Phantasm

As the cultural leader and representative of my course and institute in Mumbai, I could legitimately bunk class and participate in every college festival. This fantasy story was written for Sophia College's annual fest when I was in the second year of my course. We had to pick a fairy tale of our choice and give it a modern twist. Here's what I wrote:

Judy first noticed the four discoloured patches on the ceiling. Then, she noticed the spider crawl up the wall beside her bed. And then, she screamed.

“Okay, Judy; one last push,” the nurse seemed bored but alert.

Judy mustered all the strength she could, and pushed with all her might. She hated the man who was putting her through this even more now. But her eagerness to see her baby was only growing.

“It’s a girl!” the nurse announced and cocooned the baby with a white blanket. With moist eyes, Judy carefully wrapped her arms around the little bundle of joy. The first feature she registered saw was this: the sun shone in through the window and highlighted a perfect golden crop of hair above her baby’s deep blue eyes.

“So, decided on a name yet?” the nurse had snapped the new mom back to reality. Judy looked deep into her new born's eyes and pushed a few strands of hair away from them; then she smiled and nodded.

                                                                         xxx

Judy had promised to give her daughter everything and more. Their life was more than comfortable, thanks to a hefty inheritance. She did everything to insure her child would never make any of the mistakes Judy had lived to regret. Rapunzal’s future was bright and nothing would stand between her and a perfect happily ever after.

Being born to a world-renowned artist had had its perks for Judy, until she had decided to fall madly in love with the wrong man. A messy divorce later, Rapunzal was the only direction Judy needed to help her get by.

This turning point of her life was a sure sign from the force. Most so, she believed that the magnificent golden-brown hair was no stroke of genes or heritage. It was a sign. All Judy had asked from her beloved daughter was to keep the hair. The locks had brought good times and luck, and so, they stayed. Rapunzal had agreed.

                                                                      xxx

Rapunzal adjusted her Gucci sunglasses and squinted towards the blazing sun. She was relaxing on her private beach this weekend. Rubbing an extra bit of lotion onto her body, she removed her valuables and made her way to the clear-blue sea. What a mood setter this water was, she concluded. Dabbing herself with a bright pink towel minutes later, she noticed her phone deep awkwardly.

“Trish! Where have you been!?” she squealed as soon as she answered; her laughter hitting a high pitch. “Yes, yes. A lot has been going on. A bit unnerving, yes. You know how it is. We need to talk. By the way, how was London!?" As the only person who had her mother's full approval from the get-go, Trish was Rapunzal’s best friend.

Like every detail in Rapunzal's life so far, her life after her imminent high-school graduation was chalked out and ready for launch. But like every other decision, she didn’t want to gulp down what was planned for her this time. She wanted to throw up. 

Having every wish fulfilled in return for obedience never seemed like a bad barter.  But the thought of leaving high school, the town of Brishineberg, and certain people behind, had begun to prick. She tugged at her hair, scrawling. Certain people? Chris.

They went to the same school and had met a party two years ago They were inseparable since then. He was the son of a hardworking plumber who'd taken several loans to ensure his intelligent son went to the best school. He had no mother.

Rapunzal and him shared an interest for the same courses and had reached a compromise for the same extra-curricular activities too. Anything beyond that was not permissible. She knew the rules and always abided by them. Her mother would only read "hardworking" as "poor" and "penniless".

But over time she had formed a special bond with him and this had gained momentum, instead of dying down. Trish would help her. There was a plan. Life seemed so clear and simple unfolding itself right beyond the fluttering waves that kissed the shore and retraced themselves before her eyes. She smiled and grabbed a towel. It was all going to end well.

“You dhonth say!” muffled Trish in between bites of tiramisu. “ Yes! I do say! She is my mother and she will understand!” Rapunzal tried her best to sound convincing even if it was only to herself. “ Listen,” cut in Trish, finishing the tiramisu and sounding serious. “ I hope you know where you’ll be getting at with this... this confession of sorts! Chances are you’ll be disowned! That to from this gorgeous mansion! Is it really worth it!?” Trish tried hard to reason but Rapunzal, tossing her hair into a pony and putting on a shrug, just smiled in reply.

                                                                                xxx

Judy was half-way through Painting the Right Picture: An Artist's Voice when she heard her study's door gently shut. She looked over the book and adjusted her posture on the leather sofa. Rapunzal stood before her, stooped back with each hand over the other, in front of her. Judy sat up. She knew this body language well. Her daughter only stood this way when she was about to break news of causing trouble. Like the time she had cut the garden pipe into bits to test the sharpness of her new scissors.

What trouble could she have caused now?

"Mom," Rapunzal began, "we need to talk."

                                                                                 xxx

The discussion between righteous mother and teenage daughter began to turn into an ugly brawl soon after. In between muffled cries and shrieking howls, Judy decided to drive off and Rapunzal, feeling her heart being wrenched out of her chest.

She threw herself of her soft bed and cried till her head hurt. It may have been well into the night when she sat up and wiped her tears. She was angry, hurt, and irrational. She got off her bed and went all the way to the basement. There, she slowly opened the storage closet.

It hadn’t come to use, that phenol bottle, until Rapunzal drank it without a flinch. “I’m sorry, mum” was all that escaped her.

                                                                                    xxx

Judy's car pulled into the driveway about half an hour after the incident. The servants were dreaming sweetly in their quarters, oblivious to the catastrophe that awaited the house.

She had decided to reason with Rapunzal and meet Chris. She understood the cost of love too well, and that she could not protect her daughter for ever. Maybe Chris would make a good man after all.

Musing to herself with a slight smile of her face, she entered the house to be hit by a strong smell of floor-cleansing liquid.

Following the acidic smell, she switched on the light in the basement and felt the ground below her feet tug away.

Kneeling beside her daughter’s cold body. Her life passed her by. What had it been worth? Making the perfect life for someone else, when she could not even make a perfect life for herself? Was it her exceedingly pushy attitude that had driven away the man she loved and that too only because he was no match to her father? Tears streamed down her face rapidly as all these thoughts revolved around her was fantasm. It was now pulling her away.

She stood up and made her way back to the main door robotically.  What had she done? Why had the perfect ending driven her to such hysterical levels? A million questions flooded her mind.

She kept walking now hitting the sandy beach. The moon radiated the skies above giving them a perfect gleam. The moon gave its light to all of what was plunged in darkness. She wished she were the moon. The cold water hit her feet as she embraced the waves. That was how it would end. The stars shone and the moon spread its light. They all lived happily ever after.

PS: I have a certificate that says the above won first prize. I hope to develop the story and characters further, sometime.

How to study for a master's degree

I've not touched this post too much. It's mostly as I wrote it back then. It may have been written a little after the birthday I mentioned; it made me laugh. Beautifully exhibits my unchanged level of patience since I was born, well, at seven months.

My first white hair

The University of Mumbai hates my guts. I’m almost certain that some hideous goblin goes out of his way to schedule exams around my birthday. I’ve so far donated at least three birthdays to the cause of academics. Speaking of hitting the books (pun may be intended), I remember things much better when I know I am allowed to forget them. The minute my brain is made aware that it must remember what I’m reading, it refuses to comply.

So, coming straight to the point, the last two hurdles before the finish line to my master’s degree were scheduled a day before and the day after my 23^rd birthday
(See? Told you!). 

I sulked, whined and threw multiple tantrums, at work and at home, to gather as much sympathy as I could. After everyone had patted me on the back, fed me my favorite food, and continued watching the TV like nothing had happened (read: my mother), I decided to seriously get on Google and check my subjects out.

I spent two whole weeks (unpaid leave, no less) slaving over the works of TS Eliot, William Blake/Wordsworth/Yeats and what have you, trapped inside my little room.

I trust that you, as a well-educated and refined reader, are familiar with the fact that: No exam preparation is complete without struggling with the concentration level of a sandwich. And I was in no mood to challenge any well-established fact. 

I revived my Twitter account, dusted my book closet, and even developed a keen interest toward my hair.

The last exercise made me a little sad. It wasn’t bouncy anymore. Was I loosing hair? I was sure there used to be more of it. Was that a split end? Wait-a-minute. Is that a…white…HAIR!?

When I first saw this shiny strand dancing in the light, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I twirled a bunch of hair around my finger, and looked closely. There it was, my first-ever, full-length, whitish-grey hair.

I was fascinated by how well it had blended in with the rest of my mane. I sat in my chair for a while, thinking about the hair. I thought of the various coming-of-age poems I was reading. I could almost feel that moment guiding me toward the threshold I'd have to cross from being young, wild, and free to getting smart, erudite, and mature...

Well, almost. This reverie may have lasted at least half a minute before I wrapped my finger around the strand and yanked it out – follicle and all. I examined it a little more, poked it around and tested its elasticity, à la Sunsilk’s ad.

I jumped off my chair and purposefully marched out of the room. Strand clutched tightly in hand, I went straight to the kitchen and chucked it into the bin.

I'd deal with all the thinking later, it was positively time to get some grub.  

Why I write (and read)

I found a few old scribbles. It may have been five years or so since I wrote this post. Each word still holds true, even though my style of writing may have changed. Here's how I got to read, and eventually write. It's about the foundation I'm building a tower on today.

Daddy is a conspicuous bibliophile

I’ve spent every summer from the age of 3 to 18 in Kuwait. I remember being surrounded by books in all shapes and sizes, stacked up in boxes or resting on shelves that hugged the walls of the spare room. My dad is a reader.

Mom, an official of the Clean Squad, would hand us a duster and lock us away in the room, with the promise of biryani. Daddy, armed with the cleaning cloth and his reading glasses, would sit in a little corner and patiently sift through each of his prized possessions. He would eagerly want to show me all of his hundred-odd James Hardly Chase novels at once but he'd begin by grabbing my attention with the colourful pictures in his treasured National Geographic magazines; ones that date back at least 30 years. 

This routine would play out as soon as Mummy would find Daddy ambling about at home over the weekend. There was only one thing for him to do—something, anything about the books! We would then quickly scamper to his little library (poorly disguised as my visiting room) and begin with the tidying. 

Come to think of it, that was when little me—in my PJs and bob cut—was hooked on to the myriad worlds that awaited bound between spines in all sizes. Those sessions introduced me to the whiff of old books and my father’s fondness for the written word.

He would ever-so-tenderly empty one over-flowing carton at a time, and wipe clean the thin film of dust on the books’ covers—front, then back. He would then page through the introduction and read out when, and from where, he had gotten the book; a habit I’ve inherited. It made him so happy; I vividly remember it showing on his pink face.

We’d rearrange magazines as we spoke about his favourite genres—history, fiction, and mystery. He asked me what I liked to read best. I’d lamely manage the names of a few Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew novels I’d chanced upon in my school’s library. Now that I think of it, something triumphed inside him when we had these talks. He knew which one of his three little ones would inherit his treasures, when the time was right. 

To date, my father does not go to bed before he has read. It’s a virtue in his eyes, not to be loosely categorised as a habit. I have him to thank for so many things but our shared love for words on pages is number one. 

Mummy, on the other hand, silently stood at the doorway and smiled at her two crazy hoarders. The both of us have her to thank for completely understanding the obsession and oh-so lovingly humouring it.  

Post-script: This is the new bookshelf of my new life. I’ve been lucky to find a man, yet again, who is as obsessed with reading as my number one guy.  

Camping in Manali, Himachal Pradesh

I’ve quit my full-time job. I now freelance for the web, a few magazines, and develop content for corporates. I also teach creative writing to bachelor of mass media students. In my new avatar, I hope to leave a happy trail of stories in every way possible. 

But coming back to the experience of my first-ever trek, here’s a follow-up. I wrote my experience for Cox & Kings.com and the good folks there published it.

Read all about my trip to the Himalayas here: http://blog.coxandkings.com/love-in-manali/

Read it, like it, get inspired. Write to me about your experience.

In the meanwhile, bonus pictures from the beauty that is North India. 

Yes, the sun shines down on a place like this somewhere in the world. 

Regular stream by the mountains. So effortlessly gorgeous. 

 

 Who needs Japan when you have Chandigarh? Our very own cherry-blossom city.

Hiking in Manali, Himachal Pradesh

It's official—I am a mountain person. I belong way above sea level. I recently camped in Manali—slept in a tent at 3 degrees celsius with the wind threatening to knock it over—and trekked to few of the most surreal and naturally magnificent landscapes my eyes will ever drink in. I'm in the process of writing a short piece on my attempt at conquering nature, and my first time in the snow; until then, here are a few pictures from my trip. Let's live in the mountains and never come back, okay?

This trek was called the Eagle Eye View for good reason. We saw the Pir Panjal range, and slightly glimpsed one of its highest peak, Hanuman Tibba.

The green roofs are a tiny settlement by the Beas River.

I'm standing on one of the five or so creeks we passed during our trek to Old Manali, Manu Temple, and all through the mountains.

This is the very cold and imposing Jogini Falls. If you squint beyond the mid of the waterfall, you will notice silhouettes of people. These adventurous folk traversed across and above the freezing rocks to the little sacred temple that is ensconced right behind the falls.

Unfortunately for us, none of the trees were in blossom. Here is a small apple orchid, I think. We had a lengthy DDLJ moment in the patch of yellow to the right! We are on our way to the Manu temple here.

Ever so often, while walking under the blazing sun, we'd be rewarded with this. Brownies for my eyes, really.

My moment in the snow. Five layers of clothes as shields from the cold wind and snow at Solang valley. Still returned with the worst tan.

Though our trek to Jogini Falls was a warm up for the days to come, I will always remember it as the toughest descent. It had rained a few days ago, so thanks to the wet and loose soil, everyone basically skid their way back to the camp site.

One of my favourite pictures from the trip. Zoom into the wall art.

Less me, more the handiwork of the creator.

Please note: Write to me if you like a picture that you'd like to make a wallpaper out of. I'll send you a better resolution one. Don't steal, yes?