Please, can somebody find me a place to park my car?

A lot many things happened over the last few days. Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam left for the heavenly abode, an Earth-like planet was found by NASA and Salman Khan reaffirmed to the world that he will do anything to make sure he stays on news as long as his movie stays in the box-office. Amidst all the things which were shaping the future and should have been running in my mind, the only thought which kept playing in a loop was, “WHERE THE F**K DO I PARK MY CAR?!”

Over the past few decades, our buildings have become taller, the roads have become wider, the cars have become cheaper but somehow the parking space has not become any bigger. In an ever-expanding metropolitan city like Kolkata, finding a parking spot is slowly becoming harder than finding the G-Spot.

You might be heading to Park Street in Kolkata, to Brigade Road in Bengaluru or to Connaught Place in New Delhi; there remains an equal chance that the amount you pay for an hour’s parking is probably more than the amount you’ll be spending on your pint of beer.

The trick to parking your car in the commercial pockets of your city lies in the age-old saying ‘Early bird catches the spot’. Schedule your departure at least two hours before the arrival time (five hours if you live in Bengaluru, taking into account the mad traffic) and pray in front of every temple, Peepal tree, cow and poster of Sachin Tendulkar on your way that you do not have to park six blocks away from your destination. If this also does not help, try pasting ‘PRESS’ or ‘POLICE’ stickers on your vehicle available at every car accessories’ shop. (P.S: If you ever get caught doing this, you did not get the idea from me)

So if you have a car, I urge you to start using the public transport; if you are planning to buy a car, please don’t – because of all the parking hazards. And thus help me in getting a parking spot with ease the next time. 

The Good Samaritan

“One person in India dies every four minutes due to a road accident- the highest recorded in any country. But the Law Commission of India says 50% of these victims can be saved if they get timely medical attention.” he cringed, as he read the news article. 

“Why is it so hard to provide medical attention to people who have met with an accident in front of so many bystanders? Can no one call an ambulance or give the dying man a lift to the hospital? Clearly, we are capable of displaying such small amounts of humanity and sympathy; are we not?” he asked himself. This was a rational way of thinking, given he came from an educated family with values, morals and an understanding of their ethical and social responsibilities. “If I ever saw a person who needed my help, I would go out of my way to provide him with it” he said, reassuringly to himself. 

He went on and shared the news article on Facebook, adding the caption ‘Let us take a vow to reduce these figures by 50%’ to the story. He felt rather pleased and satisfied with himself. He was sure he had helped the society by spreading awareness, thus justifying his Ivy League diplomas. He then tweeted, ‘Next time you see an ambulance in your rear-view mirror, imagine your father being in it. Give it the priority to pass. #RoadSafetyWeek’ 

He kept his mobile phone aside, with a smile on his face and a sense of accomplishment in his eyes. He got up to get ready for office. He took out a clean and hard-pressed white shirt, a pair of black trousers, his Mont-Blanc leather belt, a pair of black socks and his shoes. Arranged them neatly on his bed and went in the bathroom to take his shower. He took the keys of his Mercedes after getting ready and drove the white sedan out his driveway. It was a hot and sunny day and the beige leather seats shone in the sun. He took the highway towards his factory and was happy to notice he had avoided the office rush-hour by leaving 45 minutes early. 

He cruised by open fields, listening to Bob Dylan singing Like a Rolling Stone, tapping his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, lost in the melody of the singer’s voice. “How does it feel, ah how does it feel? To be on your own” he was singing along, while driving down the empty roads when suddenly out of nowhere a cow jumped on the road from behind a tree. He steered right in an attempt to save the cow and rammed the car into the motorcycle coming from the opposite direction. He saw as the rider flew from the seat, landing shoulder-first on the tarmac, sliding for about twenty-five feet before coming to a halt. He could see a trail of blood following the motionless body. He sat there gripping his steering wheel tightly; numb and frozen like a dismembered organ. He couldn’t feel his legs, his heart was beating at an enormous speed but he still felt as if the blood wasn’t flowing through his veins. The thought of stepping down of the car and running towards the injured man lying half-dead on the road, ten metres from him, crossed his mind a couple of times, but he could not muster up the courage to do so. He saw a group of men descending from a passing pick-up truck to help the injured man. He lifted his right hand from the wheel and clicked the button to roll down the window. He could hear the commotion as the crowd tried to lift the injured man back to his feet. He grabbed the wheel with his shaking hands again and sped towards the highway exit ramp. 

“With no direction home. Like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone” Bob Dylan kept singing.

Green! Yellow! Red!

Beep… beep… beep… beep…

The only sound which was audible in the eerily silent white chamber was that of the flickering yellow line on the green screen. It seemed like a dry, humourless metaphor; green and yellow – 2 colours on a screen to show that life was still left, that the sun hadn’t settled for one final time yet. Green and yellow, two colours which are always followed by Red – the colour of danger, the colour of the devil, the colour of blood, and the colour which denotes cessation. And red there was aplenty; in bottles hanging from metal hooks; in the tubes connecting the bottles to the body; in the roses decorating the side table; in the eyes of the nurses. 

Everyone you know wants you to come out of the hospital after a point of time, one way or the other. The doctors are tired of treating you; the nurses are fed up of feeding you; the family is heartbroken seeing you suffer; you are tired of waiting for death to slowly crawl by your bedside and hold you with the grip of its cold fingers. The waiting game is the devil’s most ingenious ploy. Death does not strike when you are least expecting it; it does not strike when you want it to; it does not strike when you have given-up on life itself. It strikes when you become hopeful again; when you think that since you have not died yet, the ailment might be treated. 

Hospital gives you a lot of time to think, to introspect, to recall all your regrets, to relive all the heartbreaks, to start considering your whole life an utter failure. When they have replaced all the blood that flowed in your body with bottled fluids; when they have sapped you of all the energy left in your muscles; when they have taken out all the positivity from inside you, you are left for death to come and claim what remains of your body. 

The beeps were starting to come less frequently with the passage of every second. The silence between two beeps becoming unbearable. Silence so long, that you can do anything to hear a noise; but you cannot make any noise on your own. The air was starting to choke in the throat; the head was becoming lighter; the spit in the back of the mouth which I could not swallow, no matter how hard I tried; the uneasiness in the stomach. I wanted to cry, to call for help, to ask the doctor if this was it. I wanted to be held in the embrace of the love of my life. I wanted someone to sing me the hymn of Gods. All I could manage to do was smile. 

And then the final beep!

Unfathomable Love

(Read the prequel here: Inscrutable Love)

“I’m on my way to pick you up. See you soon! :)”

Received at 19:01

I read the text message feeling both excited and dreadful. The last month or two had passed in absolute darkness between us. We had not met, as he was touring, and I did not even try as much as to call him during this time. It is said that absence makes the heart grow fonder; it was the exact opposite in our case. While I wanted to become sure about my feelings towards him during this hiatus, I was hoping that our bond will grow stronger by the end of it. I was hopeful that the distance and silence would strengthen the threads of love that were slowly binding me with him. Such was not the case.

His words were the sole reason I felt attracted towards him. Once those stopped to flow, I had nothing else to hold on to him. Every day of silence, was making me drift further away from him, and after a few days I was already too far away to even reminisce about him unconsciously. The vacuum that the absence of his words had created in my heart was soon filled by the charcoal smothered fingers of an artist. I first met the sketch artist at an exhibition, and soon again at my friend’s party, and then at the City Square, and so on. But I did not want the night to be about me or my new interests in life.

He had picked the perfect place to meet after such a long time. We were to have dinner at my favourite restaurant. The night was to be about him, about his tour, his experiences in the foreign land, about the people he had met. I did not want him to feel that things had changed. For all I knew, the sketch artist might just be another traveler you meet in this journey of life, who does not contribute anything meaningful or lasting to our journey.

I chose a blue coloured dress and white stilettoes; I left my hair open; and wore minimal make-up. I was ready in less than fifteen minutes and decided to walk down and wait at the lobby. I was playing the evening in my head the way I wanted it to go. We would walk in the restaurant, holding hands, chuckling at his witty humour and looking deep into his starry eyes. He would narrate all his stories and I would simply float in his soothing river of words. I saw the white lights of his sedan as he pulled up in the driveway. I started walking towards the car when he got off to open the door for me. He was looking ravishing in a black jacket over a pair of blue denims and a white shirt. He had a perfectly trimmed beard and was wearing very woody cologne. I could not resist the urge to kiss him this time, and I gave him a small peck on the cheek.

As we sat down on our tables, the corner one which overlooked the city, I realised how comfortable he made me feel. I was not pretending to be someone I was not in front of him, because I was always lost in his words, too disoriented to even think about how to impress him. As we placed our orders, he presented me a small, gift-wrapped, box. It was one of the most beautiful looking diamond pendants I had ever seen. I was too excited to accept it gracefully. I hurriedly put it back in the same box and handed it to him. I looked in his eyes and saw the love it contained for me. I felt ashamed and embarrassed to have tried to replace his love with someone else’s attention and affection. The honesty in his eyes, which confessed his love so effortlessly, left me feeling belittled.

I decided to tell him everything about the new guy I had met and make him understand how stupid and little I was feeling now. He was visibly hurt at my acceptance of trying to replace him in my life. He went absolutely quiet and I kept giving explanations. After a point of time, he wasn’t even listening to me; he was lost somewhere, comparing the evening to what he had expected it to be. I do not know if he was able to understand how much I loved him. I could not spell out the words clearly; I was too ashamed to express myself after being with someone else for a month. We ate the last of our food in silence; his eyes showing hurt and mine showing embarrassment. 


(Read the sequel here: Abstruse Love)

Peshawar

इस मैदान में खेला करते थे,

हम सब गेंद और बल्ले से । 

आज यहाँ पर खेला गया,

जाने कितनों के बचपन से ॥ 

सुनाई पड़ती थी यहाँ दिन भर,

वह पाठ याद करने की कोशिशें । 

आज यहाँ एक अजीब सन्नाटा है,

इन दीवारों ने सोख ली सब चीखें ॥ 

रँग-भरे हाथों से,

हम बनाते थे यहाँ तस्वीरें । 

हमारे लहू के रँग से,

इन्होने लिखी आज की ताज़ा खबरें ॥ 

जिन्हे अच्छे-बुरे की पहचान तक नहीं,

उन्हें अपने बंदूकों का निशाना बनाया । 

कितना गर्व महसूस हुआ होगा,

जब बच्चों की लाशों पर आतंक का ध्वज लहराया ॥ 

क्या कहोगे अपने खुदा को जाकर,

"तेरे लिए बेगुनाहों को मारा है"?

किस जन्नत की ख्वाब लिए फिर रहे हो?

तुम्हारे लिए उसने जहन्नुम तक नहीं बनाया है ॥ 

~ सौरव गोयल