrast, I seemed an oddball by all counts.

I was Darwin’s nightmare! Going by his theories, I would probably not sow as many oats as the average male of my species. Even that was a relief, going by the way my life was headed!

The Story [Part 2]

Note: The narrative changes here. This is another meandering turn to a storyline that I have no clue about. Kindly indulge me by ignoring the randomness of this. This is practice, after all! But hey, if you did fall asleep midway, I'd really love to know! (the.poets.mind@gmail.com)

"Coward!" He had it spelt out in fine cursive script on the walls. She was not around to see him cringe. One more look was required to make sense of the situation.

Sarita was furiously pacing down the corridor, waiting for him to make up his mind. Her husband was still in the ICU. The police had made three rounds since morning. The statement was yet to be recorded.

It would be simple. He had received threatening calls for a couple of weeks before the attack. He had not taken them seriously since they seemed too farfetched to believe--which Dubai-based don would take interest in an entrepreneur when there were so many more richer industrialists to farm? It seemed a stupid decision in hindsight. Hindsight was always meant to be this clear.

Meanwhile, Sarita walked up to the bathroom, and yelled, "Are you building a castle in there? What's keeping you?” He felt the bile rise up; another wave of fear took him by surprise. She was cold blooded! He muttered to himself, "Yes, of course. With all the bricks that I'm shitting, I might as well build a castle for us."

He was definitely not the finest specimen of his species. He had gotten by on the inane copy churned out for a doddering agency. People romanticized his profession, and by virtue of association, hailed him as a creative person. "Hardly true!” his closest friends smirked, in private. They valued his loyalty too much to hurt his feelings. His great luck with women riled them; they were lookers by all means. Ego was indeed a painful associate in friendships of convenience. His loyalty meant all resources at his disposal were open to them. It was a heartening thought to be able to call up one of his many friends in times of loneliness. None of them failed to oblige. That ego boost was good enough for them to indulge his histrionics. Anyone who could manage so many relationships was well worth the admiration.

They thought of Sarita as an oddball. She was well off in every sense--fine homes in three cities, enough inherited wealth to keep up with her spending, a husband who was considered near-genius by his associates and indeed most people who knew him. He had successfully transitioned from Academia to the world of commerce and within the short span of three years, established himself as an engineering services provider of merit. He was yet to hit the big time, but an IPO would cure that. His increasing stature in his field (of ceramic wizardry, of the kind that laymen did not understand) was leading to larger contracts to design astonishing contraptions--ceramic braking systems, of the kind used in Formula 1 cars, except made much cheaper through his design and manufacturing processes. Most global carmakers had an eye on him. He was a kind and forgiving man, a fact they realized when he offered jobs to the younger relatives of the friends of the traitor who had cuckolded him.

Why then would Sarita spend time with a suave hustler like Sikander? They kept their counsel and never questioned either Sarita or Sikander about their relationship.

Sikander meanwhile was still stuck in the bathroom. The outdoors seemed dark and uninviting even at high noon. The police would surely get him, for no fault of his. Or so he thought. He was right, she was too good for someone like him. The heave of relief he had heaved a month ago was not settling on his chest, heavier by the moment. How could he have got caught in this mess?

So the wheel of Karma had turned a full circle.

20mph

Seamus sat by the sill, waiting for the sparrows to flit past. Each evening, he saw the pair flying in tandem, twisting and turning in the air. They flirted in the air, filling up his life with happiness that had been missing for over a decade now.

A picture of his wife lay on a dusty desk, hidden partially by the numerous sheaves of paper pretending to be filled up with his notes. He loved flying. She hated it. Her fear of heights was strange, she preferred wheels to wings. Her love for exotic cars used to worry him. He wondered if she would forever depend on her father to fund this madness--the passion to hit the road with a vengeance, and keep the right foot plastered to the floor. Almost as if her life depended on it!

Seamus understood the passion for speed, but never comprehended the fear of getting off the ground. Personally, he preferred his staid Oldsmobile to the flashy ones she borrowed from her father and brothers. They indulged her too much!

Two decades of lusting for those magnificient machines culminated in five superbly fulfilling years as an ace pilot. Those were the happiest years. That was also the start of his relationship. They'd met at a railway station, where he had come to see off his mother, and she, to see off her brother A* who was slumming--having decided to travel to the far north to seek solitude. He used to love the railroads; after all, their family manufactured most of the steel that went into making these rails. A*'s was a passion this speed-happy couple never understood.

They were married within a week. He, in his aerial jousts of happiness at 800mph, and she in her perpetually wheelie-ing rounds of ecstacy, travelling at 120mph. They were destined to be the fastest couple in town!

She had never understood how he could come back so fresh from his sorties when every colleague of his would be bushed from the sheer effort of staying up there. His knees are made of steel, she'd say proudly to anyone who cared. Most people would add "So are his ears!", beyond her earshot, of course. She was impulsive, to the point of being dangerous. That Shelby Cobra sure wasn't a good idea. But there simply was no point in explaining that to her.

In hindsight, he thought, perhaps there was a need to have done that! Things had changed so much since the last night they spent together. He had just begun to appreciate the thrill in turning round a corner at 80 mph. Driving with the top down was just as enjoyable as doing a pirouette in the air!

He wondered if he should have allowed her to drive; after all, there wouldn't be any planes flying blind into you at a corner. "That's that", he thought. "No point living in the past." He looked at his feet, wondered how much more of his disability pension would need to be accumulated before he could get a snazzy electric wheelchair that could go at 20mph.

Her...

Over your grave, she had said!

An age had passed since the old familiar feeling of the staple-in-the-heart hit me where it hurt. I relived the day this morning. I saw her smile; random pictures, random people.

We had been holding hands; she was busy naming the kids (all eleven of them) while I tried redecorating the house with little artifacts that we would collect from our world trips. We were just about getting to the seating area, and fighting over the ornate baithak that I loved, but which she hated. She wrenched her hand away from mine; the coffee felt warm running down my bare thighs. The birds were unusually loud. The newspaper seemed to be in greyscale today.

Yes, the Jhoola was an unnecessary expense, so too was the farmhouse. We could afford it though; She was after all, the head honcho of a successful practice for a large MNC. She was unwilling to let me work--I was supposed to write! Fame and glory would be at our doorsteps, waiting to be let in, and be asked to sit on the large Italian couch that she preferred over the Sankheda Baithak that my native senses reveled in.

We had barely spent five minutes in each others arms when the memory arrived. I yelled her name out, loud enough for everyone on the floor to hear. The breaths were coming in short bursts. I had forgotten this was not meant to be.

I woke up with a start.

It still takes me a few moments each morning to realize the woman I wake up next to--the person who I owe my life to, the lady who's changed the gloom to glorious dawn, my closest friend and confidante--is not "her".

She was sound asleep. Her child-like beatific smile curved into a slight smirk.

Wait a Sec!

Skin against skin, friction turns to passion. Our yet-mellow fires burn brighter, flickering candles in a dark sultry night. The curve of your body melts into mine.

Arm on arm, limb on limb, the fire rages. What began as a finger-pointing exercise ends in ecstacy, a little sortie into the realms of the G-spot. A few jabs and moans later, your tears still scare me. Less stiff than before, I realize the pills and rubber are choices I need to make, not you. The pain flows into the pleasure, a moment, a wave, a little vision of heaven, and an invoking of the powers above follow.

A nascent dawn rages; my mild throbbing rests against the small of your back, that little curl-up that exposes you -- my child-woman ice-maiden. I see my arm float on your alabaster skin; wandering, teen-like on territories previously chartered but never enjoyed--this much. You moan, still asleep. Heartily too! Red ears follow, little nibbles of audio symmetry. Little bites of porcelain fill an eager mouth with pleasure, and my ears with your charge to ecstacy. A little push and sigh later, we drift apart, a river parting with the mountain where it pranced until it found release. I wonder: Will we ever see tomorrow in the same light, again.

Bees Takke [20 percent]

He had carried the mighty weight thus far. His mechanical arms laid it down on the pockmarked road; his was the job of smoothing potholes.

"Smooth as a mirror, a job well done!" said his conscience.
He looked back. The JCB had badly scarred the road behind him.

“A job well done”, said the contractor.

Losing yourself in love...

I've run out of words.

The torrent within has subsided, just as the passion did a little while ago. There are a few things that do alter the heart-beat, but it is mostly a picture of peaceful solitude otherwise.

I fear the very thought falling in love.

When our eyes met for the first time (which is different from the first time we met), I felt an intense glow within her. She carries the air of a child, full of joyousness that simply does not correlate to this melancholy of hers. At times, one can see the cheer in her eyes—silent and chiding, yet gently coaxing one into saying something, even if stupid. There is delight to be found in every leaf that she picks up, every name that she reads out, every step she takes while on her imaginary ball-dance performance. She changes her masks with such ease!

There is joy, and yet the specter of past love looms large. There is the ever-impending gloom of melancholy that haunts her languid eyes, but despite her mild demeanor and the sparkle in her eyes, her words belie the pain.

I fear falling in love with her.

For, now lusty passion will rear its ugly head, and lead us to pastures never intended to be visited, not by this weird yet comfortable duo. I fear the words within will rush back into my head and drown away the comfort of the voices that ring out now. I’m not them--the words; rather, these voices are me. I fear her gentle voice will crowd these cheerful little voices that have egged me on until now.

I fear running into my own words. I fear loving her means losing myself.

Smile Please, Thank You!

A lone sunbeam escapes through the drapes, caressing her tousled hair, then her cheerful face. The smile on her face has been there forever, hidden from herself; the smile gently creases her cheeks and her pouting lips. Sometimes, in her desolation the smile would hide, so that she could never find and put him away.

She thought of him as a mask, so the world would think of her only as a cheerful face, and she would hold in all her melancholy within—that was “her,” all tightly wound up and bunched inside.

The lines were intent on betraying her. They’d make a cautious appearance whenever she was not looking at them. Her mask was out-thinking her now. The smile would stay put through the day, where colleagues would look at her and feel the warmth and lovely spirit within.

In the privacy of her little red and grey cubicle, she’d go back to being withdrawn and lonely. That was “her” too—all melancholic and withdrawn. She’d never know who the true “her” was. The smile knew that too… He waited for her to fall asleep before letting the mask’s charade go quietly into the night. She had always thought he was just her mind’s deception. She could write off that silly smile any time—a mask was just that, right? But he was there, for real, for her, waiting for the word, the last shy smile or even “the look” that he had fallen in love with.

Her eyes twinkled, the stars in her eyes waiting for the night of her dreams. He knew then that he would have to wait too, for her to get over herself, to look beyond her mind’s deceptions, to be herself again.

Another one flew past my nest

She sat by the window sill, in all her browning glory. Bright and chirpy, she sang songs to regale me.
She whispered pretty nothings into my desolate ears. As my brooding heart cheered up, she whistled past my ears.

As usual, the elation was not meant to be. Today, she flew away, promising never to return.

And again the thought arises in my pea-sized brain: “Am I not good enough? Why, sweet lord, why?”
Why is everything dear to my heart "not meant to be?"

Lonely Evenings

The candle flickered slowly, wondering if its existence is justified. The flame burned listlessly, moving restlessly within itself, tethered to the white flesh of the candle. Her eyes skimmed over its outline, resting on the point where the luminosity was the most intense. The thread within the candle seemed to yearn slow death, inviting the flame to consume her a little by little. Gratification indeed!

Salty drops of water tread cautiously on her beautiful eyelashes. A tear escaped a closed eye and streaked down the dusky cheek. There was no one to hold her head and comfort her in the worst moment of her life.

Her curly hair fluttered about in the wind; a wind that had been raging since last evening, when it rained like there was not tomorrow. Was there a tomorrow? Had it not yielded to today? It had been five years now. Yet, she wondered if being honest was the best path. Could she have persevered a little more—pushing that waning patience a little more than its specifications? Nothing seemed to make sense any more.

Then, she noticed the window shutters banging aimlessly on a wooden frame that had been around since her wrinkled grandmother’s time. That was a time when the household was filled with people, their voices and huge egos fed on success. As she leant forward to close the window, she noticed the tree standing next to the cowshed, outside her apartment complex. It had been languishing there, an eyesore on this plush complex that catered to neo-rich families brandishing their swanky cars as status symbols, almost threatening to drive over Marx if he ever came in their way.

The memories came flooding back. “He” had been her closest cohort and firm friend for a short while—a most handsome phase of life, full of fun, witty remarks peppering their oft-rocky relationship. Each day, they would pitch their wits against each other. And each time, he would yield quietly. He would listen with great intent, as she poured out her angst to a man she knew only as a vague reflection. Someone who was never there, in person, or in soul, but who was there for her, each time she needed solace from a madding life.

Her innate idealism and intellect had always been her strengths. They were also the biggest reasons for her great anguish. Each time a little beggar-child crossed her busy path to work, she would shed a silent tear. Each time she saw the magnolias placed carefully on her desk, she would jump about in joy. Her tender heart was well hidden in the cheerful, almost boisterous manner she went in about the world; a manner that attracted so many to her.

It was her cheerfulness that had brought them together in a strange twist of fate that both did not expect. She had never realized when they had moved so close together. He was there for her, all the time, just as she expected him to be. She even remembered wishing that he could’ve been there for her since childhood.

Times had changed. And now she wished for him, wistfully knowing fully well that was not to be.

The candle crackled loudly. She turned to look at it, a slow and deliberate movement so as to not disturb the melancholy that was helping her get over the bitterness and despair of loneliness. There were a million souls around, who could give her company and life her spirits on this dark evening. She craved none of them.

Here eyes looked on uncaringly, as she saw the moth kissing the flame of death, intent on attaining love or hell. “Love aflame!” she thought aloud. Those were the words she said each time she saw the moth enter the flame.

Five years had passed since she saw the same dance of death every evening. And all she had to say were these two words. But she had no one to tell them to. The one person who would’ve heard her voice was far away, having died romancing her, all in vain.

Yes Mom, I'm working on it!

It's been just a short while since I've moved from home.

But some things never change.
Remember to wear your specs.
Don't leave home without eating breakfast!
Please don't skip lunch.
Call dad at least once a week!
Don't work overnight. If you have to, eat dinner on time.
Hold your temper. And speak with respect to people who seem a little irritating.
Aaaargh! Well, Ok Mom, I'll try to remember all of this. Shakespeare would've been inspired by you.

Mom, did someone switch the lights off?
Well then, this must be it!

I'll be a good boy.
Where I'm going, there are a million angels, and a big guy they call God.
They say you don't feel hunger or fear or pain or hurt there.
Nothing affects you there. Nothing!
Not even the pain from being separated from all of you.


This life was good.
Would you give birth to me again;
caress me with your tender touch;
sing those lullabies when I refuse to sleep;
tell me those stories when I refuse to eat;
shoo away those monsters that hide under my bed;
or scold me with the love that only you are capable of?

I'll ask the big guy for just one more life. Juts one more.
I'll tell him it could be a short one, one that cuts short like this one, but one that gives me similar joy and pain.
Just one so I can come back and tell you how much I love you and Dad and Bro and of course, lil sis too.

It's getting late; and the darkness is calling out.
There are no lights in here.
I must go now. The little men in white robes are getting impatient.

And ah yes, Mom! That anger thing that you thought would get me killed me someday.
Yes, it did, but I'm working on it now.

Memories of a Past Life

The return of the prodigal.

While the others pack up their saddle bags and ride into the distance, the stranger stands caressing an elegant and shapely, but lonely Katana. Centuries of knowledge and conditioning lend him the wisdom of the brave. The Samurai smiles into a greying horizon.

Anonymity is a blessing, in every disguise. For a civilization that breeds emotionless thought-oriented action, the stranger is a clear misfit--one who thinks from the heart and not from the cranuim. He seeks not the redemption of the braves--death on the battlefield, but the ethereal beauty of the Sakura. A perfect bloom that would enlighten even the Zen masters. Nothing but the eternal beauty within can ever bring peace to the warrior within.

As the weary warriors exit the field, several souls depart, holding on to their emotional baggage. Theirs will remain a life unfulfilled, for they must live through each sorrow once again, until they learn to let go. That is the way of the Samurai--a still and thoughtless mind, a thoughtful soul, and a heart that feels and yet yields to the spirit.

The Warrior smiles, forlorn and lonely. This was a battle he never intended to fight, much less win. The minds of his cohorts lost their way to their hearts, they fought, for an alien cause--one that they would never understand. May their souls find redemption in the after-life. Theirs has been a battle in vain. The Warrior smiles forlornly, as meloncholy strings play in the background. This has been a good life, but the Katana needs to rest. The spirit is willing, but the bloom is yet to take shape. Deliverance awaits, as spring takes birth.

Juvenile Musings

She wonders why I persist.
Sometimes, I wonder too.
Love is the answer—unequivocal and unrequited.

To her I say:
People grow up. Priorities change. Perceptions change too.
The only remnants of this change are memories and hope.
You will remain the biggest regret I will live with.

Everybody has reasons. And yours would be stronger than the rest.
Perhaps I lack what you seek in your soulmate.
But I would’ve made up with love and effort.
I cannot promise to move heaven and earth—if I could not move you, the rest of the world would be an impossible task.

What you lost was not my love, for that will remain forever.
What I lost was my self-respect.
For the fact that I cannot get over you.
For the fact that my life will now be shared with someone whom I would never love as much as you.
For the fact that I was not good enough for you, even for you to tell me how or why.

Yes, just this one regret remains… that I love(d) you blindly.
And one little unanswered question.
What could have made this relationship “meant to be”?

Leave the past to its follies, the present to its curse, while the future goes to the dogs.

Amen.

Sikander—Peeping Tom, Class 1

Pretty sunshine, idle mind, and a bored writer—Ideal day to reminisce. So, we go back to another exciting day in Sikander’s life.

Raging hormones, a courageous and very adventurous heart, not to mention a supple adolescent body that could twist and turn to fit in the smallest of places. These are the ingredients of a story that changed Sikander’s life.

The location: an idyllic village in Kerala—Sikander’s “native place.” Summer holidays would mean a huge group of cousins getting together, enjoying through the day, playing over-arm cricket in the courtyard of this palatial house that defied description, and generally hanging out in the huge property that consisted our ancestral heritage.

This was a year when none of the boys had signed in…
A young boy [called Sikander hereafter] is the perfect receptacle for the devil’s knowledge. And a young maiden is the devil’s very own spawn. Here is where the story begins.

The huge ancestral property contains five wells with motors and pump-houses spread over an area of five acres. This property has the unique quality of never running out of water—the wells have not run dry even once in the last two centuries. The locals use the wells for washing their clothes and sometimes, bathing as well.

The young girl and her family have been working for the family for three generations. Most of them were educated in the school set up by one of the family patriarchs. Many are employed on the vast properties that the family owns. Every member of this village knows the family.

The young girl is a pretty and slim temptress, flaunting her coming of age with a sensuous walk and the right moves that would make any adolescent heart go thumping faster. Sikander, being of the impressionable age, quickly sets his sights on the young girl. The sultry temptress of a dusky complexion and flawless skin knows that—as every pretty and sultry maiden does. She does her best to walk slowly across the courtyard on her way to a well. She’s supposedly on her way to fill the pot that holds on impetuously on her waist, kissing the pale skin. The clothes that are perched on her shoulder seem to caress her ever so gently. Sikander prays fervently to God to allow him to switch places with the pot. The sun gleams on the brass pot; while the lust glints in Sikander’s eyes.

The temptress looks back and jauntily tosses her long flowing hair. Hair that flows across her buxom chest until it meets her slender waist. Sikander feels the lust building up into stressful knots in the pits of his stomach. The temptress tosses a final glance before gingerly stepping on the path stones, avoiding the sharp edges of the makeshift steps.

Sikander feels it in his gut-- his opportunity has arrived. He quickly runs up to the temptress and asks her name. She giggles nervously and moves very quickly away, apparently not noticing the clothes she dropped on to the ground. Sikander looks embarrassedly at what seems to be her underclothes. The temptress calls out and gestures towards the clothes. Sikander helpfully runs up and hands them over, trying very hard not to brush his hands over the silken lingerie. The devil begins his evil work--since when have these girls started wearing silk lingerie? And then a bolt of lightning strikes Sikander—she’s on her way to have a bath! Whoa!

She moves fast across the familiar terrain. Sikander wonders… while the temptress looks back over her shoulder and smiles. Her luscious lips glisten in the sunshine that percolates through the branches of the coconut trees. Her breasts stand out on a slim frame. The wind blowing through the hair tries hard to hide her native beauty. Her hips seem to swell out gently and accentuate her sensual nature.

She walks away from the path and quickly steps toward the foliage, almost avoiding the lustful eyes of the adolescent. A chastened Sikander trudges back, head hung in shame that seems to bubble up the scrawny frame.

He stops to think... Why did she move to the remotest well in the property? That is a part where no one has been for a long time. After all, in God’s own country, the foliage overruns the land very quickly.

He looks back, to see the sun shining on a very naked and wet back, through the shrubs.

A life awaiting fulfilment...

Often, in fact, mostly, we think only of ourselves. We're caught up in our own threads of existence, too busy unraveling those threads to notice those who stand with their souls thread-bare.

The trip to Ganeshpuri has triggered a new thought process: One not of inner introspection, but of revelation.

The trip was great...
Left at midnight, on two bikes—eight of the group had dropped out by then. Their loss, entirely. Our normal departure timings are set: Leave home at 8 or half past; hang out at the Adda until 11 and then start gathering the troops. Thankfully, this time we avoided that routine. Koke was at his sublime best: Live and Let Die wala hamlet and balaclava. Gots was his usual uncaring self: Helmet bhool gaya. We had to wake up another friend to get a helmet. I had forgotten both the hamlet and the mask. Thankfully, the dhaba stop would help me get those colourful scarves that we usually pick up.

The bikes were a worry. From our original plan of moving on RDs and Bullets, we had gradually moved back to our reserves—Fiero and Caliber it was. My Caliber was in bad shape—no brakes, brake lights, and bald tyres to boot! So, the bloody thing would skid each time the brakes were put into action. I’m a blind driver and was thankfully relieved of my driving duties. I prefer riding pillion since one can observe the places and actually enjoy the trip better. Also, being the navigator and online map helped my cause. Rarely do I miss turns or landmarks. That is another story…

Made a few calls before leaving to confirm none of the other guys were left stranded. Everybody gave us a lame ass excuse. Strange, but we’ve been going there for ages now, and never before did anyone make such pitiable excuses. I hadn’t slept for the last two nights. Koke too. Gots was an owl anyways. So, off we went—three sleep-deprived musketeers!

Route: Thane Belapur road—Ghodbunder road—NH8—Shirshad Phata—Vajreshwari road.
Equipment: Bikes, first aid kit, torchlights, spare tubes, and lotsa smokes.
Rules: No alcohol or meat allowed. Three days before we go there.
Apparel: Jackets, gloves, sports shoes, two changes of clothes, scarves, and balaclavas.

The ride:
The traffic at Thane is a bitch—always was. I stayed there for three years and used to enjoy the place, but always hated the traffic. It’s gotten better now due to Chandrasekhar, but the roads can be painful at places. Ghodbunder Road was bad too. But the final stretch is the best part of the trip.

First stop: Pit-stop at the Punjab Preet dhaba; extremely refreshing. Sitting on those charpais has always been a great experience. Authentic Punjabi food and great service: Ranjit Singhji loves it whenever we land there. Dal makhani and a special sabji (RS ka farmaish) with hot rotis and lotsa onions, tomatoes, and three types of achaar. Sahi hai bhidu, life ban gayi kya?
Phir, baba ka bulawa yaad aaya. So,

Hit the road Jock….

The next patch was simply beautiful. Almost a dream.
The Fog had set in. Clouds were playing at our ankles.
The moon was on holiday. The stars were filling in.
The night was agog with the sounds of silence.
The wind was playing its part too. Fugue minor, if you please.
The mist had taken over the darkness.
The headlights were of no use anymore.
Driving was partly by judgement and partly on hope.

Second stop: Eeriest of places.
The banyan tree stands there spreading its wide arms protectively over the road.
It keeps the light away from our eyes.
It stands there, leering at us.
Waiting for us to break sweat.
We kill the engines and switch off the lights.
The silence is overpowering.
No lights for miles on end.
Prayers muttered in short breaths.
The only light is from lighted cigarettes.
The red glow only serves to pump the adrenaline.
Gots tries to start the bike. And is quickly overpowered.

This stop is scarier than any of our wild and crazy adventure night-trips in Karnala, Satara, Khed, or Matheran. Even the sanctuaries we’ve visited have not held such morbid fear. Somehow, the place rings of long past death and melancholy.
The tree stands as a symbol to all our fears. Standing under it without registering the fear is important. It serves to conquer our inner fears and bond together.

Then, an owl flies low overhead. White shapes in pitch dark silence are not a comfortable experience. Somebody calls out to us, and we realize it can only be the wind. We quickly decide to break camp.

30 kms of sheer riding pleasure.
Now, we’ve done much much longer trips, but the pleasure of going to G’puri remains unique.

Next stop: Baba ka samadhi
The Kund is almost empty when we got there, as usual. An elderly babaji who’s always there at dot half past three awaits us. He seems to know whenever we go there. We nod at each other and strip quickly in the race to get to the hot springs.

The water is hot; at that godly hour, it actually feels boiling hot.

I shiver. Koke smiles and only puts his feet in the water. Gots howls in agony as the water scalds his Kashmiri skin. I smile too. The water runs thru each pore and cleans the negativity accumulated over the past month. Three dips later, I emerge a better person, light and refreshed. These waters certainly have magical powers. Baba would never allow one to enter his ashram without a dip in the kund!

The bell rings, we have three minutes to get to the abhishek.
We rub ourselves dry and get into clean fresh clothes. Even as the pounding heartbeats of the Nagara sound. That is the most exhilarating sound ever heard! The Tutari breaks in too. We’ve missed out the pre-abhishek meditation session. No one complains.
Baba’s face gleams in the light. Even as we take our places in the hall, I hear the questions ring in my head. Baba advices us. Koke moves in to a trance. I’m already in a state of stupor. Gots is amused. He’s never seen out spiritual selves. His hair is standing on ends.

A gora bhakt meditates loudly: “Om Bhagawate Nityanandaya.” His piety is incredible. Peace oozes from his radiant face. Jealousy… not really… a faint twang of it maybe, strikes. And then the realization that this man has done more than we’d even contemplated. Jai ho. Another lesson. Humility and respect for one’s culture. Toinks ki baat yaad aagayi. I ask baba my usual questions, and he seemingly smiles.
Electric atmosphere. The padukas radiate energy. We hit a high. Hearts content, we move on to a hotel. Nothing can compare favourably with this place.

Next stop: Noon Aarti.
As usual, the crowd joins in singing the arati. We’ce come back to our earthly senses. Scanning the crowd, exchanging glances with pretty things in the other side of the hall. Sudden realization that someone was calling out! Couldn’t figure who… Maybe Baba.

Next Stop: Gurudev Siddha Peeth
The Library is closed. Prayers offered, we move on.

Next Stop: Kriya Yog “Aatma Anshodhan Kendra”
Amit and his fiancé, who’ve joined us early in the morning spend time with the friendly sadhaks there. Babaji is not there—he’s gone to Bangalore! We’re told he’ll call us on coming back. Now, this is a man who changed Amit’s life. Not a godman, but a true yogi. The sadhaks extend their offer of overnight stay and a wonderful lunch. We decline, since that would mean some of them would go hungry. They cook only once a day, and will feed all visitors before eating themselves. Then again, they eat only from their daily daan.


Next Stop: Bal Yogi’s Ashram
This is a true blue adventure bike trip. The next few hours make us life-worthy. Sheer climb on roads that don’t exist—the Paivaat has evolved into a road. Only for Extreme bikers. Actually, it is totally unsafe carrying a bike there—diesel vehicles are the only reliable mode of mechanized transport. But, the musketeers are charged, and the lack of a road does not deter them.

A few slushpools later, we realize we’re stuck! Thankfully, the calibre has not yet let us down—meri rampyari is well and truly shakeable, but extremely reliable. We make our way up slowly. A couple of narrow misses generate nervous laughter. The air is pregnant with potential for a disaster. The bikers’ skill is challenged, and their guts match up well. A couple of small mishaps and stops later, we arrive at Parshuram Kund—a few hundred meters from the top of the highest mountain in the Tungareshwar hills. I decide to dare the mountain. Gota, Amit and his fiancé decide to wait back. Koke and me gingerly make our way up and encounter a couple of huge pythons. They go back to their slumber as our senses are overpowered by the ferocity of the wind. The rock ledge is about 2 feet broad. The moss helps to keep us on our toes. Our Rapelling gear is not around! We decide to give it a honest shot to the top. The cave at the top has been a mystery for a long time. The saints would meditate there, just the same as on the Mandakini—the beautiful mountain that graces the backdrop to Ganeshpuri.

The view from the top is great. I lay down on the corner precipice so that my vertigo doesn’t act up. Koke wisely decides to keep away from the Eagles ledge. The Wind almost carries my specs away. It invites me to join the joyride. It plays with our hair and tugs violently at our jackets. A couple of notes flutter away. Being at the highest point in any mountain range is a great rush. Kalsubai was similar, but extremely cold. Harishchandragad was a different experience too. No words can be extravagant for this view. The familiar urge to plan for the Everest Base Camp trip rises. Some other day!

The reverie breaks when an eagle lands on the ledge. We decide to move on.

Bal Yogi is an enigma. Swami Sadanand Maharaj ran away at the age of eight to be blessed by Bhagwan Nityananda. He moved to the top of this mountain and decided to meditate here. Doesn’t talk except at Pravachans. We’re cautioned against speaking during darshan. Even as we tell the manager we’ve been here so often, a man who’s been here for 13 years asks us not to worry or crib about it. The temple awaits completion. A couple of years or so.

We meditate in the hall. The ambience is overawing. Peace.
An hour passes in total silence and bliss.
Only to be broken by the constant giggles of Gots, who seems to have hit a high.
Koke is deep in meditation—lucky man has that look of inner stability. At peace with himself. His questions have found their answers. I, on the other hand, strive to still those thoughts. Stillness of the mind is the perfect state of mediation. Thoughtlessness is a common habit—but in its truest state, a total lack of thought brings us closer to the meaning of life. A life awaiting fulfilment.

An attendant breaks the idyllic air. Bal Yogi is on his way. Darshan finally!
Baba doesn’t speak at all—only at Pravachans, following his guru’s instructions. Blessed are our souls to peek into the ocean of kindness that are his eyes. They glow, bold embers that burn the negative threads. Our souls stand bare naked. He looks into my eyes; his gaze is overpowering. As I take off my specs, a faint smile creases his face. He nods knowingly. I feel the warmth of his love. Diksha will come… I know now.

As Koke approaches him for darshan, I fall prostate at his feet. He nods again and gestures for me to move to the corridor. My head is spinning; the mind numbed; bereft of any emotion. No thoughts at all. I barely notice as my head bangs the door. A thought strikes—a knock to the top of the head (at the precise point at which the sahasrara exists) is what the gurus give their most ardent disciples. Shakti path of the most unusual variety!

Relieved souls, burdens lightened. We head back for home. Back to “civilization.” To the morass that is society--pseudo ideals, morals, false emotions, and meaningless ties. My duty remains to live like any other person. Sin beckons until then. My tryst with saffron will begin when this body tires of lust, sin, jealousy, envy, adultery, gluttony, and avarice.

This trip was not the same as the others. Something changed back there. I know now there lies a bigger destiny. A life awaits fulfilment.