'One Fine December' – My Entry To The GetPublished Contest

O N E     F I N E     D E C E M B E R

My Entry For 'Get Published' Contest By HarperCollins

Synopsis:

    The story is set in Lucknow, when Ronny and Akanksha return to Lucknow during their respective semester breaks. They both have been best friends since high school and they also had promised to stay in touch when he moved to Calcutta and she moved to Manali for college. During their school days, they had a large group of friends and they hung out together but she was secretly in love with him and he was secretly in love with her. However, he was too confused to confess his love for her and she was too insecure to reveal her feelings for him. Six years they had spent hanging out with each other and their friends and at the same time working hard to keep their feelings at bay. But things were different now. New places and new friends can wear away promises. Ronny had became close to a girl in the college he was enrolled to but on the other side, the few months that Akanksha had spent away from him had made her doubly insecure over the period and it was excruciating for her to carry on being miles apart from him without knowing for sure if he loved her. But the holidays were nearing an end and it. Maybe he didn’t love her anymore.

    Not every love story might seem special to the readers, but they are exceptionally dear to the persons concerned. And sometimes, a few people might even write a story to keep a promise. But, every story, when its told honestly, can act as an inspiration in one way or the other. You never really know which story strikes a chord. This story is just my way of keeping a promise to a friend, proclaiming that their story will not go untold.

Excerpt:

"...The chances of her meeting him again during these holidays had narrowed down to none. But she wouldn’t admit her love to him; he is supposed to do that. Hasn’t he known her long enough to be able to tell?

    A girl’s heart is filled with insurmountable mysteries and delicacies which she allows only the boy she loves, to explore and she expects the boy to surprise and overwhelm her in return, by his charm and passion. But a boy’s heart is too naïve and often too uncertain of the venture it pursues. But at one concern, both the hearts coincide to something beyond measure as both their hearts, being honest and innocent as a kid, possess all the weakness in the world towards the person they truly care for.

    Akanksha had been constantly trying to shelf her feelings; to prepare for the worst. But what if the worst did happen; she won’t be able to endure it and she knew it. She had put too much of herself into this; she had crossed the point of no return by miles. She just wouldn’t go away another six months without knowing for sure. Yet not a single streak of light would produce itself which could ease her mind."

"This is my entry for the HarperCollins–IndiBlogger Get Published contest, which is run with inputs from Yashodhara Lal and HarperCollins India."

The Moonlight Riviera

    She walked into the room to the voice of the piano. The warm deep tone was vaguely familiar. Wasn’t that Jack playing? He played it often and you could always tell it was him from the way every note trickled down his fingertips as if Jack’s fingers were the piano itself. She tiptoed from behind from where Jack was sitting on his Piano stool. She didn’t dare to walk towards the sliding glass door and shut it close in case he sensed it and stopped playing. In fact she didn’t even want to. The cool breeze was swaying to the tune making it feel more heavenly than it would have felt without it. The breeze blew her long black hair which blended well with the darkness around. The silvery moonlight painted a silvery outline of her, of Jack and of the piano. The Moonlight Riviera was blossoming through Jack’s fingers.

    She couldn’t help it any longer. She stole her way and sat beside him still scared that even a slight interlude in the air might wake him up. After all, he wrote this music especially for her and she was there just like she was now, when he had played it to her the first ever time.

    The familiar mellow tones were playfully tossing between E-Major and A-Major. She had wrapped her delicate arms around him and she was glad that he had not stopped playing. She quietly laid down her head onto his shoulders and the breeze tousled her hair over his shoulder and neck, the way Jack always loved.

    She was smiling like she had never smiled before but a few chilly teardrops also trickled down her cheeks and she had realized that the music had turned painful. This wasn’t familiar at all. This wasn’t what Jack had written for her. Did he change it? The change was so supple that she didn’t notice.

    She jerked her head towards Jack who kept playing with his head down. The silvery moonlight chalked Jack’s tears too and she stared with a proportion of shock and inquest. But Jack didn’t look at her. He kept playing making the music sink its teeth into her beautifully toned skin making it more painful for her to survive. She too sank her grip to Jack’s arm but Jack kept playing like he didn’t feel a thing. The music which seemed to have stopped time was now hard to bear for the woman. She wanted him to stop but didn’t want to leave either. She cried out aloud but Jack didn’t stop.

    After what seemed like hours, when Jack had finally stopped playing, her eyes were sore and her beautiful skin was shivering with cold when Jack spoke for the first time, in a voice too excruciating to listen to –

    “Why did you have to leave?”

    She raised her head to look up at Jack.

    But she had never left! What was Jack talking about? Bewilderment had suddenly engulfed her and her heart was pounding with the fear of losing him due to some silly misconception.

    “Haven’t you wondered how I was all the year?”

She kept staring at him with her lips trembling and she wrapping herself all over him.

    “Do you think heaven is a better place? Why didn’t you take me too?”

Butterfly In The Subway

    I saw a movie once. In that movie, the lady there saw a butterfly in the subway. It got on at 42nd, and off at 59^th. Ever since, I too wanted to see one myself, just for the feel of it.

    To tell me about myself, I am strongly possessed by fatal amounts of introversion and which often keeps me at bay from all the colorful stuff the world has to offer. Last evening, I was quietly waiting at the subway terminal at Dum Dum, all by myself; when suddenly I sensed someone, a girl, go by brushing my sleeve. I hurriedly turned my head in pursuit and the first thing I noticed was the only thing I always dread whenever I see a beautiful girl – she wasn’t alone – and to make matters worse, the ‘someone’ she was with, wasn’t a girl.

    She wore a black sweat jacket and underneath that was a white striped knitted jumper. She had long dark flowing hair; unfortunately, I didn't get a chance to watch it flow; she had tied it to a ponytail that she had let fall on her right shoulder. Her cute fair face had a couple of pimples on each of her cheeks but it seemed that they were too shy to show themselves properly. Other than that, any hint irregularity in the perfectly carved face was merely fictional.

    I couldn’t help staring at her. But to prevent myself from staring (Mom always told me it was rude to stare) I only stole quick glances at her. The train arrived and she chattered away with different expressions lighting her face. She settled down on a seat across the gates and I settled myself near the gates so that we were face to face. As the train wheeled off and with every station passed, my frequency of stealing glances kept increasing at an alarming rate because I had realized that Mom was delusional. Even if it was rude to stare, this was all the eyeful I was going to get of her and it could be all over any moment.

    After two stations had passed, my quick glances had become a permanent stare and it seemed that she too had noticed that. She kept glancing at me once in a while, still talking to her companion but with freshly added enthusiasm. She kept stroking her hair, more than usual and at one point, she took quite a long stare while playing with her hair, or perhaps it was my illusion.

    She got off after five stations on the Central Avenue taking away my impracticable and only chance to even know her name. Perhaps that’s the way it is supposed to be – after all butterflies don’t speak. But finally I did get to see a butterfly in the subway.

    After she got off, I tapped the left side of my chest to check if I was missing anything, and for a moment I thought it wasn’t there; or perhaps I was too dreamy to remember what exactly I was looking for. I finally found it though, but she did steal it for a while...

P.S. – In case you were wondering the movie I mentioned in the first line, its ‘You’ve Got Mail’…

Clothespins...

    Now, I am the kind of guy who gets rid of the question paper as soon as he steps out of the examination center. But the world would have been more beautiful if only people were like that. The main problem with the planet today is not war or global warming, but people who take pleasure in discussing the question paper afterwards. They are those clothespins, clinging to the cloth, never willing to come off and making life miserable for the one who wishes to put on the handsome silk shirt.

    Being good at something is really bad. Nay, "Painful". But much of the disaster is naturally averted if the only person aware of the fact is you. The situation gets worse when other people too come to know that you are good at that 'something'. And in some cases it takes a cruel turn when your name is something too rare to be mistaken as any other person.

    In my Fall Semester last year, I wrote a computer program in the eleventh hour and showed it to my Professor. He just asked me one question - "Did you write this all by yourself?"

    I should have said "NO".

    I have been bearing the consequences ever since. A young innocent soul full of regret, paying the price of a momentary craving for recognition. This semester, he picked me, against my wishes, to do a project whose mere title is an agonizing nightmare for me; even to pronounce, to start with.

    So, there was kind of a test in college today which we were forced to sit in. I was pretty revolting of the idea, not only because it was completely useless, but also because I had a really bad headache and I had to take three pills to suppress my residue illness from the previous night. But life would have been simpler if this was the end of the story.

    After the test, I got away from a whole bunch of crowd, avoiding to talking to anyone to reach the bus stop as fast as I could. I got on the bus, settled myself in a seat near the back and took a deep breath of relief, picturing myself patting my own back for a clean escape, when suddenly...

    "Dude!" the guy in the back of my seat claps his hand on my back.

    "Oh No!" my first reaction, that too - shamelessly aloud.

    "Did you see question No. 2?" the clothespin said.

    Perhaps he had missed my reaction.

    "I haven't even very much SEEN the questions man!" I said.

    "But you are good at C (a programming language) right?" he said excitedly.

    "No man, I am not good at anything!"

    "I know you are! Try this..."

    At this point, I would like to mention that my name is quite infrequent to come across, thanks to my grandparents. So it was fruitless telling him that he had mistaken me for someone else.

    "Aaargh!" I shouted out in agony. I threw five bucks for my ticket to a bewildered conductor and broke into a run in pursuit of the bus door.

    "Hey! But I thought you lived near the 7th Avenue! Its 30 minutes from here!"

    "I have changed my address recently. Now its 'The Footpath!'. Thanks to you!"

    And before he could decode what I had just said, I leapt off the bus out of view...

Zoya... A Short Story (Part V)

    My fingertips were trembling, but I had them well out of her sight.

    ‘Sure, I guess, after ten years maybe’ she replied after a while gazing me deeply into my eyes.

    ‘Would you even remember me?’ I chuckled funnily and a moment later, wishing that I had rather punched myself in the nose than say that.

She laughed.

    ‘Of course. It isn’t too hard – the English song guy’

    The dreaded bell rang. We bade goodbyes to each other and wished each other luck for the rest of the days and when I walked out of the classroom, I knew it was over at last. It was the last time I talked to her.

    I still remember the day as clear as the best polished marble.

    On March 13^th, I had one of my papers of final examinations and when I arrived at the venue, I saw her standing there at a distance. She was deeply immersed into her book and I was unable to take my eyes off her. We didn’t talk; I didn’t try to. I was completely aware that the feelings I had for her were free of expectations. It was but   merely an anthology of little things carefully concealed in the little time that we had spent together. The starting bell rang a little too soon than I wanted it to. I stole my glance away from her to walk towards my room, from what I knew for certain was the very last time I was going to see her. And so it was.

    After I moved to Calcutta a month later, I tried to look for her for a few years and when I recalled the story to my best friends, they too joined the hunt, but none of us ever found her again. It was, perhaps, meant to be one of those bizarre fairytales which come to pass accidentally, and we merely find ourselves extraordinarily fortunate to have lived through them, if not more, then only for a while. They are never meant to come true but only be cherished and treasured in our memory. Whenever miracles like this occur, there is a reason, maybe universe’s bigger plans which are beyond the realm of our momentary realizations.

    Even though, back in the summer of 2006, I didn’t believe I would stop looking for her, but deep down, I knew I would, eventually. However, at the same time, I knew that I was going to keep her, and the entire pleasant adventure, safe in my reminiscence, forever.

    Today, I know why I never expected to find her...

T H E     E N D

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Part I    |    Part II    |    Part III    |    Part IV

Zoya... A Short Story (Part IV)

    She stood up to make way for me. I was very resentful of her absence in the previous days and I wasn’t willing to talk much. But halfway through my paper, she closed her script, capped her pen and set them aside.

    ‘Do you need some help?’ she asked rubbing her palms together.

    ‘Yeah if you can solve the income tax problem’ I said instantly. We had mathematics and that’s one of the problems I didn’t have the slightest clue about. Moreover, it was long and boring.

    ‘Oh! Anything other than that please’ she replied bitterly. She disliked the problems and she didn’t even mean to hide it.

    ‘Okay’ I laughed. ‘Can you do these?’ I said pointing towards the linear equations.

    ‘Yeah sure!’ and she started solving for the variables.

    ‘So you missed the previous two?’ I asked her after a while.

    ‘Yeah, I was group-studying’ she said. I started humming ‘Summer of 69’ very deliberately but carefully enough not to allow it to reach the invigilator's earnest ears and just like I thought, she joined in again.

    By the end of the day, she had solved three of my questions, offered me to do it for me in my spare answer sheets and we hummed many English numbers together. My mood was back up again and it was better than ever.

    After I got home, I dug up my music collection to look for rare tracks which I could feed into the remaining conversations with her in the coming days. I also picked up Wuthering Heights and read it in ten straight hours over the next day which was the day off because of the Republic Day. My mom was bewildered because she was sure I didn’t have Wuthering Heights in my syllabus. The icy chill of the winter was disappearing as days passed and a gentle air was taking over, unusually agreeing with the mood and dexterously carving its way into my head. The dull of the examinations had vanished into thin air making it probably the only exam-time I ever enjoyed in my life.

    ‘Can I be of any help with anything?’ I whispered the next day after quickly finishing my script like she did the previous day.

    ‘Only if you know anything about Accounts!’ she replied.

    ‘Umm… no, not a clue!’ I replied, my balloon inside suddenly showing signs of a big puncture at her answer, as soon as it was inflated. However, I was soon reassigned to my previous part-time job of the holy messenger which worked out quite smooth over the next hour. After both of us were finished, we had a half hour to spare in which time we discussed some music including George Michael and Goo Goo Dolls and also a detailed analysis of Wuthering Heights which was only interrupted by the bell.

    Days were bliss. Books lay forgotten, more songs were queuing up in the playlist. Heaven couldn’t have been farther away. I knew it was not for long, still I willingly pursued the unknown and I also knew I cannot expect anything else than what I’ve already got; a chance to spend some time with her. It served to be sufficient for a reason.

    The last paper of the second pre-board arrived eventually and I was ready to make it count, yet a little nervous.

    ‘I hate this subject; Sanskrit’ I whispered to her furiously. She smiled.

    ‘You know, I used to wear full sleeves in those days and I used to hide pieces of paper saying all my answers. I could “never” stand that subject and moreover couldn’t get the spellings right’ she whispered back reassuringly. I smiled this time.

     ‘Finally the papers are going to be over’ I sighed, but for a hugely different reason.

    She smiled in acknowledgement.

    ‘What are you going to do after this?’ I asked.

    ‘I was planning to do CA. How about you?’

    ‘I am another passionate IIT enthusiast’ I replied. In those days I was more than sure that I would crack it.

    ‘Ah good luck with that’ she replied with a carefully muted laugh.

    ‘I was wondering one thing, you remember that guy who sang an English number in the competition last year?’ I asked hesitantly. I wanted to make an impression.

    ‘Ya ya! He was the only guy who did such a thing. It was a lovely song. I forgot the name though’ she whispered trying hard to remember.

    ‘The song was called “We’re on the Same Boat Brother” by Leadbelly’ I said proudly.

    ‘Oh! Wait a minute, it was you?’ she hushed with her eyes widening.

    ‘Yeah!’ I replied smiling broadly. My head had wandered off to the Pluto and might as well have strolled beyond that.

She adjusted herself in her bench.

    ‘You know I love that song “Summer of ‘69” ’ it totally agrees with me. I wonder how that guy managed to say the things I wanted to say’ I said.

    ‘Yeah, really unusual. The song agrees with most of us’ she said and hummed the first few lines and when I filled in the lyrics, she became excited and we started to sing together even though in whispers, but I could make out every single tune in her voice.

    We discussed some more Bryan Adams the whole time and that day and she was more interested to talk than ever. Her paper too lay forgotten, like mine did the previous days. I felt that I succeeded to make it count.

    Time flew faster than light that day and the time of the unwelcome bell was drawing nearer and nearer and my heart was shrinking painfully making me a little uncomfortable to breathe. I didn’t want it to end for it was too magical to let go.

    ‘I was wondering if after a few years when we would be in different places, would you like to meet again?’ I asked her...

To Be Continued...

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Part I    |    Part II    |    Part III    |    Part V

Zoya... A Short Story (Part III)

    ‘You missed yesterday?’ I asked anxiously but in a hushed voice to avoid any attention from the invigilator.

    ‘Yeah, I didn't feel like it.’ She replied in the same way.

    ‘Could you do that?’ I asked curiously

    ‘Yeah, sure! These are just pre-boards, they don’t fuss. So, how was yours yesterday?’

    We continued exchanging whispers for a while and then she immersed herself into the paper and I pretended to be immersed in mine. It was Computer Science paper for me and was only meant for an hour while she was scheduled for three. I didn't like the sound of it at all.

    ‘Could you stay after you have finished your paper?’ she asked me in a low whisper.

    ‘Only if they let me’ I mumbled back. Secretly wishing they did.

    ‘Okay! I thought I could use some of your help’ she said carefully pointing at the girl sitting right in front of her. I was in for it blindly. I could swallow a scorpion for her.

     For the next half hour my paper lay forgotten and desolate. Instead, I worked as the holy messenger between my lady and the lady in front of her. She shot occasional smiles at me which I was savoring. I was exceptionally delighted with myself and started humming a few songs. She joined in without taking her pen and eyes off her answer script.

    ‘You listen to foreign music?’ I asked her surprised but suppressing my voice which had all the reasons to be loud.

    ‘Uh huh’ she replied taking a quick glance at me.

    ‘That’s unusual. None of the people I know in my class listens to them’

    ‘There aren't any around who do, I guess. But I like them; you know Backstreet Boys, Shakira, Christina Aguilera…’

    ‘Blue?’ I interrupted. Blue was the band which I was exploring intensively at that time.

     ‘Yes, “One Love”, “Fly By”, nice tracks’ she replied. My heart and mind was swimming somewhere near Jupiter. We had similar tastes.

    ‘Then you must also like books?’ I asked curiously.

    ‘Yes, I do too. Dickens, Bronté’

    ‘You’re kiddying! Dickens is my favorite’ I whispered back excitedly. It was loud enough to grab an eye of interest from the invigilator and I lowered my voice at once.

    ‘I love Wuthering Heights’ she said, her whole attention towards me.

    ‘Yeah I love that one too’ I lied quickly. But the moment passed as soon as it appeared. The bell rang.

    Our scripts were collected into a neat pile and I got the feeling that we would be thrown out soon. I glanced at her trying hard to conceal the unwillingness in my eye.

    ‘I guess I won’t be able help you further. I wish I could’ I told her quietly.

    ‘That’s okay, I will manage somehow’ she chuckled and thanked me for my help.

    I was the last to leave the classroom and I stole a quick last glance at her and she smiled back. It could be the last time I ever saw her.

    A fortnight passed and we were having our regular school when one day the teacher announced that they have decided that we were going to have to sit for the second pre-board. Everybody groaned. I was delighted, but resisted to show.

    January 23^rd; the first day of the second pre-board. I waited anxiously for her to turn up, checking eagerly up and down the corridor adjacent to our room for the slightest sign of her and by the time it was halfway into the paper, I knew she wasn't coming. Just like the day in the first pre-board.

    January 24^th; the second paper. She didn't turn up yet again. The largest part of my heart had given up on the hope to see her again. At nights, I spent most of the time awake. Sometimes strolling in the balcony, looking up at the cloudless, dark sky filled with a thousand sparkling specks, listening to songs playing randomly in my playlist and trying to remember the time we've had just a little more than a fortnight ago. I had three more papers to go before I knew for certain that I would never get to spend time with her. Maybe that served as a little hope to make me appear for the papers next day, which I knew by now, didn't matter.

    The next day I arrived without expecting her but she was there, already sitting on the bench with a pleasant face...

To Be Continued...

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Part I    |    Part II    |    Part IV    |    Part V

Zoya... A Short Story (Part II)

    Well it certainly sounded like an echo to me and also made me drop my pen. She was of average height, bright, fair skin, her jet black shoulder length hair was tied into a neat ponytail and she wore a full sleeved petticoat suit of the school uniform colors.

I hastily picked up my pen as she strolled inside to take her seat beside me. I lost my tongue.

    She continued to scribble for the next three hours occasionally tucking her long freckles behind her ear. She wrote with her left hand and had long fingernails. Her handwriting, as I noticed, was strikingly similar to mine. I didn't make a sound, nor did I do anything else other than steal a glance of her through the corner of my eye every once in a while and smell the beautiful perfume she was wearing. She was gorgeously stunning and I had already lost my urge to write my paper, yet I wanted to turn up for the rest of them.

    The next day progressed pretty much like the first except when I helped picking up her handkerchief which she had dropped and we had both momentarily bent to pick it up and hit our foreheads instead. She thanked me politely and I too kept my manners but still didn't find my tongue.

    One more day passed the same way and it was New Year’s Eve.

New Year’s time was wonderful. I got into my dreamy shoes, like I did often, and spent most of the time thinking about her and the merry lights seemed to garnish it extraordinarily. I wished badly that she knew how I felt and came running to me like people do in movies. But my life wasn't yet a movie, but it sure didn't feel too far from it either.

    January 3^rd. It was the day of the final paper of the first segment of examinations (pre-board, as it was called) and there was a fortnight at hand before the school officials decided if they should hold a second pre-board for our revision. But for me, it could be the last time I get to spend time with her.

    I arrived early and was quite determined to spark a conversation with her. So, I had it a little rehearsed in my head. She had missed her paper the previous day and I was scared if she did that again. But she didn't...

To Be Continued...

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Part I   |    Part III    |    Part IV    |    Part V

Zoya... A Short Story (Part I)

    There exists a bunch of words, which I believe, can prove to be exceptionally difficult to define. Maybe that’s why sometimes it’s for everyone’s well-being that words like ‘Love’, are best left alone from our attempts to define it. Nevertheless, we often unconsciously happen to relate it to a few of our actions. This also qualifies for a convincing justification as to ‘why different people have different opinions about love’. Just like, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder.

    I wouldn't take more time to confess that I don’t have the slightest idea whatsoever about what love is or what it can possibly be. However, I, like so many others, have taken the liberty to associate it with two of my unforgettable and most treasured experiences. One of which, I am about to share.

    It was the December of 2005 and the city of Bilaspur used to swing delicately between chilly and soothing. Our school, being one of its kind, stood out from the rest by not having winter vacations. 

    Even though they had spared Christmas day, there wasn't much left to celebrate because the examinations were scheduled to start the next day and continue till three days into the New Year. But the universe somehow manages to amuse us with its curiously placed miracles and turn our dull, boring life upside down. I found mine the very next day; the first day of the exams.

    I was a boy of fifteen back then, with a decent height, messy short hair, athletic build though I was not too much into sports and not to forget a pair of glasses. The sun spilled itself all over my room but still couldn't confiscate the cold. I had to drag my feet to get up and get dressed. My head was still frozen from the previous night’s heavy dosage of unopened pile of textbooks. I somehow managed my morning chores, nibbled some of my breakfast (with a lot of help from Mom), and after a while, climbed into the big yellow bus filled with serious people, who still didn't seem to be satisfied with their preparations, and got to school.

    ‘Who’s sitting here?’ I quickly asked a twelfth grader, pointing to my empty bench, when I found her voluntarily answering identical queries of my friends. We were supposed to sit with twelfth grader girls alongside us at each of the desks. We were in tenth grade.

‘Lemme see, one… two…’ She counted, ‘that would be... Zoya, if I am not wrong’

    My heart skipped a beat.

    ‘Wasn't she the cute girl you kept looking out for whenever you got the slightest of chances?’ a voice in my head broke loose, and I was pretty sure it was loud and as correct.

    I waited patiently on my bench, as the minutes ticked by, for her to arrive and take her seat, alongside mine.

    ‘May I come in sir?’ echoed a sweet voice...

To Be Continued...

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Part II

Arthur Hitler

    All the miss-communication started when my friend misheard 'Hiller' as 'Hitler'. He was a stock broker and all he has ever seen in  his life is a bunch of videos containing more numbers and figures than characters who did anything other than sitting and staring out at you with but their lips moving. It was not until recently had he been introduced to something alien to his usual watch-list - Motion Picture.

    The first movie he had seen was Valkyrie, two months ago. But the latest movie we saw was Love Story. But it seems he was still more into Valkyrie than Love Story.

    We were trying to have a movie discussion of Love Story (at least I thought so) and apparently he didn't know the name of the director (Arthur Hiller). But that wasn't the only thing he wasn't aware of. It so happens, he also didn't know that Hitler's first name was Adolf, not Arthur.

    ..."That's outrageous!" he burst out.

    "No No, I believe the artful way he had portrayed them was significantly overwhelming" I replied. Only I was talking referring to the characters of the movie.

    "But he hated them and there is considerable depiction of racism and hatred in, what he calls, his accomplishments. And the whole world is there to support this fact." He was referring to the Jews.

    "But it can't be! I have several references who considers Arthur's art as subtle and moving. His art was even honored -" -I meant Oscar Nominated - " - by one of the most prestigious -"

    "He was only awarded stuff which he awarded himself! That's exactly what people like him do. And that's the truth and that's where it stands." he said thumping his fist into my coffee table.

    "But that is so untrue. An artist is no dictator. But yes, sometimes, one needs to dictate to get good at his art."

    "Whatever he did, has got nothing to do with art. It was all pride.  On the contrary, I know he had destroyed art in many ways. And he was ruthless! And moreover -"

    "Yes, ruthless, he was, but that's the very quality the art of film-making demands. You have to have an eye for certain aspects but you can't be too attached to it either. I think -"

    "Wait, what did you just say? FILM-MAKING?" He cut me in.

    "Yes, precisely that." I replied annoyed, by the interruption and also other things he said.

     He stared at me for a full minute before he burst out -

    "Who the hell are you talking about?"

    "Arthur Hiller, director of a movie called Love Story? Why, what's going on?"

    "Wasn't Hitler's first name 'Arthur' ?"

    And that's all folks...

Of Advices...

    Giving advice is easy!

    I give loads of advice and suggestions to myself every time. They are all very brilliant too. Now is the point, you are by all means entitled to ask - 'If they are so brilliant, why aren't you on the top of the world?' The answer to which is easier even - I am too busy being proud of the advice that I had just devised, I spend the rest of the time being obsessed about it and after I am done with that, I forget what the advice was in the first place. So I seldom follow my own advice.

    The usual blokes who give advice are well known successful people - that's the traditional idea. You will never take advice from someone who never succeeded. And sometimes you also run across people who have been awarded success for free by the thing called Universe (Universe is defined for non-scientific folks as 'a thing to blame if you have no clue why or how something happened'). These people have no advice under their invisible sleeve. They usually retort to the phrase - "I have no idea!" when they are asked how they succeeded.

    But I am not one of those folks. I am pretty disciplined in what I do. My two major activity of the day involves eating and spending the rest of my time staring at my computer screen, sometimes moving some stuff around (mostly within hard drive partitions).

    But that was two days ago. Now I have known better and I took up reading again. And I found out, not long ago, that somebody missed my writing (I am ecstatic) so I am here, writing once again.

    Now that I have tore my eyes off the computer screen and have read books the past few days, I can give myself advice again.

    In my brief research on this subject (Advice) all my life, I have found out that - if you want to give good advice to yourself, try it on people who are in pursuit of similar stuff as you are and more importantly, pursued them to follow it (that is what takes real skill and energy). If they work for them, then you can be somewhat certain that they are going to work for you as well. Surely, there might be a few loopholes and glitches; its not rocket science; but it usually works pretty fine with me...

Of Marriages And Megaphones

    Often have I heard the old joke, and so has everyone else I am sure, that love marriage is like holding the gun at your chest and pulling the trigger while arranged marriage is like asking someone to shoot you. In both cases, you end up dead anyway. But considerable damage can be prevented with the use of certified bulletproof vests even though there can be a little damage followed by swelling of the area but that’s not the point here.

    I am just a little older than twenty and don’t have much idea about marriages anyway, except for the fact that my parents are more interested in my marriage than I am and every now and then I get hit by a cannonball containing phrases like – ‘how will you manage with your wife if you can’t adjust with us?’ I wonder, isn’t the answer too obvious? I mean there are loads of stuffs. I would practically be the boss in the house (unless I find myself still living with my parents) which is impossible right now and even if I would still be regularly inquired about the time I get back home, ‘midnight’ as an answer won’t end me up grounded for the rest of the week without television. I could take her to the bar and have a few drinks etc.

    I know one of my friends, who is nearly engaged (as soon as he finishes college I guess) and all I can infer from their relationship is that, it’s really beautiful to be in love if you have enough supply of aspirins within your reach. Not that he needs it all the time, but safety is always advised, no matter what. If they manage to be like the couple they are now, they are surely going to be one of those who could prescribe love-marriages to everyone and maybe even end up as preachers; much like Karl Marx would suggest that every country should have a Communist government.

    However, for a bloke like my other friend, who often manages to ruin things with the girl he has a crush on, arranged marriage seems to be quite perfect. I am sure the girl would be highly impressed by him at first sight, for he is well behaved, good-looking and all, but I (nobody for that matter) can’t specifically be sure of what might follow afterwards.

    So, marriage is much like two sides of a coin. You can’t see the other side if you are currently seeing one (unless you have a mirror nearby) and it can also help you pay your loans and mortgage or even win you a green card in some countries. But, I guess, deriving from the joke I mentioned, in both the cases, you end up killing the bachelor in yourself (if not the bachelor at heart, then at least officially).

    So, I would suggest, that if you feel like you are seeing any of the sides of the coin right now, then you are quite lucky. If you find yourself unhappy with the coin halfway, there’s always another dime called divorce. Those who aren’t seeing any coin nearby, but badly want to, should pray regularly. And those who don’t want the coin, go out, the world is yours.

   Megaphones, on the other hand, come very handy when you want to invite people to celebrate your bachelor-self's funeral with a decent supply of wine, free food and lots of music and dancing to go with it as well. Marriage is probably the only type of funeral when people actually enjoy themselves and is most of the time doesn't take bloodshed into account, unless (god forbid) extreme situations (such as smashed wedding cake) are encountered.

F.R.I.E.N.D.S

    NOW TO START with, I REALLY hate to watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S. If you have not already came up with your version of possible reason, I would like to rush to tell you mine before you get the wrong notions. I really hate to watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S because I am not allowed to be on it. The only better thing than to be cast on the show is to get to live the characters. And I am so jealous of those who got to be them. That is really unfair for everyone in the world apart from those six people. I would, however, choose to be the guys at any cost, but whatever.

    It's not just that they are the only ones with perfect lives. They have their fights and they manage to make it sound funny for us to laugh at. It kinda reminds me of the times when we used to be funny too. Those three minute fights used to be really silly when I look back at them now. But what's the point of trying not to make it look silly now? Because later when we look back at these days, they are going to look silly then anyway.
    The friends I have had the privilege to sport, they are potentially the best fun makers there could be and I really hated them all along, when they would try to pull me into being the victim of their cheap old prank which can never be any worse, when they tried to stick two fingers above the back of my head making my already sucking photograph look worse than imaginable. But, somehow they managed me to convince me to stick around them and probably I did because I just wanted to get some more of it, or maybe I wanted to find out how much more I could hate them than I already did.
    I really hated when they tried to poke their nose in my everything. I hated when they rehearsed all their free advice which they couldn't have done in any other place, I hated when they never left my side when I wanted them to, I hated when they abandoned their jobs for me, I hated when they made me the first person to tell about their plans and I really hate now to make the long list of the things I hate about them.
    I guess I met them, in the first place, because I wanted to hate them so much. And now I just wanna call up everyone of them and tell them how pricks they are and how much I hate those old hags always trying to make me hate them.
    Well, maybe I just hate F.R.I.E.N.D.S a lot which reminds me to hate my friends every time, but I guess I am just to addicted to it...

College Journals: Prologue

    AMONG MY FRIENDS, the closest ones of course, I am most famous for being nostalgic. But I cannot be more certain that before they decide to append this quality to their description of me, they wouldn’t be more ecstatic to squeeze in a dozen other adjectives before, such as, idiotic, silly, prankster and possibly a total hopeless case with several other matters. They are quite lucky, however, that they are aware of the fact that I am not going to frown on them on the inside as I would pretend to show them on the outside for attacking me with these right on my face, because I am quite fond of them  and the names they call as well.
    My desperation for keeping records of the reminiscences have sometimes fetched delights to some while a considerable amount of annoyance to others, but I do not recall being discouraged to do so at any point. But not getting into more webs of words, I would land right into the point and start telling you the near bizarre but immensely special story of my college life and the crazy friends who made every single tale count.
    Back in 2009, same time of the year as now, I was preparing for getting into a college. After two years of struggle through a really rough patch of eleventh-twelfth grade, which have been my darkest days till now, the thought of college came to a rather blissful rescue.
Time had already rolled to mid-July when it eventually let me quit my job of nail-biting (which has been dominant in the past few days) and allowed me to sit back and relax. I was safely admitted into an engineering college at last relieving my parents' from their daily nightmare of me ending up as an outcast. I spent the days around watching a television series called How I Met Your Mother and also caught the sixth part of the Harry Potter movie series in the theatre figuring nothing better to do.
    Apart from that, I also found time to explore the online community in Orkut, of the college where I had opted for admission. Orkut used to be a really breathing place in those days and was the most welcome source of making friends for many people (me included) as Facebook hadn't quite established itself among us yet.
    My first memoirs, that I could recall, of Arka happens to be nothing more than an Orkut profile and a really responsible and strict owner of the Orkut community of the Freshers Batch of our college called – “NSEC Batch 2009-2013.”

    My first interactions with him began when I received a nearly system generated scrap in my Orkut scrapbook stating – “Hi Samik, I'm also a fresher in NSEC... Check out this community” with a link attached beneath. But afterwards he did everything in his might to test if I wasn't any nosy senior trying to spy on the juniors and use their own words against them during the unofficial formal introduction with the seniors (well known as ragging). I had no choice but to comply to the terms and conditions. But after things were settled and I was honorably discharged of the attributions, things went pretty great.

    We had a lot of fun during those two weeks where nobody had met each other yet. The great momentous things always start with the little insignificant ones. And it was beyond anyone’s realization at that time that something like this could possibly be one, but I know how things turned out. And if it wouldn't have been worth it, I probably wouldn't be sitting here today, three years later from that day, trying to put my remarkable reminiscences in words.
    Throughout the three years, there have been many roads we have trotted and went through many times, some were worth remembering and some were worth even more and among the great many things that I have learnt in due course, my most favourite would be – The best thing about having best friends is that they could make you realise so strongly that, in life, some friends and instances of friendship in life could be just impossible to forget and worth not forgetting as well...

   

P.S.: Yes, there is going to be a part II (and many parts subsequently)

The Train Journals Part I

  I HAVE TRAVELED in trains since an early age. Every time I met different people who became family for that little while and made me feel like I had known them forever. Sometime we knew quite a bouquet of things about each other except our names and sometimes we forgot to ask, which would be my case in particular as I often find myself forgetting to ask names. But I have also learnt that there is so much more present than just a name to put on a face.

  During my travels, I have met many different people and nobody among them have crossed my ways more than once, yet they have left a sweet impression on my mind which reflected on my face as well whenever I remembered them.

  This one time, which I am now going to narrate, I was travelling from Nagpur to my home at Calcutta in the time of Durga Puja of 2009 and it was this time when I got the opportunity of travelling with a gentleman who has left a hard-to-forget impact in my memory. I was exceptionally happy that day, which surfaced every time I travelled back home and the obsessive excitement and desperation made the journey longer and longer every minute in a progressive pattern which mathematicians might term as geometric progression (a value which doubles with every step).

  When I woke up in the morning and climbed down from that swinging top berth in the train, I noticed a new face occupying the window seat of the opposite lower berth. He must have boarded the train when I was fast asleep. He was a man who would be comfortably in his mid-fifties. The proud graying hair was combed primly and a warm brown blazer felt heavy but contented on his shoulder. His head swayed with the movement of the train as his eyes kept reading through the bottom portion of the bi-focal lens resting on his nose. I took a quick gaze from the corner of my eye avoiding any awkward moment as I folded my blanket. The mornings in the countryside felt chilly even though it was the middle of September.

  After I had settled down in my own window seat which I borrowed from the kind gentleman whose night had just started in my top berth, I ordered a cup of coffee from the passing vendor and I asked my companion sitting immediately opposite to me if he would like a cup for himself. This was the cliché technique of starting a conversation in any journey and it never seemed to fail nor age. He cordially agreed and thanked me with a decent smile and folded his book beside him. I had already grown a little fond of my newly found travel companion and the book lying in my bag kept seeming unnecessary minute by minute.

  As we carried our conversation forward with the gradual attenuation of coffee in our cups, I discovered he was an Indian Railways employee and even though he was entitled to a first class coach for free, he liked it better travelling in the second class. It secretly lifted my respect for him in no time. And I also discovered that he was an exceptional storyteller as well. Among his hilarious tales, the one I especially remember involved a nasty misunderstanding.

  “Once, I was travelling by train.” He began, “when night had fallen and everyone commenced preparations for their sleep, the passenger in the opposite seat said to me - ‘bhai, I have to get down at a station which arrives around 2 o’clock at night. I am a really heavy sleeper. Bhai can you wake me up? Well, I might resist and not want to get down, but I insist you to force me and see that I make it to the station.’

  “I agreed.

 “When everything was settled, and everybody went to sleep, I, who was supposed to wake up my companion, lay awake reading my book. The clock ticked from one to two and the train started slowing down at a station. Now I approached the berth my companion fast asleep and started waking him up. He started resisting as I was forewarned and started moaning that he is not supposed to get down, but I kept forcing him and somehow, I managed to pack all his luggage and carried my sleeping companion to the platform. The train went on and when daylight broke, the gentleman from the top berth climbed down with a horrified look on his face as he had suddenly realized he was still on the train. I glanced and to my astonishment and horror, saw my companion from previous night who had asked me to wake him up. He instantly turned towards me and started showering abuses which I took silently. When the next station arrived, he collected his belongings and got down still muttering curses directed towards me.

  “An adjacent passenger curiously asked the reason for my silence even after such irresistible provocation, and I calmly answered – ‘well, whatever he said is nothing compared to the passenger whom I have forced to get down at the station at 2 o’clock last night.’

  “Apparently, he had changed berths with somebody and didn’t remember to inform me.” He finished.

  By that time, I had already managed to attract weird glances from those sitting earshot of this story. And this wasn’t the only one but I didn’t cared about anything else for laughter is one of my weaknesses and I forget of any courtesy during this brief period.

  The journey didn’t last forever, on the contrary it seemed miraculously shortened considerably. But this gentleman, whose name I forgot to catch yet again defending my previous record, had placed himself in my memory forever. Sometimes I really feel thankful to my fortune that I ended up as a traveler which came more as a compulsion and transformed into a necessity for heart. Sometimes even for the thirst of meeting new nameless people, I start travelling, journeying in public transports for faraway destinations and the pursuit not only fulfils my occasional yearning for getting acquainted with new faces, but also new places. But sometimes, I really miss not knowing the names, to meet them once again, but the extraordinary irony is, maybe that’s the beauty of it…