The Bridge

Before I go to sleep every night, I walk across a bridge. Without fail, I make this trip every day. This bridge takes me from the real world to the dream world. This bridge, this mystical non-existent bridge, was not built with stones, wood or ropes. Instead it is made of memories, vines, ideas, ice, words, corals, glimpses of dreams and other such fantastic things.  The bridge is weak and hazy at first but as I walk along it, it starts to become stronger and clearer. And it becomes clearer, the real world becomes hazier and distant. Much to my terror, the bridge has no support that I can hold onto.

I have not covered the same distance twice, for the length of the bridge changes every day. Sometimes, the bridge is filled with memories from the past and questions from the futures. On those nights, it takes me hours to cross. Ever so rarely, the architect of the bridge feels tired or perhaps he takes sympathy on me. On these days, the bridge is short and I fall asleep as soon as I turn in my bed.

The bridge changes shape every day. Yes, every day. Sometimes, when I walk across the bridge, I will, without choice step into a gap between the vines or perhaps the ice beneath my legs will break. Having nothing to hold on to, I will find myself falling only to be caught by an unseen and unknown force in the real world. On other days, where there was a gap previously, I might find myself on a cloud, floating away with a sense of pleasure in my head.

No friends are made on this bridge. No enemies either. Everyone I see or meet is just a projection of my past and other times fantasies of the future. But all this is not what makes the bridge strange. Well, all that is not the strangest anyway. There is something else. Suspended above the bridge are electrically charged deep-blue spheres. They are of all sizes and they are everywhere. They always seem out of reach. Always, except that one moment.

When I am about to step from the real world into dream world, the spheres suddenly lower down. They come within touching distance. Sometimes I just cross over into the dreams. But other times, I extend my hand to touch one of these spheres. You see, all these spheres, they are made up of ideas. Good ideas, bad ideas, horrible ideas. Not ideas for world peace or furniture. Not those sorts of ideas. Every time I touch a sphere, I tap into an idea. 

In the real world, I grin as sleep starts to fall on me. It is always just a small idea but when I wake up the next day, it will still be there. I play with the idea in my head, developing it and thinking of different ways that it can end. I now enter the dream realm, satisfied.  

Epic Fail

Monday is to be dreaded. Mondays is evil.

I woke up fuzzy and disoriented as always. Only when I was getting dressed did I notice the package on my bed. I picked it up and quickly ripped apart the plastic packing like a dog. There it was in my hands. The Lotus F1 "Leave me alone, I know what I am doing" t-shirt. I felt so smug wearing it, that I actually checked myself out in the mirror for a couple of minutes. And that is something I absolutely almost never do.

In office, I started to set up my desk as usual. When I reached for my Intuos's stylus, it felt a little odd. I noticed that it was split at the middle. It's something that happens often but this time it was split a little more than usual. Yes, leave me alone because I know what I am doing. I tried to put it back together but the damn thing wouldn't nudge. So I decided to open it. When I did it, a small metal ring fell of the circuit. Things got worse when a colleague picked up the stylus and another part fell off. Just fell off. Right there. I couldn't even see what where it fell from.

So there I sat distraught. The Stylus lay split into four different pieces. What could I do? Strangely, I felt powerless. All I could think was there is so much pending work. It is just weird how a shirt can make you feel so strong and then a broken pen can make you feel so powerless, inside just an hour.

One Minute Zombie

The afternoon was painstakingly slow. Sunday always slows down time drastically. Inside a small church sits just over a couple of dozen people. Some continuously weep into their handkerchiefs. Others offer their shoulders to their partners. At the front, a woman continuously wails while her husband, sitting right next to her, hangs his head in shame, drowned in guilt and sadness. The corpse lies in a cheap wooden coffin. The light falling on it makes it look more beautiful than it had ever looked when it still had some life in it.

The soul stands naked in a corner. It feels light. It feels relieved. It doesn't remember anything. It understands everything. It understands god, death, life and everything that goes with it. In one blink, it sees its parents, who had once given him life and once hope. In another blink, it sees the shell that it had once occupied. In another blink, the soul stands at the back of the church, looking down at everyone. It sees everything, away from the naked eye of all the mourners. Only Death is aware of the Soul's presence just as Soul is aware of Death's company.

"How did I die?” the Soul finally asks Death. "Painfully. Hit by a car." The Soul thinks a little more. He still doesn't recall. He doesn't even remember the day nor does he feel the desire to think about it. He doesn't know his name. But bits and pieces of his life are still fresh to him. He still remembers what he did in his life and where he went wrong. "I wasn't a good guy.", the Soul says. "Why are they mourning me?" Death seeing no reason in making the after-life easier for him, replies, in its cold voice, "It's the order of things. That's what they have been taught. That's why they do it." The Soul felt a bit gloomy. He remembered the last time he had a conversation with his parents. He had stormed out of the house. Guilt returns to him. He remembers his last words and heaviness falls upon him. He had never done anything right. But this, maybe he could fix this last bit.

"I would like one last word with my parents". Death, sensing the game, doesn't say anything at first. Finally, in its cold voice, it asks, “but why?". The Soul mulls over this for a while. Then it finally says, "I feel that the last time I talked to them, it hadn't been pleasant. If I could say just one thing to them, I would fix it. It would make things easier for them and easier for me."

In the very next moment, the corpse opens its eyes. It shakes its head around. The entire body is in pain. Miraculously, movement returns to its fingers and toes. It feels like the corpse wants to go in one direction while the body refuses. There is no weight on his shoulder but he feels something holding him down. He finally manages to put his hand on the side of the coffin and tries to raise himself up. Chaos lets loose as the corpse gets up. People stop weeping and run out of the church. Some remain fixed to their seats, not sure if they should be happy or scared. The mother faints.

Her husband, not paying attention to this detail, runs to the corpse. He catches the corpse just as it is about to fall back into the coffin. The corpse feels all its energy going out. It doesn't understand what's happening. It doesn't understand why it's in a wooden bed. It doesn't understand why the bed is inside a church. The corpse gathers all that is left of its energy. It can hardly breathe. Finally, the Corpse looks at his father. His father has an uncomfortable smile. His eyes speak forgiveness. The corpse, still confused, opens its mouth, "dad....what the fuck-". Before it can complete the sentence, its eyes roll back and the life goes out of him.

The Soul stands naked in the corner again. No one can see it. A man weeps with the corpse in his hand. A woman lies fainted nearby. Handkerchiefs, wallets and cellphones have been left behind as if people ran out in a hurry. The Soul doesn't understand anything. It feels heavy. It feels like a failure. It feels a connect to all this but doesn't know why. Death stands next to it, silent.

Fearless, the Soul asks him, "what happened here?”.

Hidden away under its hood, Death coldly smiles to itself. A smile that is seen by no one, but understood by only Death itself. "We have to travel a long way. Come." Without saying a word and without looking back, they fade away.

  

Alice In Blunderland

(I had originally written this as an article for a friend's newspaper. The newspaper didn't even go into print.)

I open my eyes. The sun is just rising outside. This is bad news. I stare at my ceiling, trying to hang on to the dream that I was having. Hoping I would go back to it, I close my eyes. Instantly, my cell phone slaps me with an alarm causing me to open my eyes again. The voice in my head tells me to go back to sleep. This bed is really comfortable but I have to go to office. I re-assure myself that even in my absence; work can carry on in the same way. Besides, I could use a rest. I don’t want to go to office. I realize how warm the blanket is. I am still searching for a reason to not go back to office as I close my eyes. My alarm goes off again. I feel guilty. I stayed up last night because I could not stop myself from watching the final episodes of Mad Men. Habits have come and gone but I have never managed to fix this. I finally pull myself out of bed. It’s 6:45 AM. I have to reach office at 7. In fifteen minutes, I have to get ready, make breakfast, eat breakfast and complete the 30-minute journey to office. I think about my schedule for the day: Go to office, come home. That shouldn’t be too tough. I check the contents of my wallet. No social events tonight.  The alarm goes off again. I am late.

Two months ago, I had been sleepless for a different reason altogether.  “We will let you know by next week” was what they would always say. I had finished my graduation in animation. Getting a job is not really tough.  However, finding a good company with good work can be quite a task. There were times when I would go for an interview and as soon as I would step inside the office, I would decide that I don’t want to come back here. While on other days, a company would tell me, in a subtle manner, that they do not want me back there.  While I was dozing one afternoon, I got a call from a studio, offering me an internship. Yes, they would like me to come down to their office to meet them.  No, I would not be paid. With some preparation, I went for the interview the next day. I promised full commitment and maximum energy in work. In my head I knew I was telling them the truth. Yes, I wanted to come back here. No, I would not make the same mistakes as college. He finally asked me, “So, when do you want to start?”  I consider myself fairly lucky here. Here I am, working in animation production while a lot of my batch-mates found it difficult just to get in their field of choice. Some of them went to new colleges. Some changed cities while others changed career paths. It’s almost the dream job for me but I struggle to wake up for it, everyday.

It’s already 8AM when I finally step into office. On my way up, I expect to run into my boss. Luckily, he isn’t there today. There are just seven or eight employees on the floor. I sneak into my department. General shift doesn’t start till 10AM. No one else in my department has arrived yet. My crime will go largely unnoticed. As the computer boots, I close my eyes again. I am waiting for something to kick-start my day but I have no idea what. I get up from my seat to look for the story-board. I scan through it, looking for frames that were still incomplete yesterday. Oddly, I slipped into this environment rather comfortably. I don’t feel that things have drastically changed in my life. I don’t miss the college-styled timings or the breaks between each class. I hardly remember them. The transition from college to office was fairly smooth, I guess. Maybe, all this is yet to sink in. Or maybe, I had already known that this how it was going to be.

Roll back six months. College had just ended. While some of us were now looking back, pondering at what could have been there were others who were getting sentimental about leaving college. I still do not share that emotion. My college life had been massively boring in the third year. By the time, I had reached the final semester, my relationship with my friends and teachers were, let’s just say, not ideal. I avoided conversations inside college premises for I feared I will end up in another argument over past wounds. On top of it, most of my time in classes was spent gazing vacantly into a distant corner, being disconnected from whatever that was being taught, feeling irritated and trying to stay awake. I was just counting each day to get away from this. And I wasn't the only one. All this time, I could not avoid reality. The same thought occupied me wherever I went. So on coming back to Delhi, I started looking for jobs. Seeing that I was not making any progress, I was given all sorts of opinions. My family was supportive but somehow they were far more aware of the ground reality than I. They already knew that this was not going to be easy. At the same time, I had to put up with all sort of advises from just anyone. I was told that changing careers is not a bad option. Upon seeing that I did not quite agree with this, I was told it’s just a suggestion but I should not rule it out. Someone told me that MBA is very lucrative and maybe I should prepare for CAT. I found it tough to convince them that my degree held some importance. I had not spent the last three years filling sketch books and making films so that it would look good on my resume. I did those things because I wanted to. A creative environment is the only place I could fit myself.

I eat lunch at a dhaba, a short walk from office. I eat early to avoid a crowd. In the silence, I ponder over conversations that have happened in the past days. I don’t think about work. I slowly begin my walk back towards office. I have been working for two months now. Everyone knows each other. I get back into my department just as everyone gets out for lunch. It’s a busy day in the office, by the way. A deadline is looming over us. We have to finish the current episode today. Every once in a while, some animators call me to fix an error or modify one of the backgrounds. Occasionally, someone compliments me for my work. I have been working like crazy for the past two three days. I am on a roll, I tell myself. I re-start my MP3 player. Get back to work, the voice in my head tells me.

By the time I leave for home, the sun is already set. I step into my home and turn on the lights. There was a time when I used to imagine, that as soon as I would turn on the light, a strange creature from some deep corner of outer space would pounce on me. There were other times when I would be convinced that the reason my bedroom door had suddenly shut was because some spirit had now chosen to haunt me. When you live alone, you tend to think a lot more. And you notice every little sound around you. But by alone, I don’t mean the state-of-mind (however, I have been there quite a few times) but as dictionary.com describes it, “without others”. And when you live alone, suddenly everyone is your friend. To you, your home is a place you come back to sleep. To your friends, your home is something between a bar and a brothel.

When I finished school, my career path was clear. What could be a better choice than animation? Besides if I was unable to get into one of the big engineering colleges (which seemed likely at that time), I could have taken admission in some small college in a distant part of the country. I knew I was destined for disaster. It would have taken me a miracle to get through engineering. The only interest I had in physics was in the science of Formula 1, not in textbooks.  

My body protests as I tie my shoes. Maybe, I can skip it this one day. I will go again tomorrow. It’s cold outside. Once outside, I find it almost difficult to control my enthusiasm. I want to run all the way to the park. I resist the urge and walk along. There is no one in the park. It’s pretty dark and I can hardly see the path in a lot of a places. I start to sprint.  I push myself even as my legs start to give up. I want to fit those jeans again. Maybe you should move on and buy a new pair, the voice in my head tells me. Just as I am about to finish my final lap, hauntingly, in my headphones Layne Stayley screams “we die ­young, faster we run”.  I stop. I try to breath but it takes me a while. Conversations come back to me, even though I have been trying to put them away for a while now. I straighten up and start to walk again. That should be enough for today, I console myself. I could have pushed myself a little more. Stayley’s lyrics echo in my head. Maybe tomorrow will be different.

At the Book Fair

A comic book lover walks into a book fair. He judges the book by it's cover. All of them.

For the first time in my life, I went to the book fair with my serious face on. I intended to buy something rather than just stroll around, feel the atmosphere and come back home empty-handed. The book fair had a familiar feel to it. Lots of families and lots of kids, who either want to go home or don't want to go home. You can't really tell one from the other because they are all small and they are all crying.Nevertheless, it was not as packed as the AutoExpo had been and it was easy to navigate through the crowd. And this was on a Saturday.

I still consider myself fairly new to books. I am pretty illeterate about who's who and what to buy. See, it's like this. Imagine a room that is filled with all the italian films that were ever made. I don't mean just the famous ones or the classics, I mean all of them. That too, arranged in alphabetical order. But when I walk in, I regret that I didn't research anything about Italian cinema and besides Federico Felini, I have no idea which other director should I be looking at. At the same time, I am not going to pick up a Felini film because it's easier to find a Felini flick.

So, there I was at the Book Fair, clueless about what I should be looking for. The first stall I entered, I strolled around for a while. I tried to find something that looked interesting or even vaguely familiar. Not surprisingly, five minutes later I ended up in a rather messy comic book section. Neatly stacked were Asterix, Tintin, McCloud's Zot! and 3 volumes of Gaiman's Sandman. Unsparingly littered were Batman, Superman and Spiderman. I absent-mindedly picked up one, then another and then put them back. I didn't feel the need to buy one of these. I picked up Zot! and flicked through a few pages. The artwork was different and had an american feel to it. It didn't take me long to make up my mind and I bought it right away.

Somewhat lost, I ended up at hall 7. Hall 7 didn't look at all interesting, was small and was deserted. The stalls were owned by publishers from Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Germany and other countries. I stopped paying attention to everything else when I noticed a "manga cafe". The glass shelf was lined with loads of mangas and I thought it would be nice addition to my collection. I was met with disappointment, however, when upon entering I read that none of the books were for sale and all of them were display purposes. Not my kind of place.

The rest of the book fair experience was a bit like the room I described. Walk into stall, browse through, walk out. I refused to pick up anything which had too much digital graphic work on it's cover. There were some unbelievable titles, like Padma Lakshmi's Tangy Tart Hot and Sweet(sic). By the way, it's a "world recipe book for everyday". I assume that has something to do with cooking. There was a creepy stall which was selling an entire vaastu kit but I did not see myself using it in the near future. Then I walked into the Comic Con stall and went on a rampage. See, I missed the Comic Con went it happened. First, I had too much work and then I was not well.I couldn't find any of the comics online. So I just kept picking up comics that I had wanted to buy at Comic Con, one after the other. Contrary to popular belief, it had nothing to do with the cute girl who was working there.

The First Time

"So, shall we begin?", she asks him.

In the split-second between her question and his answer, a million thoughts go through him. He has waited for this moment for a long time. He remembers all those sleepness nights, when he would stay awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if it would ever happen. And now that he is here, doubt runs through him. This could have waited a little longer. He feels he still isn't prepared for it.

He turns his head to meet her eyes. "Sure", he confidently replies.

"Alright. All yours".

The garage is pleasantly quiet. Even though no one is particularly looking in his direction,  he feels the eyes on him. It's a big day and he is the center of attention. The conversations around him, somehow, don't reach his ears. He puts his ear-plugs into place. To his further pleasure, it cuts of all sounds completely. Ever slowly, he straps his overall and wears his helmet. He knows his attempts at avoiding the inevitable are futile, but he tries his best to delay the moment.

Delicately, as if he is handling a glass vase, he climbs into the cockpit. A couple of his engineers strap him into place. He adjusts himself a bit and then without looking up, he gives them a thumbs-up sign, indicating that everything is in place and he is comfortable. He brings his visor down and closes his eyes. Absolute silence. He cannot hear anything except his heart going off like a bass drum. Yet he feels more relaxed now. He begins to feel more at home. Perhaps, this should have come sooner. Maybe he has waited too long to make it happen.

At that moment, the engine comes to life. He opens his eyes, readier than ever. "Track clear, ready to go. Limiter ON.", a voice says on his radio. One of his crew members pulls the car off the jack while another stands right outside the garage, his hand raised towards the car. Inside the helmet, a grin forms across his face. He suddenly feels a little impatient. He can't wait to go out. The engineer finally brings his hand down. Without waiting any further, he puts his foot down on the accelerator and pulls out of the garage.  His heart begins to race before he does. 

The Hunchback and The Time Travler

An eyeful of red. That’s how it shocks you. No, it does not greet you. It makes you stop in your tracks. It forces you to look at it. Every passerby stops, even if for a second. They click it or pose with it and as quickly, they move on. In this age of polished edges and square shapes, it looks misplaced. Huge bulging, round eyes, a wide grin, lush red interiors and small wings protruding from the back of its bent back, the car is a relic of an age that once was.

The time-traveler leans quietly against the old-timer. She wears a white skirt with red-polka dots, topped off with a pink top and a black jacket. She knows she is not the star. Pretty she may be, but not the star. Not today. The cameras go-off every few seconds, yet her face doesn’t twitch a bit. With her outfit, she looks as misplaced as the car itself.  

The hunchback stands affixed at one point. He is not interested in taking any photos. “Childish” is the word that repeats itself in his head. Head bowed, he is drowned in deep concentration, running his eyes over every single detail of the car. He makes mental notes about small aspects, notes that he will never use nor remember.  He raises his head just as the time-traveler turns her gaze away from him. His head starts turning in the other direction, but the time-traveler glances a second time.

Their eyes lock.

Her beige eyes are cold. Her expression is unchanged. He wonders if perhaps she sees the same coldness in his eyes. A thousand impulses tell him to look away. Instead, he works his face muscles into a smile. She doesn’t return the response. She closes her eye for a moment as she turns her head away, staring into nothingness. The hunchback doesn’t feel dejected, only slightly empty.

He turns and begins to walk away, joining the ever-growing crowd. “Note to self”, he says in his head, “that is not my area of expertise“. As he approaches the exit, he glances back for just one last look.