In Loving Memory of the One That Was So True.

They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. For twenty one years I had no idea what it meant. For twenty one years.

Until today.

The time is 8:45 PM. I’ve just settled down to watch the latest episode of Game of Thrones. My sister walks in the room. She says, ‘Paras, we have to go.’

It’s about Nani- we call her Chachi. No one in living memory has ever called her anything but chachi, except Nanajee, of course. The story goes when my mother and her siblings were younger, their cousins would call nani ‘chachi’ because obviously she was their ‘chachi,’ Mothership and the siblings picked it up, the neighbours picked it up, the maids picked it up, the grandchildren picked it up, the great-grandchildren picked it up… even their friends picked it up. 

Nanajee lovingly calls her Paaro. And perhaps it’s his final ‘Paaro’ that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I shut down the laptop and jump out of the bed. She’s been unwell and in hospital for almost a week. We all have been dreading this ‘last ride’ to the hospital every waking moment ever since. On a certain level, we’ve been prepared for the eventuality. But no matter how prepared you are, there’s nothing more difficult in life than accepting the fact that a person you’ve loved all your life will one day simply stop being there. In every way possible.

Chachi hasn’t been well for the last so many years. I can’t remember the last time I saw her walking… or even sitting up straight without support. I can’t remember the last time I saw her without a tube up her noise to help her breathe. I can’t remember the last time she didn’t need machines to help her survive. She had a hard life. She had trouble breathing, trouble sitting, couldn’t walk. She had weak bones. She sometimes had a memory lapse. She had trouble hearing. She had trouble chewing. For the last three months, she was totally bedridden, steadfastly refusing to sit for even a few minutes because the pain in her bones would be simply unbearable. Because even with a nebulizer it would be impossible to breathe… and yet she is the most remarkable person I’ve ever met. Or I’ll ever meet.

Imagine having to stay confined to your bed every single day. Hardly able to sit straight. Unable to eat yourself. Unable to turn your head and watch TV. Unable to breathe without a machine. Not knowing what’s happening outside… Imagine doing this day in and day out for years on end. Imagine living in pain. It will drive even the hardest of us insane.

And she took all in her stride. She was never bitter… Never angry. She would say, ‘kya kar sakte hain.’  She would regale us with stories from her childhood, our parent’s childhood, and stories from another age… every time we met her. Every time we’d call her, she’d only ask, ‘Kidadi aaogay?’ when will you come. She loved when all her children and grandchildren were in her room. Oh the happiness on her face. The joy it would giver. She’d never fail to ask us to stay the night over. Spend some more time with her.

She would Pull our face close to hers and kiss us softly and sloppily, stroke the head, and ask us what we’re doing in life. And when it was time to come back home, she would ask us to stay… stay for a while. Her world was in her room. Nanajee by her side, the family all around her. The stories she would tell. The memories she would stir. The laughter. The jokes. Everything.

And it’s all gone in a flash. Twenty one years of knowing her. Twenty one years of seeing her every weekend. Twenty one years of her unconditional love. And it’s all over in a matter of minutes. She’s there, in her hospital bed. You could swear she’s sleeping.  Peacefully.  You would never be able to tell she’s been in so much pain. And now she’s in a better place. Away from the all the pain. The sufferings. The hardship. It’s how funny how sometimes you have all the money in this world, and yet, you don’t have anything. For as they say, there are somethings money can’t buy.

Nanajee is frail, and he comes to the hospital every day to meet chachi. He is there today as well. But he’s come late. Chachi has already passed on. He sits near her, looks at her once, and breaks down. Nanajee, before whom a thousand people bowed their heads when he was in his prime, is clutching chachi, and crying like a baby. He whimpers, ‘Paaro, tu chali gayi, ab mera kya hoga paaro.’ 

Oh, the astonishing pain of watching him in this state. I could never been more heartbroken.  They were together for almost seventy odd years. For so many years, nanajee’s entire day revolved around worrying for chachi..  And now he has nothing to do, and he has to live all alone in a room he has shared with chachi for the last thirty years.

It’s third June today. It’s been three days now, and all he does is cry.

So there would be no more of ‘Chachi-chachi’, no more of sloppy kisses, no more of the tender hugs. No more of her concern. No more of her stories… nothing. She is just not there anymore. Gone...Forever.  Never to come back.

But why am I writing this? The loss of someone so close has to be a closed affair. A family affair. A private affair. But death is a humbling experience. It tells you how you cannot take anything for granted. It tells you how uncertain life is. But more than anything, it’s about the terrifying realization that life doesn’t stop for anyone. It goes on. That one day Chachi would be just another memory. A person who loved us unconditionally for so many years would cease to be anything but a memory. We’ll walk into her room, and won’t find her absence awkward. We won’t call her every week. We won’t meet her every week. We won’t ever hear her voice again. And it would all be normal. Maybe it doesn’t really make sense. Maybe nothing makes sense.

But consider this. How often do we meet our grandparents? Just how busy are we with our lives. My Dada-Dadi live in Noida, and we, the grandchildren, hardly go to meet them. Hell, hardly ever remember to call.

Grandparents- they ask us to visit them, stay with them. Spend time with them. But aren’t we all too busy with our own plans? Hell, don’t we tell ourselves we’ll go next week, and then that next week becomes next month, and this is life?

For twenty one years I’ve had the privilege to have received the love of both Dada-Dadi and Chachi-Nanajee.

Until today.

And I suddenly realize that life is too uncertain.

So cancel that plan, put down that call. Go sit down with your grandparents. Jeeyo, khush raho, muskurao. Kya pata, kal ho na ho.

RIP Chachi, Godspeed.
I miss you. We all miss you. 

In Loving Memory of

the One that was so True. 

Reflection

Almost four and a half years to the day I first had a daydream which eventually morphed into an idea that spawned a trilogy; here I’m, penning this blog as I wait on tenterhooks for the launch of my first book.  I guess it is the logical culmination of a long process that started with my getting inspired by JKR and writing Emilio Esparda and the Sword of Life way back when I was in class 5^th- a mere 11 year old writing a novel! From Kalazar Kai (like Salazar Slytherin) to a Governor of Magic, it was a vividly imagined resplendent world I had filled with characters liberally borrowed from Harry Potter, my first hero.  

From being on the editorial board of the School Magazine, to basking in the glory as my English teacher in class 7^th went around the department telling others to just learn from how well I structured everything I wrote (I guess one of the biggest reasons I took to writing in a big way is the sheer encouragement I would receive from here every time I wrote something. The last time I met her two years back, she said, ‘Hopefully, we’ll see a book written by you in the market soon!’ Can’t wait to go back and tell her, ‘Ma’am, this is all because of you!’), from reading every kind of fantasy fiction to having this steadfast belief (often bordering on arrogance) that I am a pretty good story teller, this has been one heck of a journey.  A special shout out to my cousins, Pramath Parijat and Shubhankar Parijat. The Avaasya Trilogy began as collaboration between us before we shelved the project, only for me to take it up again after an year!

The last few weeks have been frantic; the last few months surreal.  I have seen myself grow, learn become wiser and change as a person. Experienced remarkable highs and depressing lows. I have learnt how writing a story is probably the easiest part of it all. There have been phases where I have doubted the story, the book, and myself. Phases where I have been disappointed let down and left with the feeling that perhaps the book isn’t good enough. That perhaps I’m not good enough. I have gone through phases where I have been unable to write even a paragraph.  Equilibrium is a book I finished writing in under a month when I was seventeen! It’s a book that had Red Ink Literary Agency sign me solely on the basis of four sample chapters ( I started writing after I was signed) It’s a book that was bought by my publishers when I was eighteen. And yet, it’s a book that took three years to see the light of day.

Those who know me intimately would swear by how I have been going on and on about my book ever since I signed up with Red Ink. From going on ‘bragging’ about the book to stop talking about it altogether because of the sheer embarrassment of not having an answer to ‘When is it going to be published?’, I have been through it all.

And it is this intervening period of three years that has probably been the most magical part of my life. Looking back, I can proudly say that this has been a coming of age experience for me.  I have spent hours sitting on my bed, staring at my book collection and imagined about that time in the not so distant future when my own novel would occupy the place of honour in that collection. I spent hours realizing how that ‘not so distant future’ is simply not happening. But I guess it was all worth the wait. Someone once told me everything happens for a reason and everything happens for good. I guess all the delay made me more mature.

I have learnt the importance of dreaming and relentlessly pursuing it to the point that no one can deny you. I have learnt the importance of giving something your everything and that the greatest happiness in the world is when the thing you have dreamt about every waking minute is finally happening.

I have met some wonderful people who influenced some of the characters in the series quite heavily. I have shared my dreams with people who aren’t around anymore. I have acquired a new perspective. And probably, have learnt not to take everything for granted. I don’t even know why am I writing this, but just felt I needed to thank so many people for just being there and occasionally dreaming this dream with me.

I hope the book doesn’t leave you disappointed. Thank you so much for all the support on Facebook these past few days. It means a lot. This book is my dream… everything.

Paras Joshi!

Magic.

You sit in front of the desktop, type in a few words and pause to consider what you’ve just written. It’s nowhere near your best. So you backspace it all. You sit there staring at the blank document, and with a sense of disbelief, wonder what has gone wrong. You struggle to come up with something. And you think about the time long gone where words once flew freely.  You close your eyes, and go through the myriad thoughts spinning a web around your mind. So many ideas! So many stories to tell!

But nothing to write.

And all of a sudden your mind goes back to that one memory that will forever remain etched there. That day which reaffirmed something you’ve known for quite a while. ‘I don’t think you have it in you anymore’ the words are still fresh. The wounds still raw and they still hurt.

But what’s the point to deny the obvious? Delay the inevitable. So with a sense of nostalgia, you open Blogspot and go through all your entries.

You go through your own work and feel like it was another person who created it. You go through it with a strange sense of indifference- like a person who had once wielded unrestricted power and is now powerless to even lift a finger. Like a magician who had once mesmerised people but knows that the spark is gone and the magic has waned.

‘You might just be the next best thing, not quite like me’

You have prided yourself on your way with words. And now that way appears to have closed its doors to you. It’s like losing your identity. And there’s nothing worse than that. The only thing you can do is live in denial, for accepting the truth is the hardest thing in the world.

You have dreamed a dream. For five years you have dreamt of the day your own book will be out in the market- lauded by one and all. You have lived for it. And when that day draws close, there’s nothing but a sense of despair that hangs heavy over you.

Writing has been your love. And now, there’s nothing but a blank parchment and a pen. The words have dried up. The flair is gone.

So you hum and old Rajesh Khanna favourite, go through your previous works with a sense of great pride, and resign yourself to your fate.  For as they say, not everyone in this world has the fate to experience the fullest form of love. Some are born, just to experience the abbreviation of it.

Perhaps the least you can do is write what you feel, in howsoever rudimentary a fashion, and try and feel that familiar joy once again.

Magic. Believe in it! 

A Dark Day.

Damini, Amanath, Nirbhaya... different people christened her her differently. In the end, she stood for one and only one thing- The urge, the will, to overcome the worst and be hopeful for a better life. How many people are out there who believe nothing could good can ever happen with them. Who feel there's nothing worth living for in their life. One failed relationship. One bad exam. And you feel as if your life has ended. As if there's no better thing in the world. Learn from this girl. In her last few days, in a way she became a symbol of hope. She taught everyone, what is it to live. She wanted to live. She had dreams of a better future.

And to honor that dream, to honor the brave soul, the least we can do is make sure this moment doesn't die down. Not in a long time have In a city like Delhi, infamous for being rude and cold and what not, have I seen such solidarity for anyone. This is a movement for change. For Hope. For a better society. And for humanity.

It's time we change the mentality of those who believe they can violate a person so brutally  and still get away . Capital punishment, newer stringent laws are nothing but a psychological safe-guard. It's indeed sad that in the midst of all the protests and lathi-charge, tear gas, unprecedented crowd, we hear of girls being raped in Kalkaji, in Patiala, the latter victim being driven to commit suicide because of the attitude of the police. It's sad to hear that on Saturday, 80% of calls to Police about molestation came from India Gate. Is this how things will change. Women are not safe for the leering eyes of these detestable men even in a such a protest.

Indian society is a many headed monster. You sever one head, and the rest shall continue to live. The outlook of the society is what is needed to be changed. There's no one solution. The male dominated patriarchal character of society, where sons are brought up to believe they are superior, the mass-illiteracy. The lack of sense of duty among the police personnel. And the general insensitivity of the people, everything contributes to this chaos and anarchy.

That girl and her friend were lying naked on the ground for close to 2 hours before they were shifted to Safdurjang. Where was this sense of solidarity then? Oh yes, 200 people did assemble to see the drama unfold. Of course!

Naare lagane se kuch nahi hota boss. Untill you want the change to come. People have been a part of this protest just to get even with the Police personnel. Girls have been molested in the crowd. The setup for Republic Day has been disturbed. Police and media vans stoned. People have been hurt. A cop has died.

Violence is not the answer to anything,

The horror she lived through is unimaginable. The brutality of it. You shudder even at the thought of it. I hope no one ever has to live through it again. Ever again. In a sense, it's good she didn't make it. Her life would have been scared forever. I hope she's gone to a better world. I hope, no one has the same fate as her, ever again.

RIP Brave Girl. A symbol of hope.

Retrospection.

Dark clouds were gathered outside. Inside, the mood was gloomy. It was obvious something was on his mind. That something was bothering him. The usual spring in the step was missing, the confidence gone. He had sat silently for most part of the day in the class. Not looking at anyone, keeping to himself. On the few occasions his friends had tried to engage him, he had merely shrugged. ‘Better be left alone.’ One of them had commented.
He knew he was distracted. He knew he was bothered. He wanted to vent it all out. But he knew no one would understand. He would be typecast as the ‘bad guy.’ How long would it last? How long would he be able to cope up with the feeling of helplessness and frustration before bursting out? He had been trying to focus on what the Professors were saying ever since the morning, trying harder than he had ever in his life. But every time, he would get swept away by a gloomy brooding train of thoughts. Trying hard to figure what had gone wrong. Trying to pinpoint exactly where things fell apart.
But was it the right thing to do? Was he over-reacting? Why did he feel as if he was losing control over his life? Why was he feeling lost and confused? So many questions… He looked around himself, as if hoping answers would magically appear. And then he saw her. Chirpy, bumbling, excited… as usual. Smiling. Smiling…. She noticed him looking at her, and then quickly turned away. What was she thinking? Once again, he lost all sense of time.

*****On the first day, he saw her.
And was smitten instantly. There was something about her that made her stand out of the crowd. Was it her dressing- black jean, yellow razor back and a black jacket? Or the innocence in her kohl-lined eyes? Perhaps it was her inconspicuous smile. It had to be the smile, the one she always wore. But he was never able to figure it out. He would never be, for something’s cannot be explained. For something’s can only be felt. For him, it was one of those things. And it was surprising, considering he had just come off a stormy relationship. Just when he had started to believe he would never feel it again, here was a girl who had threatened to turn his world upside down, inside out. 
He had just settled down-on the back benches- with his new friends, promises of an exciting year ahead. The white-washed air conditioned room was brimming with people. Freshers, every one of them, were milling about. Random talks flew thick and fast in the air. Rapports were being formed, groups being created. The guys were checking out the chicks. Apprehensions of being subjected to ragging. In short, it was the regular first day of college.
Engrossed in the discussions, recounting incidences from school life, he noticed her walking into the class for the first time. For a while, she was the only one he could see. And then, she turned, and settled down. He felt something stir inside him. He felt the strange urge to go up to her and talk. Talk about anything. Talk about random stuff. Just talk. But he did not move******

The hour changed, the professor came. Students settled in their seats nosily. It was a full five minutes before order was restored. He eyed her. She was thinking about where to sit. Undecided. Contemplating. The chair beside him was unoccupied. ‘Would she come and sit here?’ he thought, fervently hoping she would. He looked at her intently, as if willing her to listen to his thoughts. She seemed to make a move for where he was sitting, then changed her mind and went and sat in the opposite direction. Silence ensued as everyone waited for the professor to say something. He opened the register, turned to a fresh page, and waited for her to dictate the notes. Playing lightly with the pen he held, he turned slightly to look over to where she was sitting. She was talking to the guy sitting next to her. The teacher began speaking. His hands moved to jot down the first few words, and then…

*****He was in the metro, going back home. His friends stood around him.
‘So, we’re Facebook friends now.’ Said one of them. He was tall, skinny and had a strange elegance about him.
‘Ah huh? Koi ni, I’ll send her a request abhi.’ He said, took out his phone, and with five taps, reached her profile. ‘Friend Request sent.’ He said with a grin.
‘It remains to be seen if she’ll accept your request.’ Retorted one of them. ‘I doubt she even knows you.’
He thought for a minute, and then said with a swagger, ‘I won’t give her a choice.’*****

His friend tapped at him. ‘Why are you not writing? She’s been staring at you for some time now,’ he leaned in and whispered, referring to the professor. He nodded at his friend in a disconcerting manner, and tried to pick what the teacher was saying. She was talking about the Class Division according to ancient Brahmanical texts. He knew about the topic. He remembered having read something sometime. He tried concentrating for a few minutes before realising it was futile and gave up. He shifted in his seat a little so that the person in front shielded him from the glaring stares of the professor, and once again let himself to be drifted away by his thoughts.

*****So I see you have not accepted my friend request, he inboxed her a full two weeks after he had first sent her the friend request. She hadn't accepted it all this time even when she had been coming online and talking to his other friends.
It took the girl another 3 hours to reply. 'Um, sorry I didn't see your friend request.' The next second, she accepted his friend request, and they started talking. The boy prided himself on his ability with words. 'There's just no one quite like me,' he always used to say.
They talked about random stuff at first. School. Colony. Interests. Then he asked her, 'So, how d'you travel to college?'
'Umm, I take the metro.'
'So how about metro-ing together?' he asked.
'Yeah sure. While coming back, we could metro together. It'd be difficult in the morning to coordinate.'
'There's a solution to everything.' he replied.
'Okay, give me your number.' ****

There was a commotion in the class as he came back to reality. Someone had entered into the room. He shifted to get a clear view. It was one of his friends. Evidently the teacher was furious because he had walked in late, though she had let him sit. The friend walked up to where he was sitting, and dropped heavily into the adjacent chair. 'Kya baat hai? Aaj akele betha hai?' what's the matter? Sitting all by your own? He asked him.
'Aise he,' he replied. Just like that.

*****'Why d'you always sit at the front? Don't you get bored?' he whatsapped her. They had been whatsapping for a few days now, but for some funny reason, barely acknowledged each other in college. The plan to metro together had proved to be futile. In the class, while he sat with his group at the back, she would always sit at the front, and hardly ever talk.
'You have no idea how boring it is.'
'Then why d'you sit at the front? Sit at the back. Trust me; you're missing out on a lot of fun.'
The next day, he got late for college. The first lecture was already halfway through when he entered with his friends. The classroom was full and thus they had to go stand at the back. The lecture was one he particularly detested so he began searching for her. He scanned the first two rows, but did not see her. His heart sunk. Dejectedly, he began looking for his other friends... Once the class got over, he would grab an empty chair and sit with them. Then his heart skipped a beat. There she was! Sitting right next to where he was planning to sit...*****

'Why are you distracted?' asked the professor, as he snapped out of his waking dreams. 'You should be writing.'
He nodded stupidly and looked at the open register in front of him. He didn't realise he had started scribbling random stuff along the margins. He looked at the time. Only thirty minutes had passed. He frowned. The time did not seem to pass at all. A far cry from the day when she used to sit with him and the entire day would pass before you'd even know.
She had started sitting with him since the day he had walked in late and spotted her sitting with his group. Since that day, slowly but surely, they had started coming close. By an unspoken consent, they had started waiting for each other at the metro station in the morning, sitting together and hanging out together, and leaving college together. In other words, they had come a long way. Everything had been going good and great before it all just fell apart.
His phone vibrated. He looked at the screen. 1 New message. It was from her.
'Are you pissed?'
'No'
'Yes I can see that. Tell me?'
'Nothing to say.'
'Tell me.'
'I don't want to go over the same thing again and again'


To be continued… !

Respect.

It took a powerful catharsis of emotions to get out of the self-imposed writing exile and get myself back to do what I’m best at- writing. In this instance, it’s the much awaited Century of Centuries by the God of cricket- Sachin Tendulkar.

It’s been a while since I’ve stopped following the fortunes of the men in blue. Ever since the debacle that was India’s tour of England in the summer of 2011, I haven’t quiet been the cricket fanatic I was. The disbelief at the appalling condition the team had landed itself into- shuttling from one low to another, was, is, and will ever be, hard to digest. 

Even then, when India landed down under three months ago, there was hope still.  That maybe this will be where the team will script a stunning turnaround.  And in fact, for the first two days, I entertained the thoughts that perhaps this would be the time Aussies will finally lose a Boxing Day test.  But then, the writing was on the wall as soon as Indian batting went in an all-too-familiar slumber.

Why I’m I writing all this? Because some way or the other, going over all this again and again I realised that maybe this is why Sachin didn’t celebrate the remarkable, mind-boggling achievement like a mad-man.  Why he simply raised his bat and looked towards the heaven, in the old Sachin fashion.  Maybe it was relief, relief at getting the elusive centuries, relief at finally getting the monkey off his back. But more than anything else, relief at the fact that he had silenced all those who had started questioning his place in the side.  For the better part of last three months, he had been under attack from all corners of the cricket-crazy Indian nation.  From legends like Kapil Dev to the road-side stall owner, all had proclaimed he should have called it a day, especially in the limited over format, after the world cup. After all, he had every record a batsman could hope to have against his name- more centuries, more runs, more matches, than anyone else and of course, the World Cup.  

It was suggested it was selfish of him to continue playing, not giving the youngsters a chance to prove their mettle.  I think this is what hurt the great batsman the most.  Questioning of his integrity, and commitment to the game he has overshadowed in a stellar carrier.

And now that he has reached the milestone where I doubt someone will ever stand again, these very people will suddenly sing a completely new tune. A nation of ‘thali ke bangan’.

I personally didn’t think Sachin would get the special ton, but more because of the constant comparison with Sir Don Bradman then because he was getting old, his footwork wasn’t as good as it was and his reflexes were delayed.  I thought perfect it was fitting for Sachin to walk into the sunset with a 99 against his name, much like the illustrious Don Bradman. As I said- some records are better left incomplete.

Perhaps that’s the reason the celebrations were sedated. Perhaps that’s why he’s such a giant of the game, and perhaps that’s why Sachin will always overshadow the game that turned him from a simple human to a legend, and recast him as our God.

We are a very privileged generation indeed to have the honour of being a witness to the class of Sachin Tendulkar.

                                  I was alive when Sachin scored century of centuries.

Can Love Happen Twice.

The first book was an instant best-seller- the heart wrenching real life story of a guy who lost his girl in a cruel twist of fate days before their engagement.  It was a fairy-tale that begun in the most unexpected of fashions and ended in the most unexpected of ways.  The book was written simply.  Ravinder Singh never had great writing skills.  But perhaps it was the simplicity with which he had penned the book- the fact that as readers we felt each and every moment and could relate to almost everything- that made it special. 

When word got he was releasing a second book, I admit I was most excited.  When I finally got my hands on it, I was apprehensive, wondering what was in store now.  The back-cover claims it’s an emotional roller-coaster.  I must say, they could never have been more wrong.  From the word go, the book is a disappointment.  As big a disappointment as the first one was extraordinary.  Extremely low writing skills, a narrative lacking the mesmerising element that was the characteristic of the first one, loose characterisation, predictable plot to the T- everything that could go wrong has gone. 

From the story point of view, there isn’t anything new.  Ravinder Singh is more or less trying to capitalise on the fan-following he gathered after the success of his first book.  The book follows the same plot- boy meets girl, they fall in love, and everything’s going good before the expected plunge in relationship.  Everything goes downhill, except this time, the girl only leaves him (break-up).  The only difference, this time, the ending has a happy note to it.

The story starts with the three friends (Ramji, M.P and Happy) getting together at Chandigarh Airport.  They are to attend a special late-night show at a prominent f.m station along with Ravin.  But Ravin doesn’t turn up.  The three friends start reading from Ravin’s incomplete second book, and thus we get a second peek into Ravin’s life.  Ravin (as Ravinder Singh calls himself) has an irritating obsession with himself, and sometimes I feel he has been trying extra hard to develop a hero image for himself.  From calling his first book a masterpiece to calling himself Chandigarh’s favourite author (or something like that), he has done it all.  Perhaps the only reason Penguin decided to publish this one was because I too had a love story had been such a big hit.  Otherwise, for an author with such unattractive writing skills, I don’t see him getting to see the light of day.  On read-o-meter, I would give this book a 1.5/10.  Read it only if you don’t have anything else to read.  Avoid if you can.  It somewhat takes the sheen off I Too Had A Love Story.