Fragile, use no hooks

Hello darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again.  Because a vision softly creeping left its seeds while I was sleeping  and the vision that was planted in my brain still remains Within the sound of silence.  - Sounds of Silence - Simon and Garfunkel  

How long had it been…three years? Four? Could the manmade boundaries of natural time even begin to measure the wasted hours as each melted into the next- infinitesimally small yet so acutely pronounced - as the shadows on the wall in front of me turned longer and longer, and then finally disappeared, enveloping me with a welcome darkness which had begun to define my existence. Is my life akin to these, I wondered-  will I also be snuffed out as an eventuality to the larger sorrow I feel? For in life, there is no greater sorrow than rejection by a beloved. Clumsily, I gathered myself from the unmade bed- as the strains of the song began to drift away, and the whizzing emptiness of the CD washed me over with the realization that I was no longer the same lovesick woman, longing for destiny to make a turnaround- but a mature twenty five year old. I had a job to fulfill, and responsibilities to nurture. Anything that would make me feel wanted. Again.

'I will negate the need for anyone else. I will be your everything, I promise.'

It had been three long years since my messy breakup with Prahlad. And I had been unable to pick myself- my heart and my soul and move on. My friends- for there were few of them left now, had urged me- saying it was for the better. But how could the fact that someone who made you laugh, who had just left-  'be better'? We had misunderstandings aplenty- and miscommunication- which killed that beautiful bond we had cherished as love. We had three wonderful years of the best times in our lives. Yet, looking back now, I can only analyze and re-analyze events- thinking, what if I hadn’t said this, what if I had just said yes…always ending in a fit of sobbing and self blame as I pictured those numerous arguments- maybe I should have kept silent. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Maybe I should’ve just accepted things.

'The magic of first love can never be recreated.'

It’s strange how the human brain remembers only sadness. When I wanted to feel happy, I would try to recall some happy incidents, a flash of smile here, a bit of sunshine there- but I couldn’t remember anything- neither the sounds, nor the smells, nor the situation of any kind of bliss Prahlad and I shared. If there was anything that registered for more than five seconds, it was his face- always smiling, always laughing, a bit blurred at the corners, a little halo around his head. He was never wrong in my dreams. Never angry.

'You look the best when you laugh.'

My search for 'finding' myself post Prahlad took me across several cities- and finally came to rest in Mumbai. My parents were, of course, concerned. I was, after all, of marriageable age, and had succeeded in invoking the taboo- having my unmarried name linked with a man. And we remained- betrothed to each other unsaid. Sometimes that unspoken bond bound us in ways far more than we could imagine.

Prahlad was a great dresser.

After he left, I sought solace in Mumbai: that big bustling city where one can be oblivious in its cosy vastness and yet be idolized by that small reference circle you call friends. It had been hard at first- adjusting to screeching trains who seemed better off just running to and fro, people notwithstanding, and mad jostling crowds at Dadar station crumbling with the sheer amount of people everywhere. Yet, I had somehow survived- so ironical to my state at the time I reached Mumbai- and this was my second year here- and I had come to love this city. Love the quaint old buildings around Fort- and the great Flora Fountain Circle- for that was where I lived as a PG in a small decrepit building- paying the princely sum of ten thousand rupees only per month to my landlord, Mr. Feroze Mehta. My job as a CA (yes, Prahlad notwithstanding, I was a certified Chartered Accountant in a large MNC bank) managed to pay for it- and I even squirreled away a couple of thousands each month as forced savings. I loved the small shops that wore the time-hasn’t-touched us look- especially Sahakari Bhandar- I was always reminded of the small shops in my hometown where I had grown up- which had the same musty dank odor- mixed with the smell of open bags of uncut grain and unwashed rice. I loved dipping my hand into those gunny bags full of staples- and then smelling the faint perfume of uncooked rotis off my hands when I was a child- a habit I kept repeating oft, till the shopkeeper glared at me through his thick spectacles and I would wander off to another shop with the same setup, till my mother had finished her daily shopping. Things were so simple when we were younger.

'We will grow old together.'

Now, I loved walking around Flora Fountain- the cobbled streets often gave the impression of being in Queen’s country, and I would fancy myself to be in London,  an act which always put me in a good mood. Today, however, being Saturday, I had the entire afternoon to browse through the Books and Music section of old Riley’s- the grandfatherly shop that sold musical instruments off Flora Fountain.

'Music? That’s my passion. Beatles, Metallica, Dylan, RHCP, Doors, Goo Goo Dolls, Simon and Garfunkel, Def Leppard, Dire Straits…'

Although I never bought much (I preferred my own collection) except the occasional Rolling Stone (and that was only when I saw a band I really liked on the cover), I liked moving around the old shop- with its many shelves crammed with cellophane covered magazines, with exotic names and elaborate write ups on several categories of music. I liked the feeling of everything old. Though there was hardly any room to walk about in that shop- giving the impression that its life was full- in stark contrast to mine. It had high ceilings and glass shelves, and the most impressive array of instruments- freshly painted wooden guitars, recently imported Spanish ones, wind instruments- flutes, saxophones- effortlessly blending the East and West in the barrierless world of music. There were books and CDs too- instructional, recreational, and educational. I liked them all- as I did my music.

My affair with music began when I was twelve years old. Then, listening to Cliff Richard belt out ‘Theme for a Dream’, ‘Constantly’, ‘Summer Holiday’ on LP and my grandfather’s big golden gramophone were the best thrills of my life. I would anxiously wait for Saturdays to arrive, because as I would have half- day school, I would reach home early, ask Mummy to fry up some of her delectable stuffed kachoris, and sit next to Granpa as he patiently explained the nuances of song and music to me. Over cold mint chutney and steaming hot kachoris, legends like Mick Jagger, John Lennon, BB King and Ray Charles would be dissected- song by song. And my twelve-year-old heart would sing with joy and shape my future fantasy of marrying either a rock star or a singer in a band. Maybe that’s why I fell for Prahlad- who was more knowledgeable than any other man I knew- about all bands- either living or dead.

'Bon Jovi is one of my favourite bands. Mine too!'

As I entered Riley’s, I was struck by the first odd notes of Beethoven’s Fifth emanating out of a large Steinway. Deeply resounding in its rich mahogany finish- the notes seemed to defy the ‘Test practice in progress’ sign as they weaved the highs and lows of the melody as deftly as the original symphony itself- causing my wildly pounding heart to accelerate its mad rhythm even further- for Beethoven had walked out of my life the same day as Prahlad. 

'Beethoven- the name itself sounds so grand, doesn’t it? Listen to this… Beethoven had composed nine symphonies in his career. Out of them all, the Fifth- also known as the Fate is the most widely respected, and my favourite.'

Beethoven had been our favourite- alongwith roses and candles and long soul-searching sessions. Now, as I stood in one corner of the Rock Magazines section, clutching the latest issue of The Guitarist, my mind went numb, as images of Prahlad and me started flashing before my eyes. It seemed like the symphony was covering me in waves- waves of emotions, memories. 

Waves of pain. 

Waves of hurt.

Here was Prahlad- the first time we had met on the steps of the University where we were both completing graduation- he, handsomely suave in a beige button-up collared shirt and a pair of smart black trousers. Here he was again, holding my hand surreptitiously and a bit scared in the small Chinese joint on our first ‘date’. His soft brown eyes seemingly piercing every part of me- recognizing words I hadn’t said and smiles I hadn’t bestowed. Here he was again, proudly waving the LSE acceptance letter that signaled the beginning of the end of our relationship…

Time froze. 

I swallowed with great difficulty, as my mouth went completely dry. I waited for the tell tale signs of the nausea rising up to my eyes, dissipating as tears, but I remained calm and collected- outwardly. I found myself moving towards the Steinway- and as I did so, I caught a glance of the curly mop of dark hair which belonged to the player. Clearly, Riley’s brought in customers from time to time to test out the musical instruments- and here was another enthusiast. 

Except that his hair looked unnervingly like Prahlad- whom I hadn’t seen for five long years. Could it be him, I wondered…as my heart gave an unexpected jolt of…happiness?

Expectancy? Fear, perhaps? 

The music drowned me in thoughts so familiar and unwelcome- but why would Prahlad be here, playing a piano, on a regular Saturday afternoon? He would be somewhere in London- negotiating the finance market, and as I internally debated with myself, the test player suddenly looked up- I could see only the same soft brown eyes- shielded by a pair of vision glasses as they bent down again after a fraction of a second- the same eyes that had locked mine in blink-defying gazes in amusement, wonder, challenge…Encouraged and doubtful at the same time, I moved forward to catch a better look at him. I laughed a little nervously- it was only my imagination playing tricks on me- hadn’t I read that people often search and settle for known faces…and that one in every six persons looks the same?

Maybe it was Prahlad after all- maybe he had decided that I was really the one, and he wanted to retrieve me. Retrieve me…I smiled at the usage of the word- yes, that’s right, retrieve what’s been thrown in Trash. Night after night after crying myself to sleep, I would have dreams where I would find Prahlad whisking me off to London, or asking for forgiveness or even a soul searching session- his eyes twinkling in the moonlight, the silver light drawing fine laughter lines around the curves of his mouth- but on waking up, be confronted with the harsh reality of the emptiness in me- and the cold sunlight- so different from the soft fluidness of my dreams.  I would spend hours sleeping- after returning from work- forfeiting dinner- just so I could dream and have Prahlad with me. I regretted the day I burnt all his letters and photographs in a fit of independence. I had only my memories to comfort me now- humans crave physical touch and there were times when I could’ve killed for one small photograph of Prahlad. But the Prahlad of my imagination would never not recognize me, I reasoned with myself- as I looked up and saw some guitar cartons stacked neatly on top, bearing the legend- ‘Fragile use no hooks’.

And as the tiny notes started their zigzag motion across the symphony step, I looked down at Axl Rose’s face on the cover of the magazine; I realized my only redemption for love was sadness…

By this time, Beethoven was almost at the rear end of his symphony and as the notes gurgled out of the freshly painted instrument, I could not help but be a little happy as the old me recognized the grand climactic crescendo. Then, as the player softly reinforced the graceful finish, an elderly couple walked out from the interior of the store- where the most expensive instruments were stacked- and towards the test player behind the piano. 

For, as he struck the final cord of the symphony, and the Steinway gave one last deep-throated rendition -up stood a boy of not more than fourteen years of age- wearing vision glasses and bearing the same curly mop of dark hair as Prahlad- but with the rest of features so different from him. And, as he smiled and shook hands with Mr. Riley and signed on the test –card, I was struck with a deep sense of relief and amazement flooding me, and with a deep ache in the pit of my stomach. 

Part of me wanted him to be Prahlad.

And as the deafening silence closed in on me, I berated myself silently, it couldn’t have been him- it’s just someone who looks like him- correction- whose eyes and hair look like him. He was so different from the Prahlad of my imagination- my hero- whom I saw through rose-tinted glasses everyday.

And I thought- what would have happened had I kept that one hook of Prahlad’ s – his photograph? By erasing all his physical evidence, I had symbolically erased him out of my life. But had I kept that one proof, would I have prevented this little drama- imagining him test playing our favourite symphony? Would I have recognized him better than the soft blurry image of Prahlad, which seemed seared into my soul- would I have defined it better? Would a photograph have helped me identify him and prevented me from raking up ghosts of old memories?  

Relationships are far more fragile to use any hooks.  

Bookends   The last kiss The last rose The last sunset The last raindrop The flickering flame The gush of breeze The last scene in a play The last turning of key in the lock The last glimpse out a moving train The last drop of water in the can The last breath on your lips The last lick of ice-cream The last dinner The last migratory bird The last chocolate The last chorus The last day The last minute The last smile  The last tear The last time… The last goodbye The last photograph Exit.

(This was found in the protagonist’s journal- Page 33, dated 2 years ago.)

(August 13, 2009)