The dark night!

          

A geek. A programmer. A thief. As he was fixing the last of the bugs in his baby, he noticed something strange in the compiler output:

Last Compile on 12 October, 00:02

The numbers seemed mysterious. But within seconds the entangled strings in his brain were threads he could stitch together. But, he could not waste any time. And he slipped out of his home like a snake. The light in his room was consciously switched on and his favourite music played like an orphan. Its admirer had slipped out stealthily into the dark.

            Her home was only a couple of streets away. On a fine Monday morning, all it would take is a few tens of steps and a  million curses for making him walk all the way to her home when she could have come home in a bike. 5Th cross to 8th cross was all it took. She used a bike often and flaunted it even more. And she teased him for this and more. He liked the teasing too. But was far too egoistic make public his pleasure. He recollected her best joke in recent days as he dragged his feet towards 8th cross.  As he reminisced the conversation and marveled at her wit for the nth time, the sight of Rama stopped him in his tracks.

            Rama was the friendly neighbourhood dog. By the day. By the night, it drew a more ferocious avatar. And in the company of its friends, Rama was death incarnate for our man. Trembling, he stood there for a second. A little more. Going back was not an option. Not anymore after Rama had seen him. Any scene of weakness gave an extra bout of strength to the adversary.  Instinctively, his fingers motioned

            kill

NOTHING. Except the deep stare back from Rama.

            Kill -f     

Rama's languid demeanor now seemed to change. A hapless victim seemed to be waiting.

And in one final throw of dice, our man's fingers are typing furiously at his imaginary keyboard.

            SUDO KILL -F

And his habitual cry of “F*&K YOU!” got the better of him. The final move done. Rama and his comrades were in the game. Letting out a loud bark, the pack tested its feet in the dark. Our man knew nothing but to run. It was all adrenaline or testosterone for him now. And he ran in the direction of her home. All these years of running behind girls had finally helped him in such dire situations as he found his comfort behind a car near her home. And he managed to recite a Gayatri Japa of which he barely remembered a few words.  The most sincere prayers are heard from the tongues of those in mortal fear. 

After enduring the entire trauma, he was still unsure of the futileness of his mission. Should I go back? He reckoned. He had dreamt of this day for a year as he climbed his way to her room through the rear door. Parents with a girl never seem to learn their lesson even after watching so many films. And he see stood at the balcony seeing her face content in sleep, he was confused and wondered. She seemed mysterious. Was she the same girl who never seemed to smile? She even looked innocent for a moment. When the sun was shining bright, she was evil. Pure evil.

It was strange. He made a small hissing sound, “Shhhh, Shhhh” Careful enough to not wake her abruptly. It was not the fear of consequences of being caught sneaking into their home, but he did not want her to wake up in panic. He wanted it to be beautiful. And sure, she woke up. And came looking till the balcony. And in the first abrupt motion of the night, he grabbed her ears and whispered, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY”

            The thief stole her heart. 

A girl, a crush and a phone

As I left for office yesterday, It felt like the day before. Or the day before it. Or the day before the day before. My companion for the day, the laptop tucked in, the handkerchief to give sinus company and the identity card to help my company “authenticate” me before entering “their” campus. 100 re. for food. A good 10 minutes before the cab would arrive, I was on road. Yet, something felt incomplete. And then it dawned, I had forgotten my phone at home.

               Two years ago, I treaded the same path to catch my college bus. And as soon as I stepped away from the glare of my mom who would anxiously remind me about the 15 re .(Yes, that is how much I carried to college everyday) still lying on the table or the handkerchief I would slowly slip the mobile out. And look into it all the way till I reached college.

7.30: Good morning 

              And wait for the next few seconds staring at the phone. Has she not started yet? Why did not she reply? Should I reply back asking whatsup! Or does she not have balance? OR Is she angry? Did I tell something yesterday to upset her?  As if her world depended on me!

7.33: Ain’t the weather like you? Teasing and threatening to pour with a little prod! Whats up!

              And I press the button SEND instinctively. Sometimes a reply would come within the next 30 secs. Sometimes 40.  A second more and I would go back to sent items to check if I sent something offensive. Something stupid was acceptable. Or was she busy with someone else? Did I show my desperation to talk by texting a minute earlier? How much longer should I wait.

              Every SMS might have had a maximum limit of only 150 characters and costed at most 10 paise. (I was clever enough to never text on holidays!) But, it costed me a lot more thoughts, a lot more time. They say love happens at first sight. Sometimes, love happens over the first SMS. And most crushes after the first conversation. After half a decade of exhausting my free messaging limit, perhaps it is time to reflect on how texts affected me and how different it is from other mediums of communication and kadallai putting.  

              The beauty of texting is the intimacy in the conversations.  That extra second to digest a message and feel it before replying back.  That second when your crush sets your heart aflutter with a brilliant bit of wordplay to tease you. When you know you made her smile even if it is at the cost of making you look stupid.  Back in the days of failing internet, telephone was never a great option. However hard the poets might have tried to romanticize silence, middle class economics surely rubbished the theory. With a phone, there was a fear of dad asking, “Yaaru pa avallavu nerram phone le!” (Dai, who is it on phone for so long!). A fear of the balance getting exhausted before the phone’s charge drained out. And most importantly, the pressure to initiate a new topic.  When you are texting, there is that extra second to reply to that conversation killer, “LOL!”, “hmmmm” with something better! Something to keep her talking.  To dream about the tone of her replies. To wonder if she indeed is laughing after the last “LOL!”.  Every sms is a small story in itself. Every conversation, a small part of the larger story.

              Way back in the third year of my engineering, I recollect watching this movie “Happy Days” with her.  Not in the same theatre, not on the same computer. In our homes. Commenting on scenes in between. Making comparisons of the characters in the movie with our friends. So much to talk about, so much to discuss, so much to debate we thought! It was like watching the movie together. Perhaps, it is not. I have never gone to a theatre with anybody.  Bitching about the guy sitting next to us in classroom under his nose. No, we did not have to bitch about him. Did not mean it.  We needed something to talk. And then her mock anger. Her refusal to talk sweetly, but not stopping to reply. One of the first heuristics to differentiate real anger from the mock ones.

              Texting might not allow you to share photos. Or to type longer paragraphs. We did not have to use pixels to prove a lie. But wove beautiful lies around smaller lies. To entertain and be entertained. An extended conversation with different people across different hours of the day. The phone might have turned silent today. The memories refuse to.

              

LOL! TTYL, CYA, BYE

After the first week of my college, I made a strong note to myself - “I shall not rag my juniors!” and some more lofty idealistic notions. That was till, when I got ragged. Even amongst the 70 of us crammed into a bus, my senior Raghu could scavenge for the last of the juniors left 'un'ragged. Getting ragged in some senses, was like losing your virginity. There are two phases in a junior's life. Before getting ragged and after getting ragged.

You know a guy is not ragged, if you see him sneaking silently into canteen with a couple of friends and escaping without a trace. He is happy to sit in the front in the company of the teachers whom he despises from morning 7am to 4pm. Again, from 5pm till the next 6:59am, she turns a vixen! But that hour in bus, in the teacher, he finds his comfort, kind safety from the evil raggers! Alas, some day that back seat is forced and Raghu has had his prey. The more difficulty in obtaining the prey, the tastier it is, they say. And yeah, dont they love the caged ones who are more animate! And there I was, on the 10th day of college, I did a simple cut to “I shall not rag my juniors!”. COULD NOT WAIT FOR MY JUNIORS TO ARRIVE.

And arrive, they did. And rag, i Did. Or, so thought I. For two years, I occupied the central place in the last seat, the place reserved for the ring leader. He is supposed to be the rude master, the kind soul if the ragged soul sheds a tear, shoots trouble on seeing the teacher's glance behind, share numbers to help the junior! Yeah, most importantly, he has to VASOOL sweets! Phew!! Happy I was, following some Nitte tradition of “Introduction in resume format”, “Bhaw Bhaw tables”, “Proposing a boy/girl”(Of course, I made the little hotter gals propose me!:P) and “THE NITTE SALUTE” for the kirrik boys. However, cliched it sounds, Years passed by!!

It was the fourth year. The baton had to be passed. I shifted to the window. The folks whom I ragged came to the centre. I could sense the same enthusiasm which had clouded me when I was studying algorithms and datastructures. I was more than happy to bide my time looking at the other buses and casting a passing glance at the ragging sessions. Nothing much had changed. The tradition was much alive.

Until, she came.

Suddenly, I saw a gal who was not scared of being ragged. Neither was she desperate to be ragged. She was not scared. Neither, was there arrogance in her eyes. She was a little beautiful too(:P). I could already see some of my juniors turning pink,everytime she spoke to her. Her English smacked attitude, but her tone, humility. I could sense, she was upmarket. But, her home was near mine. I thought she was a Tomboy. Until, she cried in front of me.

Here was a person, dripping with irony. Yet, unmistakably, she was attractive.

It didnt take long for me to start talking. Thats an advantage a senior enjoys. A junior is usually, obliged to talk to a senior. Soon, we used to walk home together and halt at the last point common to our walk back home. We used to stop for a short while. Just that, half an hour soon became too short for us. And till date, she believes, she jacks me royalllllly!

For the first time, I could see the lines between a senior and a junior blurring. And we were 365*3 days apart each other. And, much much later, close friends later, in another couple of minutes, the person for whom I stole minutes at home to have a quick word is finally leaving her teens. For the first time, there is a tiny feeling of she getting older. To me, she was always the kid. Yeah, she plays the granny too.

Yet, I do not find a better way to wish my beloved friend than this.

“Happy Birthday, Jenny!”

PS: This is what she texts me these days for which I have my complaints.

When I was a duffer....

I hail from a lower middle class family in India. And am, proudly kanjoos. But,am even more proud of the fact that I have always returned back people's debts. She gave me love. I gave her my life. She made me her close friend. I made her a part of me.

But, Ive never done something that she has done for me. Writing a blog post for me! Never wrote it for the fear of our friendship of becoming jinxed. I have heard a lot about people saying that the enormity of a friendship is percieved only when it becomes a memory. Perhaps, I wish it were this way. I knew, how much she meant even when we were the thickest of friends. And that enduring fear of losing someone close finally drove to losing her, atleast I guess so. Would'nt I love if God had other plans?;)

Today, I am not scared of losing her. And this is not an obituary piece to our friendship. When people say, someone has become a part of you,its probably because its just 'cho chweet' to say so! I mean it. Listen to my questions, “tired eh?” That eh, comes from her. The next time, I say uh huh, you know whom to blame for. A part of her is living in me. And I will probably, keep it till my receding hairline becomes grey.

Do i miss her? No, I do not. Have I 'got over' her? I do not know what that ever meant. Friendships are never made to be forgotten. The next time,I meet somebody with her name, I shall not fail to mention , I once had a best friend with your name. I miss her not, because I am not going to talk to her. I would miss her, if i knew, if all this was only a void in time and she would one day come and tell me, “Everything will be fine dude!”.

Never have I met a person, so honest.So brutally honest. That was the thread on which our frienship was built. A thread which resembled a rope in full gait. Sometimes, we were like puppies. Cute and sweet. Sometimes, I was chalk and she was cheese. Sometimes, I was rude and she was sweet.Most times, she was rude and I sweet..;) (After all, I am writing it.). Sometimes I felt, she should have been called Meenakshi, for those beautiful fish like eyes. Yes, to sum it all. When she was the fish, I loved to be the water.

Is it ego that I do not apologize for 'something'?(something,because there is nothing to apologize for!)Nope, and she knows it better than most of you who will read this. Do I hate her? Nope, you never hate your best friends. You only hate the times that made us apart! Am I scared to talk to her? Perhaps.

People say,rather she says this a lot. Whatever, happens, happens for good. True, these days I no more fight. Infact, the guys in my college are frustrated after all their rudimentary attempts to infuriate me. I have good friends now too. They have always existed. A mistake,I made then.

Yet, there is nobody to call me a duffer now....