The Rabbit Hole

The year is 364 days old. Without wanting to sound very philosophical, come to think of it, even I am older by the same number of calendar days. It has been quiet a year - 2011. Like most of the years since I have started working, the days seem to have passed away quicker. Then again, I know this well, its not time that has picked up pace but my lifestyle. I do not know if this is a boon or a bane - an introspection left for my forties; no careless pondering on this for now.

2011 was the Chinese year of the rabbit. (2010 was the year of tiger, ironically) Rabbits, for me have always been far from being a romantic, furry, timid animal. The earliest fictional imagery, I can recollect of a rabbit, is that of the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland, always in a paucity of time, running late, incoherent yet wise. This perhaps is a perfect analogy for my ‘year of the rabbit’ -(read the mad hatter) Take a dive into a few thought provoking milestones of my journey into the rabbit hole this year.

Friends: This is has been a discovery this year. Well, isn’t this always in a year, you may wonder? Yes, it is, but live my life and age and you will understand why the impulse to write about this topic at the beginning. This year, I earned friends. In the past years I have made and lost friends, but have earned few. Earning friendship is a difficult and patient process. Every individual is different and the bond of friendship recognises this subtle thread that actually binds us together. The ‘rabbit year’ nourished such individuals in my life and I am grateful. It will be futile to talk about them, but if they choose to read (few even complain of my ‘exorbitantly expensive’ english) they well know who they are. My sincere wish that all of you get such friends in years to come and in case you all consider me one such, I will be much honoured and be willing to traverse the journey of life with you as far as possible.

Wife: Simmi and I are now a whole one year and nine months married. It has been a very fulfilling journey till now. Not that we did not or do not have our share of problems. We have had some bitter arguments and fights regarding the most trivial of issues. Yet, we are thankful that we did pick up those arguments and will perhaps continue to do so, because it helps cleanse the system of its unending list of daily frustrations of life, which we often tend to unleash on the easiest prey available to us - the one we love the most. In the course of our some very childish whims and arguments, I have come to realise that none but her would have ever tolerated such temperament of mine. She has over this period of togetherness, helped me to be myself, san pretensions and what more, loved me more for being so. I cannot be more grateful for that and maybe will smile next time we pick up a fight. The year also helped me realise her resoluteness and commitment to my family, when she decided to quit her job and be with my mom to take care of her. I was and still am amazed at her sacrifice, so just saying that ‘I am proud of her’ would be an understatement. Here is secret - Husbands/Men harbour an ambition of having model wife/girlfriends. If you ask me, the rabbit fulfilled my ambition this year.

Writing: This year, I re-discovered this passion. I always wanted to be a writer. It has been an undefeated passion for a long time since, I first wrote a verse in school, followed by some unlimited skits, short stories, essays and then came the years of the blank canvas. To write, I needed to read, to read I needed to discuss, debate, understand, observe and all this while the wheel was often missing some spoke or the other to complete a cycle. The year gifted me with a surreal mentor who completed the picture, dawning a new phase in me. With soulful mentor-ship, I also owe it to the social media revolution, which opened a new direct relationship between the writer and the reader. Factoring all these conditions the journey is well begun and I cross my fingers that I scurry to my destination steadily and not in a race with the tortoise.

Travel: I cannot claim to be a traveller, even though it is a passion. Or, lets put it this way I have not given into the real passion of being a traveller though there were some adventurous steps taken towards it. For the first time (quiet an achievement) I traveled abroad, albeit to only a neigbouring country - Sri Lanka. This was with friends and for cricket, so most of it gets censored in description. However, Lanka was fun - the highlight of the journey - I lost my camera on the first day.

Closer home, there was this road trip to Amritsar, again with friends. Great experience and place - the highlight of the journey - I bought a high end point-and-shoot camera. Then there was an office trip to Naukuchiataal, my holiday with Simmi down south to Bangalore, Hoggenakal and Coorg. In between all this there were two annual trips to home at Shillong or Guwahati, where most of the time, I was either busy repairing or having something repaired among the other lists of things that a dutiful-twelve-day-a-year-visiting son has to fulfill. Home can never be a travel destination, if you wear my shoes, that is.

Cricket: How could I miss this. I lived through all possible superstitions watching the India-Sri Lanka World Cup final in my own living room. The rabbit had a mixed bag for the Indian kookaburras. Winning the world cup is definitely a high point for a long long time, but the England series had exorcised my feeling for Cricket completely. I am now a far less passionate follower of Indian cricket, but deep inside, the heart beats, still race faster, every time a match is positioned on the razor’s edge. Like today, I was cursing and cussing the Indian team all over twitter when the buggers conceded the first test to Australia. Did, I say I was ‘less passionate?’

I guess, this is too small a list of events to summarise my 364 days, but like the mad hatter, I too am running late for the bed. Few milestones like Sleep, Movies, Reading, Cooking remain and should find place duly but only after I finish doing what I want to do now.

So where did the rabbit hole lead me to? Think, did I not answer that already. ;)

You will see more of me this year but before that gear yourself for 2012 - to ‘train a dragon’. You need skill and faith. Wishing you all ample of it, Happy New Year.

Before Sunday

Author note: "Of the writing exercises that I indulge in, one of my favourite is flash fiction. While most of you have read my poetry and encouraged me to explore the craft more, writing short (flash) fiction is another craft I am exploring. Writing fiction in less than a 1000 words is a difficult exercise, which I have come to realise over the first few attempts because as a writer, the first desire is to write everything and anything, in fear that one might miss out on details. However I have realised that we cannot undercut the role of you, the reader, who is intelligent and have the great ability to visualise. So, shorter sentences, simpler words and tighter plots are difficult and I have tried in what you will read below. There are lot of aspects that have gone in the writing of this story, one of which is staying awake when I should have been sleeping, but guess the fruit of creativity is more tempting than the curse it brings with it. Hope you all love the story and please do share your opinions. They help me to write better for you. Thanks again"

I knew it was Monday. I always knew Mondays. They are the busiest and somehow brighter, if you compare it to the lazy Sundays. I love Sunday and I have nothing against Monday either. For a four year old, week days really did not matter much anyway. Week days were important for the elders. They behaved differently on different days and over these young years I have almost come to map the patterns of the ones in my home.

Tuesdays and Wednesdays were almost the same as Mondays. One of them would rouse early, almost sleep walking to the kitchen or the bathroom. The lights of the living room would be lit. In summers, the curtains would be pulled open and bright sun light would eagerly split through the tall windows, resting here and there, lazily changing shapes and positions during the day. Thursdays, the ritual would be almost the same with a slight delay, which I understood led to the louder than usual crescendo of shouting and screaming, doors closing loudly, frantic noises in the kitchen of pots and pans clattering almost as if someone was trying to do voodoo. In between this chaos, one of them would take out a moment to smile at me and speak briefly. I would try to converse, but I am a little slow and they were always so impatient between Mondays to Thursdays. Sometimes they would actually pick up a fight over the time lost over me on these days. I feel guilty and sullen when this happens but always seem to forget it the next day.

Fridays would always arrive with a strange excitement cutting through the air. The best days are when one of them would play music even before the curtains would be pulled open. Over the next few hours, he would hum to the bathroom, dilly dally deliberately till she pushed him in, he struggling playfully. He would sometimes, pull her inside and I would hear her shouting, “No, Rahul, not now,” her protests and pitch oscillating between laughs and verbal struggles. Then it would get quieter, till a while after the lull (the music would be the loudest then) she would rush out of the door wrapped in a towel and he would keep calling out to her.

“Suits you right,” she would shout back, giggling, humming the tune of the song.

“Roshni, please, yaar,” he would keep shouting, his voice getting louder and impatient while she silently would wait outside the bathroom door, smiling to herself till he almost sounded desperate. She would then gently knock at the door and once slightly parted, she would walk inside, only to run out again giggling. A moment later he would follow, laughing and before you know, over the chase, which I also try and join, they would end up cuddling and hugging me. I feel very warm when they hug me and on Fridays, I always get the longer hugs than the usual.

I loved Fridays, as long as they would not return home late. It was not the late part that upsets me. If they were late, it meant more screaming, shouting, doors banging, pots clattering at night.

“Go to hell,” I heard him once shout.

“Fuck you,” she had once retorted “You had a nerve to behave like that in front of my friends”

I could never understand these conversations which seem to have begun even before they enter the room and then continues to the bedroom followed by eerie silence. The silence would often extend to the afternoon of the Saturday. Then, some friends would visit in the evening and they would behave as if nothing happened. There would be music, laughter and I would again suddenly be the centre of distracted conversations. I would be cuddled, hugged, fed made to forget the evening of the day before once again. Sometimes I get mixed up with the patterns of Saturday evenings and Friday mornings, but you can’t blame me for this, can you?

Sundays were lazy, very lazy. We would all sleep till late. In winters, sometimes, this would stretch to afternoons. I never complained (even though it meant lying on the bed) because this meant a lot of cuddling. I would slip between them and over half wake state they would take turns to talk to me, showering me with fond sweet nothings. If you ask me, I would love if time could freeze on Sunday mornings, but I could not compromise the visit to the park in the evening, the drive to the mall and the ice cream at India Gate. By the end of the day, everything would be sundry, lazy and beautiful, just like the setting sun they both loved to spend time watching, murmuring apologies and stealing kisses against the crimson sky. I loved Sunday evenings almost as much as Friday mornings.

But it was, Mondays I knew most. You cannot miss Mondays. They are the busiest and somehow even brightest, if you compare it to the lazy Sundays.

“Honey, I am taking Mojo out for his walk,” he shouted.

“Don’t be late,” she shouted back.

“Here, Mojo,” he ushered towards me as I happily wagged my tail. The week had begun and there are six more days to go before Sunday.

Listen

the poet is dead.

Died a silent death

when

you and I were writing prose

by the shores of the windy sea.

The sand,

picked on us

the poet,

by the rocks.

We scribbled, drew paragraphs plenty

the poet etched,

one

word

at

a

time

II

In the high tide,

we swam with the waves

hit the rocks

held on to them

when we were pulled away.

The poet

swam in deep sea;

never came back for tea.

III

Father,

why does my castle not stay?

Son,

its made of sand and clay.

Father

what does, this rock say

Son, it says

One

word

at

a

time

Life

does

not

always

rhyme.