"The BREAK-UP"

["You may love your girlfriend very deeply, but you CANNOT express it deeper than six or seven inches".
NOTE :- Above line has no relevance whatsoever to this post. However this is the best SMS that I have received in last five days.]


DISCLAIMER : Though the story below is inspired by some true events(thankfully not mine) I would still prefer to call it a work of fiction. That being said, I really do not know why people even bother to give disclaimers. They are worthless because your opinions, just like underwears, cannot be taken away or changed without your own free will.



This is the sixteenth consecutive day that they have been fighting over everything. And Nothing. It's not that they have not fought before. But this time it is like they are fighting to set a fighting record of some sort. Of their fights. This time it is also different because the silence between two sessions of arguments is not disturbed by the thought of what went wrong or she is right. He is standing there, in front of the big window, watching the world below. World that is moving so fast and its speed is only matched by his thoughts, though they are moving in the opposite direction. Towards his past.



He thinks about the time when he had met her for the first time and a smile crossed his face, quickly replaced by the sadness in his eyes. He thinks about the day they had expressed their love for each other. The first "I love you". First kiss, first hug, first movie, first ride on his bike with her, first evening spent together, first bench, first birthdays celebrated together, first anniversary, first ring, first fight, first tears. Thinking about all these firsts, his being, without even looking back, becomes aware of all the packed stuff. Her stuff. Five years packed in three suitcases.

Here comes the headache and he close his eyes.........




She come out of her office and wave at a cab. She looks out of her cab's window and watch the world rushing by her so swiftly. The speed with which the world is rushing by her is only matched by her thoughts. About her future. She thinks of all that she had dreamed of. Their marriage, their house, their family, their first kid, her name. How can she plan anything with a guy who is so insensitive about sensitiveness. A million things, unanswered questions revolving around her, so alive that she can actually see them written there like neon lights.

Here comes the headache and she close her eyes.........




He watch as the cab arrive below. She looks up from her cab and see him watching her from their apartment's window. Two people, once joined together by so many dreams of love, look at each other from their own side of the glass. Their windows literally separating their worlds now. She come out but the taxi doesn't leave. She open the door using her own key. There he is. Still standing at the window, arms crossed at his chest, his face turned away from her. She pick up her stuff and starts moving towards the door. Each step slower than the last one, still looking at the back of his head, her heart begging him to turn around and beg her to stay. He is aware of her moving towards the door, praying that he hear her say something before he hear the closing door. Just once.



The door shuts and so does his eyes. A tear escapes and rolls down on his face. She is carrying luggage but the weight of her thoughts is too much to carry. The cab driver see her coming down and jump out of his cab. He quickly take all the suitcases and put them in the trunk. He hear the cab's ignition and open his eyes. He watch her getting into the cab. He watch the driver getting into the driver's seat. All that is left there is some smoke now which fades away.



Their story have a perfect fairy tale ending. Because even if they are not together still they live happily ever after.



Just like we all do...............................

"The GARBAGE and THE GARBAGE COLLECTOR"

I was standing in my balcony when I saw him. Wearing an over-sized black shirt which was less darker and muddier than his face, he carried a waste bag on his shoulder. His waste bag was taller and may be three times wider than him. He was wearing a trouser, again over-sized and tied around his waist with the help of a red colored ribbon. Maybe someone was kind enough to throw a ribbon that we use to decorate our Diwali and Christmas gifts with. And maybe he was lucky enough to pick it up well before another under-nourished kid in over-sized pants came along. He was bare-foot. I do not know what it feels like to walk with naked feet on a hot-summer road. His hairs were all ruffled up and muddy, with the lack of proper bath I guess. People pay to get that kind of hairdo these days.


With the serious expression usually associated to a bread-earner's face, he was walking very slowly, intently looking at the sides of the road. Whenever he found something interesting, he'd pick it up and put it in his bag. By interesting I mean, empty bottles or pieces of newspaper or plastic bags or cardboard, you get the picture right??.

The reason why I was standing there in my balcony was that after two day long convention at my place, I had to dispose off all that had accumulated at my place. I was waiting for the MCD van to pick things up and make my place ready for the next intellectual meet. And that's the reason I noticed the garbage collector. Just when he reached in front of a shop, he stopped. I could not see what he was staring at, at first.

If you too live in a colony where shops are an extension of one's residence then you might have noticed this. A shopkeeper orders so many things every day and they all come in card-board boxes. Boxes of 2 litre cold-drinks, packets of chips, maggi, whatever whatever. He was staring at those card-board boxes. A strange thought came to me then. May be I was looking at those cardboard boxes but he was looking at his lunch. Lunch that he will get after selling those empty boxes.Anyways, he tried to take one step towards those card-boards when the sixty year old shopkeeper moved like a bolt. I know the shopkeeper. He is always complaining about how bad his knees are and how old he has become. So old that his throat hurts if he tries to speak normally. That's when I heard him shout at the kid "Oye, chal yahan se!!". I was standing in my balcony on the first floor and my house is 5 houses away from his shop. But I heard him alright. I guess some situations in life call for desperate measures. Saving precious empty card-board boxes from a 11 year old garbage collector is one such situation. And the old man rose to the situation gloriously.

The boy moved on without even looking back at the shopkeeper. Stray dogs also ignore you like that. They will walk towards something lying out side your place, trying to sniff around and when you take a single step toward them, they move one. Because stray dogs, like that kid, know how people like us react. That's why they ignore you. Maybe because both are more concerned about the question of survival than reacting. So they do not waste time by protesting to a 60 year old man. They move on.


I don't know why but that's when I called out his name. I said "Oye". [Oye : Expression used by millions in India especially for calling people beneath them. You do not have to bother yourself about the name of any kid serving you at a dhaba or the puncture waala or rickshaw-puller. All you have to say is "Oye"]. I said "Oye". But he was busy. So this time I called out a bit louder. "Oye Ladke". He detached his eyes from the road for the first time. And looked up. With my hand I gestured him to come up. I called him inside, took him to the balcony and filled his bag with all the leftovers. Empty bottles of alcohol, empty pizza boxes and all the empty junk that you can imagine after an intellectual party. His bag was filled up to the brim.

I asked his name. He simply looked at me. As if the concept of name has not yet reached the place where he lived. I looked at him and his look said - He do not understand my world just as much as I do not understand his. I have been igonored many times in life and I know it hurts when somebody do that to you. But to be absolutly ignored as a fellow human-being. That I had never experienced. So I asked his name again. He mumbled "Hari". That's what he said and that's ALL he said. I asked him if he'll be able to pick up the bag. He didn't reply. Just picked the bag, turned around and was gone.


I came back inside and thought I did some good. I was happy that I had filled his bag with all the garbage that I can, so no shopkeeper will shout at him now. But then I realized, he never had any issues with somebody shouting at him. I did what I did because I wanted to feel like I have done something good. I thought he would be happy to get the bag and will remember me for the generosity that I had shown him. I rushed to the balcony thinking that he might look up and will give me a smile before he go. I saw him on the road, looking at the road again. Though this time ie was walking swiftly towards the direction he had come. Hari was not effected by my intentions. He probably was running towards his workplace to unload the bag and go out again.




That's when I realized that for me, Hari was a garbage collector who I thought I had helped by giving out all the garbage and he was a source of I-did-some-good but for him all I am was a bag full of garbage..........................

BLINKING CURSOR.......UNBLINKING ME!!!

This happened again. And happened again for a millionth time. I wanted to write about so many things but ended up looking at the blinking cursor for hours. Looking at it and thinking. Thinking about many things that are shapeless in my mind, dying to find a physical form. Waiting for me to shape them up with words, attach them in sensible sentences and build up paragraphs which are funny(hmm...) or sensitive(haa!!) or knowledgeable(LOL... ). But I ended up looking at the blinking cursor and in that moment I asked,

"Do I look as stupid to this cursor as much as this cursor looks stupid to me?".

And amazingly the blinking cursor replied, "Yes, you dumb A@#H@#E, you look as stupid as me!!! ".

I was shocked and a wave of anger swept over me. I stared at it and with all the hate that I can possibly adjust in one sentence I said, "What the F###....how dare you call me a dumb A$$***E. No body(except the people who know me) calls me thaaaat. You stupid sonuvabitch. All you do is blink on a blank sheet".

"That is what you are as well...a blank sheet...and you don't even blink!!! ", the cursor said.

We stared each other and then suddenly started laughin. I laughed so hard that my roomie woke up and started laughing as well{yes people the great SURJ###(remember some of the letters in his name got eaten up in the previous blog) do not need a reason to laugh}. After Surj### went back to sleep and I could catchup with my breath I said,
"You know what, you are right!! I am a blank sheet and I don't even blink".

Then I said, "Tell me something dude, you have blinked in front of so many people, great writers, I mean, people who play with words like guitarists play with strings, or real powerful people, politicians, movie stars and then also in front of many tom, dick and harrys like me who happens to own a computer. What is the difference for you between blinking in front of people like them and other commoners like me? ".

The Cursor smiled and went into a thinking reverie. After thinking for some time he said, "Well to tell you the truth there is not much of a difference between you and people you are talking about. I mean if you look from my prespective all I ever see is a bozo sitting in front of the screen with two hands just like yours, typing in. To me every keystroke that anybody gives in is in 0's and 1's....not different from your keystrokes. To me its all the same giberish and it doesn't matter who types it".

I was not going to let him off that easily. I could not believe what he was telling me so to further pursue the question I said, " C'mmon man, this can't be true. I mean how can you say there is not much of a difference. So what you mean to say is, that if it was not me but Chetan Bhagat writing all this, it would still be the same thing..huh?? ".

The Cursor said, "Naah, I DID NOT say that. You asked me what is the difference for ME and I told you that. You didn't say what's THE difference....see? ".

Me said, "Alright alright, wise a$$, SO??...so what's the difference?? ".

He said, "Before I answer that I need to ask you something...should I? ".

Although I smelled a trap but I still went ahead and said, "Yeah, why not".

He asked me, "Why do you keep staring at me with your hands ready on the keyboard. I keep on blinking at people like you and keep on blinking just to make you realize that I am here. All you have to do is start writing. But still people like you keep on staring and don't type. Why is that?? ".

Well, I said, "I can speak for my self because I know this is what happens with me. I come and start you because there is this urge to attach words to so many thoughts running wild in my mind but all that I get at the end of it is you...a blinking cursor!!. I don't know how many times I have picked up a pen and paper to write something...you know..catch one thought and actually write something about it...and you know...with every passing minute all that's there is a plain paper staring back at me. In conversations with people, so many people that I know....everybody has a story to tell...the only thing that's hard to find is WORDS. They too end up looking at the blinking cursor. Time and again we go back to diaries, scraps, texts, mails, blogs, phones....all our own...all started in an attempt to say things felt inside, all created because of this need to give form to million formless tit bits running in our minds...to communicate.....in the end getting us stuck....at YOU...a blinking cursor!!!
I have imagined every person, you know, in a I-want-to-write-something-moment moment where we are in front of a screen....both hands ready on the keyboard....a blank space in front of us...a space to write....staring back at us....and we staring at you....repeating the same question in our mind over and over again..."Kahan se likhun?"...."Kya Likhun?". And if by any chance we do start writing about some stuff then we go back...read what we have written.....and think..."Yeeeh kya likha hai....hata yaar!!". We delete it and happily return to where we started our literal journey from...you guessed it!!!....YOU!!!....THE BLINKING CURSOR!!!. So I am not sure. And that's why I am asking you. What's the difference? ".

Now the cursor smiled . "I'll again tell you that there is not much of a difference. The only thing that separates them and you is that they actually go ahead and write whatever they want to and never look for sense. They let go of any need to be appreciated by people who are going to read them and simply type whatever. And somehow it all makes sense in the end. And when I see people reading what they have written it is not like everybody likes it. I have seen people making fun of writers, politicians, movie stars for what they write. So here is the advice that you were looking for. If you want that people should swoon and croone at your words then don't do it. Don't write. And ya don't just keep on staring at me like you know what you are doing but just waiting for some divine intervention....got that?? ", he said.

"Well, it was nice talking to you Mr. Cursor. I will try not to stare at you and write instead. Hope to talk to you later ", I said.

The cursor was smiling at me and I smiled back..........