Cringe Post 1 : New Year's Resolutions

This past year has been a fine upward facing parabolic morale curve with the bottom appearing depressive and slow, but the end ramped up just right. As every other simple minded Bitcoin speculator believes, "It only goes up from here."

Let's get right down to the purpose of this humongously purposeful post, my resolutions.

There are a few things that I absolutely have to get done, like do a research intern in the summer, lead my team to a Gold at the iGEM Jamboree, keep posting to this blog everyday.

Then there are qualitative things that cannot be done on its own but need me to regularly and constructively work toward, say for example learn French enough to hold a conversation, place top 3 in a quiz (I'm going to Nihilant this year. So yayyyy!!), learn to play a harmonica.

Then there are tinier things that might just make a difference, like travelling (hopefully there'll be more posts about new places here), trekking (not very high hopes here), basketball and generally staying fit (don't judge me, everyone resolves to do this too), some lucid dreaming, some scriptwriting, and lastly, an ability to say NO.

Ending on a frequent yet inspiring quote by the Vijs' dog, Krishi, "Woof!"

(Wow! That is a long resolution.)

My First Sonnet !!

My father never tells me what he thinks,

always keeps me in a shadow of doubt.

Clashes with him have put in some kinks,

but, I shall never forget that dividing bout.

I was worn out, I wanted to exit the cage.

Dumb, I didn't realize my action was so bold;

I had sparked the fire, Hades' rage,

resulting in indifference, so bare, so cold.

Neither condonance nor fury was in our genes,

But two things were, snub and mime;

Even after the cooldown, none spilled the beans;

Our bond had lost the prime time.

I know, though he is not all sugar and honey,

It is he who ensures my account has money.

 

 

 

PS

This is a work of Fiction.

For more about Sonnets, click here.

To Commute and Not To Commute

For the past few days, pull in even the last semester, I was missing something; something that helped me realize and define who I was. Neither am I so inquisitive, nor as much unoccupied, to go on some random journey to rediscover myself. In the meantime, I was also out of shape, so I started going cycling in campus post dinner. That is when I found out what I was missing.

For ten of the past twelve years, I've spent a minimum of one-and-a-half to two hours a day commuting to and from school. I always thought I was wasting a lot of time. But, now I see, the alone-time I spent commuting was the time that I cherish now. Although I may not remember exactly what all I've done on those rides back home, but I certainly got a lot of time to think about random things, and things that were not random at all.

I used to stand right by the door, with the wind blowing into my hair; and on rainy days, mud spraying onto my white pair of pants, making an awesome design and tough stains. (Now that I wash my own clothes, I realize how troublesome that was.) Nevertheless, my school bus rides were awesome. I've sit up front, beside the driver, and put up annoying songs on the player at loud volumes. I've sit out back, waiting for the driver to speed through a speed breaker so that my head touches the roof. I've been bullied there (that was one stray incident), I've stood up for others, I've cracked stupid jokes, and had serious conversations. As much as I have grown up in school, I've matured on my rides there.

Yesternight, the dark asphalt and the more than fifty shades of green and brown around me were augmented by the light drizzle, making it a lot more memorable. I could feel the droplets land on my head and flow down my face. (I can still feel it as I sit under the AC, sneezing!) The best thing, though, was the solitude, my thoughts talking to me. Cycling my way through the campus is a way I choose not to lose anymore.

Popcorn

It tastes different today,

the small plentiful;

No one beside me

to take a handful.

A wannabe recliner

in a theater afar

pushed me back

to me popcorn jar.

The popcorn is bitter,

and my friends too;

salted with sorrow

and my sobbing through.

Sun, Shade, and Skedaddle

"Am I chasing him or is he chasing me?"

"Both, I think", I say, interrupting her. She doesn't respond; typical Rama, just lost in her thoughts.

The setting Sun was glistening in her amber eyes and the rays through the canopy of palm leaves danced on her tanned skin. Sands to the right. Sands to the left. Frothy waters at our feet and hush all over. We're reclining in the sands of Baina beach of Vasco da Gama, Goa, her right hand in my left and her mesmerizing beauty in my eyes. Her face still bore that worried look, nose twitching, lips tightening, and her hand running across her hollow right cheek. We came here an hour ago in search of a quantum of solace, ice candy sticks in hand. Our eyes met often. There was a lot to talk about, words tried hard to form sentences, but it was futile. The ice had melted away. The last rays of the Sun sparkled in her eyes, her amber eyes, eyes that weren't amber a few months ago, a time when I recognized this personality by a different face.

I saw her for the first time in December, the month of raw partying and maniacal after-parties. I am a native of Goa, and a pretty famous one. I built the organized vehicle rental business out of the small unorganized bike shacks on the beaches. I had access to all parties. I felt her presence at one of those. It was Sunburn at Vagator beach. There, our eyes met. Her hazel eyes, chameleon eyes, brown for a moment, green the next. Her eyes were pulling me to her. It was not one sided though. She was checking me out, probably because I was a peg down and she was two. I was in the usual Goan attire - shorts and a loose tee - my gym-built muscles bulging through it. She looked stunning in the short blue jumpsuit, her untanned skin showing through; she hadn't been in Goa a long time. We talked. We danced. We screamed to the music together. I had been to every Sunburn in Goa, but this lady just took the experience a notch higher. We looked wild together, the music wilder, and the night the wildest I had experienced.

The next morning, the blinding Sun was staring into my bedroom through the huge windows, staring at me and the woman in my arms. Rama hadn't woken up yet. I got up, toasted some bread and made a couple of omelettes. She woke up with a bad hangover. I had none. After it eased a bit, she started asking questions. 'Who are you?''What do you do?' and similar mumbo-jumbo. When it was my turn to ask, she had only one answer, "Find it out yourself." She kissed me goodbye and left. I liked her attitude. She challenged me, Shlok Aurora. I had first set my foot in Goa fifteen years ago. But, it seems like I have lived my whole life here. It is my home now. One doesn't build an empire from scratch alone. I started from the bottom. I am nearly at the top. I had so many contacts that I only had to make a couple of calls to keep a track of my enigmatic eve. She was the mystery novel that I couldn't put down.

I waited in the shadows for two days, then, one evening, the last evening of the year, I sat  down across her in a Portuguese coffee shop on the Central Street of Margao. She was pleasantly surprised, yet not completely astonished, as if to say, 'It took you long enough'. She only came to know about my prowess when the coffee shop manager told her about it. She was more than into me. I was more than into her. We spent the last evening of the year together, and hoped this company would last. We spent the next month like a couple of high school kids, spending time together at beaches and markets, and snogging and groping at every chance possible. We saw the Sun set at Baga, Calangute, Valsao, Baina and many other beaches, and shopped in the Saturday Night Market and Holiday Street. There wasn't a beach we had not visited. I was getting habituated to the clandestine rendezvous in the nights.

Our relationship was getting more intimate. We had been to the Pilot Point once when she let me into her mind. The beautiful cliff had caught her eyes and opened her up. She told me that she had run away from her family in Indore, albeit with a lot of money. They were involved in the adulteration of just about everything, and she wanted no part of it. She was looking for a new life. She found me.

Something very strange had happened in the Goa Carnival the following month. We had fun at the parades and the EDM nights, had luscious meals and long nights. Then, one evening, she vanished. She completely disappeared from the radar. I couldn't find her anywhere. No network could catch her. I felt like I had lost her forever.

Three months later, just when I had lost all hope of finding her, she came back. The call came late in the night. Her voice was soothing. She set up a meet for breakfast at the Japanese Garden in Mormugao, little did I know I was in for a shock. I couldn't recognize her even when she was right in front of me. Her face had changed, wholly. She had undergone a plastic surgery and she had to explain why.

On that night in Chorao island when she had disappeared, she had become the victim of an acid attack. Her face was melting off when she was rescued by Reverend Paulo Clement. He admitted her in the emergency wards of Manipal Hospitals in Panjim. Later she moved to the Cosmetic Surgery Institute in Mumbai and had been there for the past three months. The only person who knew where she was was Reverend Clement, and he found no reason to contact me. One thing was still off; why had she not contacted me? But, this was not the time to ask such questions. She had been through a lot of trauma, and I didn't want to cause more of it.

The Surgeons in Mumbai had done a brilliant job on Rama. No one could recognize her by her face now. There was no sign of any acid attack on her face, but the scars were still fresh in her mind. She remembers how she was mugged outside the little Chorao village by a trio of petty thieves and left there to rot with the bruises. Then, she was found by a surreptitious masked man, who drugged her, toyed with her for a while, and then melted her face with acid. She still felt the burn sometimes, uncontrollable, painful, unbearable. However, she has no idea who that man was or what his motive was. She refuses to go to the police, and the only lead we have about this man is his physical description - tall, tanned skin tone, a weird clumsy walk, hoarse voice, and the strong odour of fish. There was another unique thing though, the symbol of a dagger in a lion's back on the mystery man's wrist.

For the past few days, I had tried to ease the tension in her while I continued trying to trace that man in the background. The symbol that she had described belonged to an old biker gang in Benaulim, the Triumphant Triumphs. They were old, brash, and involved in a lot more than just biking. I smelled something bad but I didn't have a lot of information. Rama and I headed there the moment we got to know about it. The Triumphs were not very difficult to find but it was hard to extract information. Little did I know Rama was so resourceful. She managed to seduce a biker and learn about the whereabouts of a young man, who fit the right description. He was known to be vicious. His name was Sahay and he worked in a fisheries processing factory in Candolim. We spent the evening on Baina. She was scared if Sahay was onto us. I assured her that we would nab him the next day.

The chase for the man continued, but I was having excess baggage. As we neared the outskirts of Candolim, I noticed some goons from the biker gang following us, and no, they didn't appear like they were here to help us. Just as we got to the address we had, we were caught by the gang who overpowered us and took us in the abandoned factory we so comfortably had come to. We were handcuffed and thrown in a small room. The room was small, dimly-lit, with a single entry, and smelled of rotting fish. We had no way out. Things started getting more entangled. Rama was laughing like a woman possessed. I began shouting, "What happened Rama?" "Why are you laughing?" "We're doomed."

Rama spoke, suddenly in a very serious tone, "We aren't doomed. You are."

"What? You got us into this?"

"Yes, you swine. Don't you get it. You are a fool who got into our trap. There was no acid attack. It was all Sahay's plan. I was just trying to kill you, but Sahay schemed to extort some money while I was at it. Now, you pay or you die a slow and painful death. Now, you pay to die."

"Kill me? Why..?"

"Why? You don't know the consequences of your acts, do you? While you were building your enterprise, you stepped on a lot of people. One of those unfortunate people was my brother. He was doing well with his bike shack, but you had to kill it. He got bankrupt. He was depressed for months, and he found only one escape: Suicide. While you were partying your ass off, I was mourning the death of my last blood relative. I vowed to avenge his death. My mourning ends with yours."

Sahay was outside the room with his goons, listening to all this chatter. The task was nearly complete. He was in no hurry.

I had heard enough. It was my turn now, "I have two questions for you: Why are your hands still cuffed? And where is Sahay?"

She had no apparent answer for the first question. She vehemently called out for Sahay. She knew he was outside, but why hadn't he unlocked her yet. She couldn't stand the confidence in my voice or my stoic eyes. She sensed something was wrong.

Sahay entered the room in a slow stride, trying to redo that weird walk, however he couldn't hold back. He gave me my deserved salute, unlocked my wrists, and helped me up. All Rama got was a sympathetic smile. She was furious. She started throwing questions, "What is happening here?" "Shlok" "Sahay..!!" "What are you doing?" Her voice was fading, as were her plans to kill me.

"Shocked? Aw..! I expected more from you. You think I didn't know your true intentions? I knew who you were from the first day we met. You could never succeed in your mission. You think Sahay dropped into your path with a plan, on his own? No. I sent him." I turned to him, "Why don't you introduce yourself?"

Sahay spoke, "Rama, eh? Or should I call you Maria Ferrao? I am not Sahay. My name is Yashas Aurora, and Shlok here is my brother."

She tried to say something, but words didn't form. We dropped her off at a lunatic home in Panjim.

Yashas repeated himself, hopefully for the last time, "Another wrong girl."

"Next time, try to find me a girl who loves me, but doesn't want to kill me."

Let Go

Yesterday I took part in the Freshie Creative Writing Competition. There were seven prompts and lots of freedom. I chose to go with a story. Here it goes.

LET GO

The time on the dial read 6. The fuel levels had hit reserves. Arun also had a hunger pang of sorts after the early and hurried bunch. He had been driving for the past 8 hours at a stretch from the metropolis that we call Chennai. Early on, he had lost his way in the maze of toll roads, but the GPS managed to re-route him to the highway down south to Kanyakumari. There are a lot of things one can do in a free weekend, right after getting the first salary, in a new city, but getting out of the city was his first priority. At this moment though, he was on the desperate look out for a refill, for both himself and his rental car. 

The last hour had put on show some serene scenery but no pitstops. Even the small old signboard indicating refreshments off the highway looked promising. He couldn't think of a better choice. He got off the highway and onto the dingy bumpy road that seemed to crave repairs for more than a decade. Dink, Donk. Tin - Tin. The old car was making weird noises. But lo and behold! A pitstop!

The place was huge. There were enough booths to cater to more than fifty vehicles, at any given time. And right across it was a long row of shops. It was one of those huge complexes found on the highways, except that it was not right on the highway and it was stranded. The high winds didn't affect anyone, because there was no one. There was only one light on; the departmental store. Arun was no Sherlock, but he had to ask around. He just parked the car somewhere in the dust and walked to the store.

The glass up front had turned opaque. The weather had taken its toll. It was evident. There were things that were not so evident though; the things that kept puzzling him; why the place was stranded? And why was this store open? He knocked. The door was open. He entered. The aisles were shabby and covered in dust. There was not much in the store. There was a middle-aged man behind the billing counter though. He had on him some rugged, casual clothes; a striped polo shirt, blue denims, and a sad face, which suddenly lit up with a smile.

Arun was accustomed to the "Good Evening Sir. How may I help you?" But to expect that here would be foolish. He did hear something though. The man said, "Hi! Good to see another living soul around here. But, Sorry! We are closed!"

Arun did expect this. Yet, his nature prevented him from walking away. He had to know the story. Apparently, he was in no hurry. He began, "Hi! I'm Arun. I was heading to Kanyakumari. Empty tanks made me take a detour."

"Oh! I'm Shrinath. This was my father's plaza. But, we are out of business."

"You seem to be worried about something. Are you alright? And what are you doing here anyway?"

"I'm fine. Dad's memories bring me here." Shrinath was in a dilemma now. To speak or not to speak, or just to throw the man away. Rationality soon returned. He continued," I shouldn't bother you. Its a long story."

Shrinath appeared honest, innocuous, and in need of a talk. He looked more pathetic than the store's untouched-for-years arrangement. Arun could see this. He said softly, "I am in no hurry."

Shrinath knew Arun was hungry. He was no mindreader. But, no one wants to speak to a stranger, not for free. He opened his tiffin box. There were a bunch of sandwiches in it; some with butter, some with jam, some with both.

"Its not much. But, you can have these. I don't usually expect people here"

Arun was a polite human. Hunger made him do things. He grabbed one right off the bat and spoke, "So, what's the story?"

"It goes back ten years from now. My father had bought this plaza with expectations of making a fortune. The unusually low price for such a place did spook him. However he was too stubborn to let go of such a nice looking investment opportunity. He put all his savings in this. The old highway passed through here. The business was good. We were always busy. Cars lined up. Customers queued up. The orders piled up. We were in profits. Until, one day, the news cropped up. A bigger highway was coming up, and we were gonna be left behind."

Arun grabbed his second sandwich. Shrinath didn't mind. He had someone to speak to. He carried on, "Three years passed in peace. Then, the new diversion was inaugurated. Business started falling. No one wanted to drive extra for anything, Only the loyal ones kept coming back. But, not for long. We cut down on jobs. We had to cut corners. We were scraping through."

"One unfortunate day, my father had to start managing this shop himself, at the counter. We couldn't pay for an employee anymore. Then, the worst nightmare came true. There was an armed robbery by some novice thugs. I only came to know about it in the evening. I cannot describe the scene, nor what I feel. When the police had come, dad was still holding the cash register, with a gun shot in his back. He died in the shop. The business was already on its knees, that shot killed it too."

The piece of bread was buttered well, but he couldn't get it down his throat. Here was a man who had been through all the nightmares, and still remained stoic. Arun could only give his condolescences  He was shaken. He couldn't hear anymore of the story. He got up, gave a firm handshake, thanked Shrinath for the food, and left.

Even as he got on the highway, his mind was still in the shop. The last part of their conversation still kept ringing in his ears.

"No one ever told him; he never let go.

 No one ever told him; they thought he must know."

P.S.

The last line was the prompt.

Dates with the Death

Yesterday I had been to the semester's first Inklings session, Writing Club's official meet. We met new people; introduced ourselves. The theme of the session was Narrative Styles. A few interesting prompts were put up to write on. I wrote the following piece of fiction. Guess the prompt will follow.

 Today is 31st of August. The anxiety has officially kicked in.

I've known it for three years now. The device worked perfectly well to display the auspicious date, the date I am to die, but blew up in my face when it was to tell me the year; and blew down all my plans for the future like a wall of cards.

A thousand days have passed, yet I don't know what fun the Satan wants to have, killing me on the Fifth of September. Is it because I hated most of my teachers? Or that most of my students hate me now?

My death day is just a week away. The usual cycle has begun; the binge watching those same old shows, binge eating or shall I say, drowning in gravy, and listening to the old tunes till my ears go numb. I woke up yesterday in a puddle of melted ice cream; I don't know how much of it was from the tub and how much from my vessels. But, the most fun affair still remains freaking everyone out by throwing a death day party.

The first year was the worst. I expected to die peacefully as the clock hit twelve. I was waiting. The hour hand slowly moved to one, but there was no sign of my clandestine rendezvous with Death. The hour hand turned two rounds, but Death never turned up. I had spent all my savings, hoping Death will be faithful. I see it now. I was so naive. His was among the many laughs I had to painfully bear.

I've had three bouts with him, but no knockouts yet. Neither am I able to overcome that fear, nor do I succumb. Even shelling out resources to the psychotherapist has been of no help. The nerves seem to be getting closer every year. One of these years, I might just kill myself to prove my device's prophesy right. I guess, this is how all prophesies come true.

I believe I'm gonna die on a Fifth of September. Hopefully, my postmortem declares death due to natural causes.

The writing was followed by reading your piece out loud, and expecting some constructive criticism. Maybe because it was the first of many sessions, everyone just felt awestruck hearing others' stories and poems, and just praised. No one received any criticism. The session was welcoming. Oh! I almost forgot. The prompt read, 'You know your Death Date, but not the Year.'