MEMORY

The train pulled into the station, slowly drawing abreast with the platform.

Gigantic clouds of smoke issued from the engine, but the eager people both inside and outside the train didn’t seem to mind.

He sat alone in a corner, in one of the last carriages.

He seemed to be there almost by mistake, like someone had noticed some empty space and put him there.

And he needed just the smallest of empty spaces to fill.

It had been a long time since he had consciously allowed himself to think about what this day would be like.

Through the hole in the rotting wood of the carriage he silently looked outside to catch little glimpses of what the world looked like.

The world had changed, changed beyond recognition.

No, the absence of recognition was not due to overwhelming all-encompassing change, but his own inability to recognize it.

His inability to imagine, to think.

The train drew to a halt, and the doors were opened by attendants.

There were some people who rushed out like breath exhaled, others came forth slowly like a sigh held back too long, and there were yet others who remained inside, too afraid of what to expect, like their breaths still held inside in fear.

It was a long time before someone noticed him sitting in his corner, and held his bandaged hand and led him out of the train on to the platform.

The sudden flurry of sights, of sounds, caught even his attention. And he dared to think back of a time long forgotten. Mercilessly forgotten almost four years ago.

Slowly, fearfully, he guided his thoughts, focused the essence of his mind towards what he remembered of this place.

The station had changed; wreckage and novation seemed to stand side by side.

There were marked distinctions, newspaper stands, small food outlets, and the smell of French tobacco.

Very carefully, so as not to scare himself, he thought of the last time he was here. It had been different: barking dogs, innumerable wooden cattle carriages behind locomotives on all platforms, the smell of fear, and the filthy scratches of orders being shouted in German.

He thought once again, of the things he had left behind when he stepped on to that train. A home, he presumed and then remembered, a family perhaps, yes yes, he was remembering. A mother, warm and wise, a father, aged and able, a brother, strong and sure. And someone else.

Who was it? A woman, yes, a woman. Why couldn’t he remember her?

Because he dared not think of her. Lest the airs he breathed for four foul years found out.

A beautiful woman, was she not? Yes, very beautiful, something that could make him smile so contently that he would have a tear in his eye.

And in that moment he remembered, her face, her eyes, her hair, and his eyes searched the platform for her.

Would she be here? Would she remember him after all this time? Was she even alive herself? He turned, and looked at the other end of the station, searching for the one face he remembered so vividly, it burnt him.

Would she still love him? Would she care? Would she have found love again? What would he do if she wasn’t there?

And then he saw her face. Standing at the far end, at the end of the platform, at the end of her hope. He saw a face that had been seen on that station ever since the announcement that the camps were to be liberated. A face that had waited and watched as every train returned to her without him. A face that hoped and prayed it wouldn’t have to live alone. A face that saw him now.

A face that put on its bravest smile now, but yet could not hide its tears. A face that slowly came to him, and gazed deeply into his eyes looking for the man it knew all those years ago.

A hand came forth and held his. Not tightly, but firmly enough to say that it would never let go.

There were no words spoken.

And in that silence, while she prayed and thanked, he remembered.

Sheryl...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BOGEY BOY!

The day is almost over, he thought sitting in the bus on his way home. Just another ten minutes, not even that, and I’ll be gone far away from these people. Please, nobody look at me for ten minutes, just ten. Please. Nobody needs to know.

The noises raged in the background as he sat alone with his thoughts. School children on their way home on a Friday evening; few phenomena are more excited or confused.

He was thinking about his book, one he dare not take out here for them all to see, when something rolled out from under his seat between his feet. He looked down, to see a ball, and then a hand come and collect it. His eyes traced the hand to the arm, and the arm to the face. He gulped.

“Well well well. Looks like the Bogey boy wants to play ball! Is that what you want Bogey boy?” sneered J.

“No thanks J. Thanks though, but I’m fine.” He said.

“Bogey says he’s fine, boys!” J. shouted out to the back, and there were laughs. “That isn’t right now, is it? I don’t want Bogey to be fine.” This time he was softer, menacing, and was holding the ball so tightly.

His mind raced, I’m almost there, just round this bend, and then I can get up and get out. Please let him just turn around and forget me now. Please please please!

He heaved a sigh of relief as J. straightened and began to walk back down the aisle. He thought he might as well get up and start moving towards the door. He did that.

But it wasn’t going to be over, not just yet. Someone else shouted from the back.

“Hey J.! I think its his birthday today!” J. turned and faced him once more. The menacing bully’s look returned to his eyes.

“Happy birthday Bogey boy.” He said.

Slowly, unsurely, he replied. “Thank you, J.”

“Go home today Bogey boy we’ll make sure you’re fine tomorrow. Go home today, and look at your Ma and tell her what a filthy mistake she made all those years ago!”

There were wild hysterical laughs, but there was silence. He heard none of it. He barely registered the jamming of the brakes and the opening of the door, as he stepped down and out. He did not feel the tears streaming down his face as he walked back the hundred yards to his house.

He didn’t go inside though, not just yet. He went round to the back, turned on the little faucet by the lawn and washed his face and wet his clothes. Then he went back to the front and rang the bell. His mother opened the door, and he put on the bravest smile he could muster.

“Happy birthday son! Look at what all we have for you today!” She was smiling, a smile of joy and pride, a smile that soon became a look of concern. “You’re all wet! What happened?”

“Oh nothing Ma! We had a water fight in the bus. J. told the guys that it was my birthday, and we had a huge celebration of sorts in the bus, and that ended with water on everyone. All our water bottles were emptied. Great guy, J.”

He took a step in, she ruffled his hair, her smile back once more. And while she went on about the gifts and the food, and the cake with fifteen candles, he could think only of one thing.

Oh Ma, if only you knew how many of my tears your one smile can dam.

THE NON-SENSE OF IT ALL...

“Senses! You don’t know what you’re talking about. Look around you. Here in this shop I have everything that can gratify the senses: apples, onions, and acid drops; pepper and mustard; cosy comforters and hot water bottles. Through the window I delight my eyes with the old church and market place, built in the days when beauty came naturally from the hands of mediaeval craftsmen. My ears are filled with delightful sounds, from the cooing of doves and the humming of bees to the wireless echoes of Beethoven and Elgar. My nose can gloat over our sack of fresh lavender or our special sixpenny Eau de Cologne when the smell of rain on dry earth is denied me. My senses are saturated with satisfactions of all sorts. But when I am full to the neck with onions and acid drops; when I am so fed up with the mediaeval architecture that I had rather die than look at another cathedral; when all I desire is rest from sensation, not more of it, what use will my senses be to me if the starry heavens still seem no more than a senseless avalanche of lumps of stone and wisps of gas - if the destiny of Man holds out no higher hope to him than the final extinction and annihilation of so mischievous and miserable a creature?”

[Village Wooing, Conversation Three, G.B. Shaw]

Shaw said it better than anyone else could have. An anatomy of that one moment, when we are so lost to stimuli all around us, that we forget our own essences. When our senses are pounded so heavily with sight sound and smell, that we can no longer derive pleasure from them, but feel mercilessly bombarded until we erode away. An endless barrage of stimuli, that we choose to see our own selves reflected in, rather than see a true honest image of ourselves and what we are becoming.

Perhaps we are still far from that moment of truth, where we have eroded away enough to consciously register what is happening. To finally sense ourselves, beneath and behind what our senses show to us. But that time is coming, when we as a race need to find a patch of grass beneath a starry sky or a rock by a serene shore and really think about where it is that we are headed. Indeed, does the destiny of Man hold out no higher hope to him than the final extinction and annihilation of so mischievous and miserable a creature?

TELLURIANS: A HISTORY...

Once upon a long time ago, when humans still discovering new life forms on the planet instead of destroying them, one wise man decided that there had to be a system wherein all these new findings could be tabulated, recorded and referred to with ease.

Based on what he, his contemporaries and his predecessors had found, he designed a chart where all plants and all animals were placed into two different kingdoms called Plantae and Animalia.

This system worked for years, but with the discoveries of newer creatures, more and more people felt that it needed to be altered. Someone went so far as to say “The Two Kingdom Classification today is like the living world’s prom dress- it can hardly fit!” (Name and address of the commentator withheld at request). So, a gallant man named Robert Whittaker came to this damsel’s aid, and proposed the wider, more accommodating Five Kingdom Classification, accounting for Monera (basically bacteria and wannabe-almost bacteria), Protista (single celled creepy crawlies found on both land and water), Fungi (containing fingi and other things resembling beards), Plantae (for plants) and Animalia (for Animals).

Again, this system worked for a long time, until 1969, when man sent Neil Armstrong and his drinking buddies to the moon. There was a plaque on the space shuttle that bore (in inscriptions) the position of the Earth, the fact that the creature who was in the spaceship was from Earth, and what he looked like. The plaque ran in to trouble with censor boards owing to its vivid depiction of a man and a woman in their birthday suits. While space authorities argued that attire hardly mattered in this grand quest, censor authorities insisted depictions of ourselves look their very best for a good first impression.

Despite all controversy (eventually hushed in favour of the space cowboys), this little plaque was deemed extremely important by NASA “just in case we stumble on to new life forms on the moon on the journey there.” (Name and address of the commentator withheld at request).

This particular statement got the world thinking. He really couldn’t be joking could he? Was there really life out there? And if it was indeed there, how would it feel about not being given adequate space by Robert Whittaker? Suddenly, Whittaker’s model felt like another prom dress, and another wise crack decided that it was time to create something greater than a Kingdom of Creatures: A Super-Kingdom called Tellurians which would include all creatures from Earth, contain the five Kingdoms of Monera, Protista, Fungi, Plantae, and Animalia, and still give enough room for aliens of all manners adequate representation, thus promoting both the inquisitive nature of all scientific pursuits as well as interplanetary democracy.

And thus we, my dear Tellurians, became Tellurians.

P.S: Believe the facts here at your own risk. Kindly verify before restating.

TAG TRAUME...

I was crouching on a rooftop when I saw her pass by below on the lonely street. There was sleet, the streetlights were flickering, and everyone else was indoors. She walked briskly, her coat pulled up to her ears as I watched her and smiled. She was late, but she was safe.

In the distance, I saw five men slowly walking towards her. They fanned out, walking in a line, blocking the entire width of the street. I observed carefully, and I saw hands subtly pull out chains and knives. All eyes were on her.

This did not look good. Noiselessly, I leapt off the rooftop on to the ledge, and scaled down the walls of the building to enter an alley that opened on to the street. I would wait here and watch, just in case there was any trouble.

The closed in, and slowly started surrounding her, she began to run, but one of them tripped her and she fell on the asphalt. They came menacingly close, and I silently started moving towards them, keeping in the shadows.

“Wait a minute baby doll, why don’t you get to know us?” said a beefy one, looking down at her.

“Oh well, I wouldn’t mind waiting up, but I have a really jealous boyfriend back home.” She replied. She was lying of course, I knew she had broken up with him some time back, but her confidence was all the same.

“Well then boys, why don’t we wrap her up in a nice ribbon before she gets home?” Beefy sneered, and the others laughed with him. Then he brought out the chain, swinging it menacingly in her face.

This was too much for me. I leapt out, started running, and jumped up high and caught one of them straight in the jaw with my left foot. Pandemonium broke out as the men realized they were being attacked, but were too confused to hit back. And my limbs took on a life of their own, as they went flailing, flashing, swinging, striking at the five beasts that surrounded her.

Men fell all around me, crying out in pain, when suddenly a sharp stinging sensation punctured my right shoulder. I looked and I saw that one of them had managed to take the knife and get at me. But that pause lasted for just a moment, and my legs came to life again, clobbering the man into submission.

At last I stopped; the five were sprawled all around me, barely conscious. She was looking at me in shock. I helped her up, and held her until her breathing calmed down.

“Thank you… tha-nks... I was-was s-s-so scared.”

“Shhh, calm down, its ok. You’re safe now.”

“Wait, I know you. Aren’t you from the office?”

“Part time.” I said as suavely as I could.

“You’re bleeding! Let me help you.” She fumbled around in her coat for a handkerchief.

“It’s not deep, it’ll heal.” She pressed the kerchief to my shoulder, and I let out a small groan, more for the drama than actual pain.

“You’re staring again.” She said, this time sternly.

Something resembling a “what-the-hell” thought crossed my mind as the empty sleeted street imploded with a ‘Poof!’ and I saw myself back to where I was, clumsily holding a file in my boss’s cabin, undoubtedly late in response.

“You’re staring mister. Get out of my office. Now!” she shouted. As I turned I heard a tiny whisper sounding like ‘Creep’. I sullenly walked back to my desk, and went over that file again.

Moral of the story: don’t day dream about your boss when you’re in front of her. And if you must, keep your mouth closed, and blink and nod at regular intervals.

EXPERIENCE...

A single tear falls from my face to the floor and splashes in the cold marble I am sitting on.

Ironically, the essence of my entire life in that moment is captured by that tear: the final, reluctant acceptance of something being ripped out, just as the tear forces itself out of the eye; the gradual slipping down into a void, a vacuum, just as the tear slides down the face; the fall after the vacuum when the realization of emptiness hits, just like the tear falls to the floor; and the final shattering of life as it was previously known, just as the tear splashes into million of tiny shimmering droplets of numbing struggle, loneliness, and pain.

I read the message again, and it still mercilessly says “I’m sorry, but what you’re looking for is not really my cup of tea. I hope we can still be friends though…” and a part of me asks, what really was the point of that smiley? I’m not smiling, and I can be reasonably sure she isn’t either. But before the analytical me can prod further, another wave of emotion rushes over it, and another tear flowing down to the floor put me through the agony of loss again.

I wait. Or rather, I pause.

There is a new light when you look around you just after a fall- both physically and emotionally. You feel dazed, lost, and blink a lot. You hurt, but less from the actual fall as opposed to your misjudgment of direction. You lose balance, and sometimes a lot more. And that’s the time you need, more than anything else, a hand to pick you up and help you dust yourself.

And after that poignant pause, I realize something. There would not be any hand to pick me up. Not this time. I’d have to get up, clean up, and find my way again all by myself. It made the fall a lot more painful.

With phenomenal energy and cold courage, I will my fingers to type back “Yeah sure, friends is still awesome…”, and follow the cliché of the smiley. And that starts the process of picking myself up again.

I go over the most important part of this heart wrench: my realization. And it says to me: Never put yourself in a position where you can be hurt by the one person who can heal your soul.

A hypothetical chuckle escapes me. Experience always comes too damn late.

LOVE AND REGRET...

That first moment our eyes met, I fell in love with you. Love, nothing less, despite knowing that you felt nothing. That you would feel nothing ever.

I talked to you, wrote to you, and every time you replied I’d feel my heartstrings tug. We talked on and on, about things of all manners. I knew you like you knew yourself, what you feared, what you desired, and what made you cry. You came to know me too, my deepest emotions, save one smothered fact: that I would give up everything to make you mine.

But no, I did not expect anything from you, I was content to love you by myself. Yes it hurt, to see you in the arms of other men, to share those whispers and the knowing smiles that followed. My eyes would burn when I wondered what made them more attractive to you than me, was I not good enough? But I never expected you to love me the same way I did you, even if I desired it. And I never would.

Perhaps I would never be the one you loved, but I would always be that friend. I would be beside you when you needed me, a shadow of solace, an aura of comfort. You would talk to me about things deeper than we did before, about what you felt of yourself, and I would content myself by listening. I was that steadfast rock you held on to through the thrashing tides of all those men you opened your love to. You did not know it, but you had made me a part of every joy and every sorrow in your life, out of habit if nothing else, and I would listen to it all, hurting yes, but loving you evermore.

For years, I was by your side, watching that parade of men walk in, walk out, and ravage everything pure in you. But it was not my place to comment, you claimed you loved them all. And I was committed to being the mute shoulder, the best friend.

I know not what crossed your mind when I asked you to marry me. Perhaps you saw how I had stayed with you through everything, perhaps you were enticed by my own successes. Perhaps you realized that I was the only man you could truly depend on. But you accepted, and that was all that mattered to me at that moment. They that witnessed the ceremonies harped on how we were perfect for each other: it was fitting that two best friends who knew everything about each other and had braved life together should love each other this way.

And today, it is our wedding night, and as I finally embrace you not as a friend, but as a husband, the both of us have more regrets than love for each other. We stay in the embrace, holding one another afraid not of letting go, but of coming closer.

For I realize that I will never be certain of your love for me, I will forever have to fight for your approval, and that it will be impossible for me to transcend from being your shoulder to your husband. And you will hide and smother your biggest regret till it is no larger than a mustard seed, lost except when you cry silently in bed beside me: that you could have someone better, someone you could love as a lover should.