She Lives. She Loves.

There is something about some people you come across. Something unusual. They might not be your closest friends but you know they are there. Their presence is inevitably known to everyone in that space. In some way, they just have to be known by everyone around them.

I had one such girl during my graduation. We weren't the kind of friends who would share our problems or secrets the way girls do. Or maybe I never did. Her presence just made me happy. Whenever she was around, I expected a stream of laughter to start echoing in minutes of our interaction. She was always ready with a story to tell. And her story, a rather simple one, drew people towards her. She loved narrating them in fact.

In a span of three years, I had become privy to so many stories about her life, that I felt I was close to knowing her well. From how she smoked her way to college in an auto, to how she passed days in her depressing convent school, to how she danced all slutty at the party last night and rushed for a morning lecture. She was a favorite at the cafeteria. Sipping iced tea even on the coldest mornings, she carried a bag with no books, a wallet flooded with loose money and a story. I never saw her tell a sobbing story though. It was as if in her mind, she was a celebrity being chased by the paparazzi of the city.

Initially, I hardly spoke to her. In fact it took me time to understand her sometimes-blunt responses. To the ones she loved, she loved immensely. To the ones she disliked, well. The heaviness of English Literature was whisked away in her humor and lines we made jokes of. It's not like she didn't face problems or was never broke or didn't have a fight. It's just that she was the way she was. Always on a high.

I'm glad to have spent my days of graduation with her. I don't remember not recalling any incident that she shared with me, and not laughing. I don't think I came across anyone like her again. I'm at a loss of words when people ask how was she so different. I'm just glad I met her.

To you, pole. I wanted to write this much earlier. 

The Man and The Photograph.

Everyday, he woke up to a photograph of her. Rather, the photograph. He lived with it. It was a part of him, now. Even after so many days, so many years, the picture remained his loyal. Her expression in it never changed. She never argued or questioned him. She never replied back during his conversations. She was the silent woman. Smiling, as ever. Available, as ever. The woman, every man like him would desire. Blessed with the power of submission. Submitting, while smiling calmly in that photograph, to her owner. There was never a spark of the feminist rebellion in her. Obedience was her motto, as it were. And peace, her existence.

He spoke to her all day. He ate with her. Kept it aside on the pillow while he slept. He covered the photograph will a soft muslin cloth while dressing after a bath. It was his live co-existence. Many had deemed him a lunatic. They would hush into each other when he walked down the street to buy groceries, while the tip of the photograph sneaked out of his linen pockets. Shop vendors would jestingly ask him, how the woman was doing. Attempting to revoke an answer - incite agitation or a retort. They never got any. All he did was smiled, picked up his packets of pulses and sugar, payed the money and walked off. The world didn't seem to affect him. His indifference to these remarks was as profound as his love for the woman in the photograph. Both were unshakable.

New residents in the town asked their neighbours what was the underlying mystery behind this benign man. Who was angelic, almost. Who never spoke to anyone but the photograph. Who smiled to himself when the town was storming with action and exchange.

Years ago, he had gone to the town festival with his wife. The air was filled with joy and elation.Everybody was celebrating. As festivities would have it, there were local photographers clicking pictures of couples, children, families and old men. The camera was a new fantasy in the town and only the privileged could afford to get clicked.

The man and his wife also posed for the cameraman. He shot a picture, that was as bright as their marital days. Swelling with happiness, he kept the photograph safe in the inner pocket of his jacket.

But as the evening proceeded, it turned out to be rather poignant than one would expect. The man returned home, alone. His wife, lost in the crowd, kidnapped or killed; it was unknown. Fate stood still to challenge the man's days of joy. He searched everywhere he could, but in vain. In all these days, he had also forgotten about the photograph. It was shoved into some corner of his wooden cupboard.

After days of futile search, the man decided to leave the town and go. He felt devastated and saw his future as a redundant existence. As he started collecting his clothes from the cupboard, the photograph fell down on the floor. He picked it, gazed at it for a while.

He kept back the clothes, cleaned the house and prepared the food.

Only recently, his neighbour, a new resident in the town came to meet him. The neighbour was little young boy who had been observing the doings of this man silently from his window, for days. Unable to understand the man's association with the photograph, he came up to him and asked what was it.

The man, replied, in a rather short answer. Belief he said. He had rested the energy of himself in one photograph, along with a belief, a rather staunch one that she will meet him someday. That, she will return home to him. And, the belief kept him happy to prepare things she liked. To be able to manage in case she suddenly returns. The belief kept him going.

Ten Reasons Why My Dad is Awesome.

I wrote about fathers and daughters some time back. And their relationship as it usually is. For some unknown reason, I like talking about that relationship. It makes me gleeful. Not that mom's are any less loved, or I'm not fond of my mom, or whatever. I love her immensely.

Somehow, talking about fathers is special. It could be due to whatever Freud said about the Oedipal Complex (and let me know, if I repeat myself, again).

Or perhaps, mine is such a flamboyant and benign soul that I cannot stop gushing about him. Some days, it's like I have suddenly woken up to my dad's good looks or sense of dressing or way of talking or handling people who seem annoying to the others.

For one, I think he is the best dressed person in my family. Relatives older or younger watch and ape him. He loves to shop for himself, right from cufflinks to bandgala jackets, belts and watches. And thus, he understands why one would need so many pairs of shoes.
Two, he has the most amazing collection of perfumes. And he lets me steal them quite generously. (Yeah, some perfumes are kickass for everybody to use.)
Three, he never scolds me. Ever. It's always cool between us.
Four, he has amazing people skills. He manages the most sticky people with a grin and the next minute, you wouldn't know if someone tried to test his patience.
Five, he doesn't ask how much money I need. Just gives. And being the nice person I am, I don't take advantage of that. It's true.
Six, he loves travelling far and wide.
Seven, my girl-friends had a crush on him when I was younger. And he starts smiling funnily whenever I tell him that.
Eight, he has enormous amount of patience. I mean, people can come and borrow some patience from him, it's so much in abundance.
Nine, he is the one who distracts mom and me from having heated arguements.
Ten, well, he's awesome. Period.