Novella

Pastiche

Emotional longing is fleeting. Mutual attraction passes with the passage of time. Wisdom, however, has a capacity for outliving generations and centuries. 

Seven months prior to this moment, I met a boy here. Same bus-stop, at around the same time. Beggars lined up the street, half-drowsily glancing in my direction. Even though their systems were brimming over with cheap booze, they think it's strange a girl sits here at a bus-stop at one in the morning. One of the drunks thinks it's inherently profound to yell incoherent nonsense at the moon. Right next to him, a dog follows suit. Same language, different species. But we are deviating, aren't we?

Seven months ago, I met someone purely by chance. Everyone who knows this story was under the impression that it had something to do with destiny. Either way, I think there's hope yet for humankind, if we learn to trust each other, and do not function within a mentality that recognizes every action and thought directed towards another individual as the result of some ulterior motive.

It's a cloudy night, I just hope it doesn't rain. I'm wearing thin pajamas and a t-shirt as it is. Don't want to get any colder. He called out of the blue five days ago. It happened like something akin to the start of the monsoon. Like the air of heat and humidity just lifted and transformed to clouds of blissful rainfall. We're deviating again, aren't we? Try as I might, I can't think of this moment without being poetic. Which is strange to me, I delve and indulge in logic usually. 

Coincidences are both life-changing and fragile. Isn't that a terrifying prospect? Think of it this way - a person you meet completely at random could make or break your life. That is terrifying. Which is why people cling onto certain relationships that weren't pre-determined, and attach this idea of perfection to the same relationship. It's fundamentally flawed to assume that. However, it may aid one to think that it's totally worth it to try everything, and risk everything, to uphold the warmth, surprise, sweetness, joy and sheer bliss one feels when with that person -  be it lover, friend, confidant  or mentor. 

It's drizzling now. Hope he gets here soon, I'm feeling really cold. The hostel's nearby, I could get a jacket, but what if I'm not here to see him when he arrives? It's not a problem, he knows where I stay, and he could always drop in. I just want to be here when he gets off that bus. 

I'll wait. 

Memories flood in at two instances in life. At awkward moments, and during boredom. Now I am genuinely bored. Even the beggar I had mentioned a few minutes ago stretched himself onto the pavement and went into a deep slumber. Well, until his body mechanisms would initiate the process of begging, getting drunk, reciting rambling poetry at the moon, and pass out. The dog sniffed his face and walks away disgusted, shaking its head as it sneezes out the fragrance. I suppose even animals can distinguish when someone's had cheap liquor.

Alright, I'm done deviating…

I still think its odd how either of us started our brief acquaintance seven months ago. It was a winter night, at one in the morning. Stranded. I had the address I had to get to scribbled on a piece of paper in my hand, but that was pointless to possess, really, at one in the morning. There wasn't anyone around to ask directions to in the circumstances. I huddled the larger bags  closer to me, and placed the smaller bags next to me on the bench I was sitting on. The wind blew strong, and stray bits of newspapers and food wrappers were caught in the flow. I suppose this must've been the spellbinding scenery one talks about in big cities. In my hometown, you could see leaves and confused airborne chickens blowing along a field, while trees chose to shake violently, like a drugged out junkie feeling the effects of ecstasy within a club, feeling like he's in heaven, jiving to music one would normally buy ear plugs for.

Irrelevant rambling is part of my way of thinking, let's just shift into a flashback…

Flashback

I arrived at this bus-stop at one in the morning. It's now three A.M, and not a soul around to ask directions. Crap, this is depressing. Oh well, another couple of hours and there'll be people back on the streets. 

Buses. Can't help but love public transport in India. They arrive too early or too late at a bus depot, and I'm almost certain bus drivers have bets among themselves on who could arrive later than the specified time. He who arrives last wins a bottle. At the moment, some of my bags were the only things providing me warmth against the wind. 

From a little way off, I saw an approaching headlight. Either an auto-rickshaw or a bike. At three in the morning, I'm slightly wary with the ones who drive around at this time. Either it's call-centre employees who're too tired or sexually depraved to get me to my destination. Auto-rickshaw drivers out at this time are a tad bit worse -  they'll either proceed to charge me fifty times the normal rate, or introduce what they may assume as a potential damsel-in-distress to a potential pimp. 

It's a bike.

The bike slows down to a halt near me, and the driver takes off his helmet. The guy must be a couple of years older than me. He has a blank expression, but his eyes seem to light up on seeing me. I hope he doesn't view me as prey. His eyes glance over the multitude of disorganized luggage arranged around me, and a slight smile plays across his face. 

"Been here long?"

There's a flicker of sarcasm in his tone of voice. I retort back with an equally sarcastic Yes, nice weather for it…

"What?"

"What?"

"Um… never mind your attempt at humor, but is there somewhere you need to get to?"

"Oh no. I enjoy camping out at bus-stops…"

An involuntary chuckle escapes his lips.

"Look, where do you have to get to? Maybe I can help."

"Maybe…"

"Well?"

"There's no way you'll be able to arrange a taxi now, will you?"

"It's three in the morning. So, no chance of that for a few hours… Do you have an address?"

I showed him the address I held onto for two hours. He unfolded the crinkly piece of paper, and read the address. A wide smile this time. 

"You've been here for two hours, you say?"

"Yes, I believe I said that… What's your point?"

"Well, the place is close by. You could practically walk there."

"Really?"

"Really."

"That's nice. Now, explain how I'm supposed to get all this luggage there."

"I'll help."

"Tell me, do you work?"

"No. I'm a student."

"What are doing out so early?"

"I felt like taking a ride."

"You felt like taking a ride at three in the morning…"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I could use your help, sure. How can I trust you with my bags?"

"And this impeccable reasoning has something to do with me riding a bike at three in the morning?"

"Yes."

"I see. Well… If you want, I could take the larger bags, and drive slowly alongside you. You could take the laptop bag and the trolley. Yeah?"

"How did you know that was a laptop?"

"It's a flat rectangle. What else could it be?"

"Fair point. How can I be sure you won't drive off with my bags ?"

"Here, I'll switch off the bike. You keep the keys."

We hauled the larger bags onto his bike, and he started to walk with the bike and the bags, making sure they weren't falling off. I walked alongside him, pulling my trolley bag. He took a side route into a really dark street, and I began to feel wary again. After ten minutes of walking, he's hitting a tin drum placed outside a large building, and a sleepy, yet enraged bearded guy stepped out to meet us. 

"What the hell do you want? It's bad enough I don't get sleep in the morning…"

"I think she's supposed to be staying here. Could you open the gates?"

"No, I cannot."

"She has college tomorrow. She's been sitting at that bus-stop for the last two hours."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why has she been sitting there for the last two hours? This place is just behind the bus-stop…"

"She didn't know that, did she?"

"Amusing story…"

"It wasn't that amusing sitting out there in this weather, I assure you..", I interject.

"I'm not really amused about losing sleep early in the morning either. I'm the warden of this hostel, do you have your college acceptance form?"

I fished it out of one of my bags. The warden glanced through it, and opened the gates.

"You should've called someone…"

"Well, I didn't have a number. And the bus was five hours late, I assumed I could ask around for directions…"

"Hmm… Here are your keys, I'll show you to your room. I'll wake up the porter to carry up your bags in a few minutes. Follow me."

I looked around to see the guy on the bike putting his helmet back on and kick starting his bike.

"Hey…"

"Hey…"

"Thanks…"

"Sure… I didn't catch your name…"

"Nidhi… Sorry for being so rude earlier…"

"It's to be expected I suppose. Bala… See you at college tomorrow…"

"College?"

And before I could ask him anything further, he drove off. 

Day One of College

My room-mate was a weird girl called Annie, who thought collecting posters of local movie stars and decorating them with lipstick was a fascinating hobby. We got to college, and found a gathering of students near the entrance. We soon found out that these were second years taking our attendance at the gate, so no one would get missed out for what they termed The Ragging Session. Oh well, if it got to the worst, I would probably be asked to kiss some ugly kid in my batch, or something. Big deal. Annie mentioned she was fine with ragging, because she read somewhere that the most embarrassing thing seniors would make juniors do was to make them sing, and she didn't worry at all about this because she was a terrific singer. Being naïve does have it's charm, I suppose.

An hour later, some of us were made to parade around college on all fours, bleating like goats. The funniest parts were when we had to interrupt classes doing this. Exasperated professors eyed us with a mixture of sympathy and weariness. Until we were led into the basketball court for our final trial. Play acting.

Playacting was an activity that involved improvisation based on the roles we were given on the spot, and we had to act it out convincingly in front of our seniors, who were both the coordinators and the audience. We selected out roles out of a pre-prepared list, which we fished out from an earthen pot. Annie got to be an opera singer who had constipation, so even though she was relatively confused with the role she had to play, she was quite happy to be given the chance to show off her singing skills. I got the role of an old lady who despised the young, which the rest of the batch played out. The story was this odd little story of a group of singers who fell in love with each other, but were afraid to say it to each other, or something of the sort. One of the seniors walked into the middle of our terrified group of juniors.

"You're all going to have to act this drama out, with dialogues made off the top of your head. Act out your roles well, or you're all dead. You're going to have one among our bunch to act with you. This is Bala."

Shit.

The guy I met yesterday walked up to us, and said to his peer, " Manju, give me a minute with them…"

Manju, the clearly psychotic senior, left him with us , and he slowly turned to face us.

"Listen up, this is just part of the ragging ritual these people think are so important. Just play along and have fun. Do not stammer, do not hesitate, they're expecting a comedy show, not an acting performance, so it doesn't matter if what you do is crap. Just don't get nervous, these people are going to be worse to you for a whole year if you do."

Oh, brilliant. Just what terrified first-years need. Consolation to frightened kids are as helpful as kissing a poisonous snake on its head after it bit you several times already. Dumb analogy; my sole point being his stirring speech was relatively useless in the circumstances.

The drama took off in a few minutes. The story was there are these group of singers at a school, who're really talented, and Bala plays their music teacher. He recognizes their talent, and wants them to get famous, yet the school is situated in a poor community which is run by an old lady, who refuses to pay up for an album the music teacher wants to put together. Bala was a terrific comic actor. He would come up with strangely surreal dialogues to whatever poorly construed dialogues our group of first years were able to come up with. Sometimes the dialogues were so surreal, that several of us started to whimper or nearly faint, trying to come up with retorts to his dialogues. He would just smile at each of us, and push us into saying something. Everyone did come up with satisfactory performances, as no one were called off to meet the other seniors, and the seniors were pretty much amused at the proceedings till now. 

Till now, it went well for me. All I had to do was sneer at the other actors when they would come up to me and request my character for a chance to produce their album. But I did seem to notice Bala was beginning to move the improvised drama from comic fantasy to an emerging element of seriousness. The drama finally got to a confrontation scene between the music teacher and the old lady, who was also the principal of the school. To my astonishment, he started to deliver an impassioned performance.

"You are filth. You really are. These kids have the talent to sing with the greatest singers the world has ever produced, and you're taking away the one shot they have, so you could satisfy your grudge against the young. How do you live with yourself?"

Fucking hell. How the fuck was I supposed to get out of this?

"Would you have a seat, Mr. Winkle?"

Bala was momentarily put off by this. He mimed sitting on an imaginary table, and looked expectantly at what I was trying to do.

"I'm going to give these kids the chance they deserve."

"What?"

The whole auditorium had descended into one of momentary silence, juniors and seniors alike. They expected something surreal to come up from Bala, but even he was confused at the moment.

"I'm going to produce the album for the kids, so they could have their chance at fame and fortune."

"I really don't know what to say", Bala said, probably reflective of his present predicament.

"However, you aren't going to be the music director for the album."

"What?"

"You heard me. I had the misfortune to hear some of your music today afternoon. Excuse my language, but it was fucking pathetic."

"What? Wait, you're the one who hired me, weren't you?"

"Based on your qualifications, yes. How you got those qualifications are of immense interest to me… If the music I heard today afternoon was any indication, I would've thought you had procured fake qualifications."

A flicker of recognition dawned on his face, as he finally realized what I was doing. A comical whimper played across on his face and he yelled out, "Yes. Yes, I admit it. I just wanted to teach music."

"Well… You're fired, you paradoxical sack of shit…", which I thought made the drama end in a sense of irony. 

The auditorium applauded confusedly as the drama ended, as Bala began to act like he was sobbing and walked off stage, and as soon as he got off, began clapping his hands at the stage where I was still standing. The seniors followed suit reluctantly, as confused as they were. The juniors were jubilant though. The ragging ordeal was over.

As soon as everyone cleared off, he walked up to me.

"Well done. Nidhi, isn't it?"

"Yea, sure… Thanks for making it close to impossible to get out of that hole you created."

"Well, one thing's for certain. Your batch isn't going to be ragged anymore. Listen, are you interested in acting?"

"No. Why?"

"Hmm… What about writing?"

"I'm not sure. I've never given it much thought really. Why do you ask?"

"When it's lunch break, come by the canteen. I'll explain then. You have classes to get to at the moment…"

First Meeting

By lunch break, I walked to the canteen, and he waiting for me by the entrance.

"You hungry?"

"Not really, no."

"Alright, let's take a walk…"

We walked to a place which looked like a garden, and he asked me what I thought of the notion of tragedy.

"What?"

"What do you understand of tragedy?"

"What about it?"

"How it's portrayed in popular culture…"

"Oh… I think it's a pathetic joke…"

"How?"

" Well… Tragedy is usually portrayed in a sort of depressing narrow view of total immersion into some sort of vague darkness, and the only escape to it is either finding someone to talk about it to, or finding god."

"Hmm… Go on…"

"That's all there is to say, isn't it? It's pathetic, and this is what I think."

"Well, how would you portray it, if given the chance?"

"I wouldn't take the chance."

"Hypothetically, if you had to, how would you do it?"

"Well… Tragedy is one of those views from which one can stray into absolutely anything else. Isn't there this idea that once we're left with nothing, we're free to do anything? Similarly, tragedy is like that, or at the least a situation or set of situations that leads a character to believe that there's absolutely no hope left. That's when they can rebuild their lives from nothing into a whole different set of ideals and life choices which didn't previously exist or occur to them in their lifetimes. None of this is shown in popular culture, ever. One is almost led to the conclusion that popular movies and music is an indoctrination technique, to say either be entirely delusional, or entirely obedient, to be successful. The grey area in the middle is what I would like to see for once on screen, or stage, or in music CDs. Unfortunately, I don't."

I stopped this seemingly endless tirade, as I saw Bala grinning from ear-to-ear.

"What?"

"Which course have you taken?"

"Mech."

"Screw Mech. Start writing. I think you could be good with this."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm serious. You're incredibly gifted in forming concise opinions on something completely at random. Almost like you can improvise lines on anything out of the blue."

"If you're referring to our little skit today morning, that was a stroke of luck."

"That may have been. How about this opinion of tragedy? Did you ever think about this before?"

"I guess not."

 "That's what I mean. You really should attempt this. Will you?"

"I suppose I'll give it a shot. What exactly did you have in mind?"

"I'm putting together this little drama for the Cultural Week here. Would you like to co-write it?"

"Sure."

And write we did. The play got rave reviews for some reason, which probably had something to do with his performance again. It was described as being Fresh, and Innovative. By this time, we had become professional acquaintances, of sorts.

Forming the Novella

Walking through crowded places, Bala had this little game he played, in which he asked me to put dialogues into people based on their behavior. I found it more amusing to construct little fictional realities around their behavior at the time, and he would put in dialogues. We would then leave to some secluded park. I would create the scenes and situations. He would attempt to act out the characters and come up with some dialogues, and I would respond to those dialogues to produce the rest of the material. I went back to the hostel after each of these sessions, and would come up with a finished short story by the morning, which he would read with relish. So far, I had created twenty eight short stories in six weeks.

After reading the last one, he looked at me with an intense look in his eye.

"I've just had another radical idea."

"Ok", I said, reaching for the clipboard. He signaled it won't be needed at the moment.

"Well?"

"You should try writing a Novella…"

"What's a novella?"

"It's a literary piece of work which is the length between a short-story and a novel."

"I see… I don't have an idea to work on though."

"Yes you do… These stories…"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, these are twenty eight unconnected shorts. Find a common thread between them. In other words, attempt to weave a connecting thread between them."

"What nonsense… There's no way to connect these. For instance, one of the stories involves gang rape, one of the stories involve traveling back in time to make sure the protagonist's parents never get married, one of the stories involve the unfortunate adventures of a plumber. You tell me how to connect these, and I'll contemplate the practicality of connecting the other twenty five…"

"Improvisation is the skill of creating something out of absolutely nothing. You understand that much, don't you?"

"Yes, you enlightened fuck, I do…"

"Well, you already have background stories - the twenty eight you've written so far. What you have to improvise now is an alternate universe, which can accommodate these twenty eight pieces of prose together. How hard can that be?"

I went back to the hostel and thought this over. Impossible, surely. I read and reread my stories, and strangely enough, an idea began to form shape in my head. How about a protagonist who creates these alternate universes, because his reality is so messed up - broken marriages, unemployment, his kids hate him, and he's an absolute outcast from society because he does not accept religion. What then? His literary fascination, or obsession, rather, is the only form of escape, and he manages to slip in some or the other personal mental degradation in each of his stories. So each of his stories have a small part in it which is slightly autobiographical. As time passes by, he begins to form a sort of weird recognition to these characters and develops multiple-personality disorder. He begins to act like each of these characters in each of his individual stories in varying situations in his real life, and is put away into an asylum by society, because he's lost it. His stories never get published. However, he stays in the asylum, and his real self gradually slips away, and he lives in the blissful state of living in the imagination of each fictional character he's created. Sad ending to a story, perhaps, but it isn't sad at all to the protagonist.

Hmm.

I like this.

 I began to write the story, and the details began to pile up. I stopped meeting Bala regularly, because I'd become so immersed in my writing, and I would manage to shuffle through college in a sort of histrionic daze. He understood it well enough to leave me alone.

Three months later, I had finished my first draft of the story. I called Bala up, and asked him to meet me at a restaurant. He suggested it should be a dinner appointment. I agreed to meet him by seven.

"How was your weekend?"

"Oh, splendid. I tried to write some form of connecting theme between the third and twenty second story, and Ann decides to put forward this awkward notion of changing her character according to her boyfriend's wishes…"

"How is that awkward?"

"It's awkward, because I'm not interested to know."

"Why didn't you tell her that then?"

"Oh I did. Holy fucking swamp bubbles, I did. This is when she started to whine and bray out her sob story which I, of all people, was supposed to solve for her. Her boyfriend is a sportsman. And a sexist. He seems to have this opinion that women need to cook, clean and create offspring; while she wanted to make playback singing a career option. It seems that option is closed off now, if she wants to stay with this guy. Or he has to start thinking in non-sexist terms. I told her this so that she would stop crying her head off. Instead, she chooses to cry more intensely at this point, and I'm out of booze as well."

"I didn't know you drank…"

"I don't, but in the circumstances I thought it was necessary. The din she made was excruciating."

"I think she's hard put not to consider the relationship she's been in for months now, for a career."

"Career or not, it's a vocation she chose. If she chooses to play it down because of someone else's ego rather than genuine constraints, I think it's pitiful. I mean, not everyone's born with talent. She's definitely got it. And now, she's in two minds whether to go with it, or suppress it."

"Well… it's a weird thing, but not everyone makes decisions based on logic. Most of our decisions, conscious or otherwise, still rests on emotions. They've done research on this, and it seems the processes in the brain that are responsible for emotional responses are still stronger than the logical ones. In the sense, those parts of the brain used up for logical decisions are used up when we're solving an equation, or working out a philosophical argument. Daily decisions, unfortunately, are still based around the notion of how we feel about it."

"How fascinatingly dreadful."

"Not really. For instance, if I said I was in love with you now, how would you react?"

"I'd look around for hidden cameras."

"Be serious."

"I am serious. Why else would you say something like that?"

"Let's presume I am in love with you. And I meant that sincerely. How would you react?"

"Well… I would stare at you for a full minute, order my meal, eat it, leave, and let you pay the bill…"

"Yes?"

"Yes."

"I mean - what would you do next?"

"Depends on my mood after that, really. If I'm not pissed off with the whole thing, I would call you the next morning, and act as if this little episode never happened."

"And if you're pissed off…"

"Well… then just assume you won't be getting a call from me anytime in the near future for telling you how pissed off I am."

"I see."

"I don't get it. I have enough stories to complete already, why are you giving me another situation to write about?"

"Because it wasn't a constructed situation."

"Pardon?"

"That wasn't a situation I concocted for one of your stories."

"I see."

"You do?"

"Well… Hmm…"

"Well?"

"I think it's about time you passed me the menu."

"What? Oh, right…"

We ate dinner in a state of non-conversation. I looked through my notes while eating my salad, while he drank the wine, staring at the sky. After this rather somber affair, I left him without another word. I got back home, to discover Ann singing into a karaoke version of Noise Rock. Which was odd, she usually sang along to Indian film tunes.

On seeing me enter staring at her, she displayed a wide grin and asked if I had dinner.

"Yeah, just had it."

I slumped into my bed, and reached out for my bag to fish out my notes from it.

"I broke up with him", she remarked suddenly.

"Hmm…"

"I swear I did."

"Yes, admirable gesture, Annie."

"I told him my singing was more important than he was…"

"Good, good…"

"Do you think it was a good decision?"

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

"Isn't that a famous line from some movie classic?"

"Perhaps. However, in the circumstances, it fits in pretty well."

"I see. Doesn't it matter that I'm hurt? That I'm alone? That I'm raging within myself to find an inkling of a reason to give him another chance?"

"Dear frigging lord… If it's one person who had to sacrifice a bit in this case, it was him. And I assume he didn't offer to sacrifice, even when u broke up?"

"No…"

"There's your answer. Now let me work."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Annie, for goodness sake, some decisions in life do involve pain and uncertainty. The only way to analyze them is how practical they are at the time you did it, not plan them ahead for an uncertain future. The important thing is now you'll be free to do something you love doing. You might encounter someone better than your idea of a knight in shining armor, or maybe you won't. The one thing you have to understand is that this life partner nonsense, at this particular moment, is irrelevant. Goodness, why is everyone talking about farcical fantasies today?"

"Someone else talked to you about love today?"

"Yeah, Bala. He sort of did this weird proposal thing today."

"He proposed to you?"

"Yeah…"

"And?"

"And what?"

"Nidhi…", she began in the sort indignant tone I hated people talking in.

"What?"

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"And what did he say?"

"Well… since I said nothing, he said nothing."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Well, when I wake up tomorrow morning and I'm still not pissed off with it, I'll talk to him like I used to. Other than that, nothing really."

"But he loves you."

"He thinks that."

"I give up."

"Oh good."

Annie eyed me with an exasperated look, and turned the karaoke back on. As she vented her displaced feelings into Noise Rock, I began to turn my aggression into forming connections between my stories. The vindictiveness inherent in several of my stories began to pour out, putting a more believable character into my protagonist. I was in the middle of writing what he writes after his divorce, and the stories I'd set for this mood, and my present mood seemed to gel well. I kept writing. Ann went to sleep, I went out into the corridor which was lit up, and wrote the rest of the story in the middle of sweat and incessant mosquitoes.

I was woken up by Ann the next morning, and found I'd slept in the corridor. I must have passed out after the second reading of the material. I got up, and took my shower before college. There was still an hour to go to college, so I scanned through my finished rough draft. It was done. I felt elated for some reason, I should tell Bala. Hey, I didn't feel too bad about him today morning. He might have forgotten yesterdays silly nonsense anyway. I tried calling him up. No answer. Second Try. No Answer. Third Try. No Answer. Probably getting ready for college or something. I guess I'll meet him in college.

Three hours later, it was time for lunch break. I wandered around college, and found out he hadn't turned up today. Strange. I tried calling him again. Switched off. Hmm. Oh well, I'll hear from him soon enough, I suppose.

Two weeks later, I stopped by his house, and the landlady said he'd disappeared after giving her an advance payment. I wasn't sure on how to take this. Was this his way of disappearing from the sight of me, or was it something unrelated? Or was it the start of something drastic? No, I'm being silly. Aren't I?

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, I finished the final draft of my novella. Well... re-editing... The protagonist I'd created had layers of dark thoughts, yet he remained nice to people around him, even during the time he began to slip into psychosis. There is an element of true sadness in this character, and everything he turns into is a result of emotional instability. People ask how it's possible to create characters so varied from the author itself, here's the answer. It's more fun. Plain and simple. And really, that's all there is to it. Literary critics might claim there's some connection with the author's perspectives and the perspectives of the characters they create. That may be true, but there's a line of thought some writers take. Some may put in personal perspectives into plot lines. Some others may create characters like themselves to watch, to observe those fictional characters the author might think are flawed or morally superior to himself.

Writing works on several levels. To an author, it may have as varied an effect as being therapeutic, or confessional, or analytical, or simply observational. Although it's none of these things for me, I thought it was interesting to play around with a train of thought which was interesting to me. Psychosis is totally given one perspective in culture. That it is repulsive, disparaging, and misunderstood. I think we, as a victimized culture, sort of give it one dimension, hence treating psychosis even in medical terms with a narrow set of view-points. From the outside, psychosis is painful to watch, no question. However, we have no certainty whether what the patients have running through their minds has the effect of inexpressible agony or bliss. We cannot know. For all we know, an schizophrenic might be in an entirely blissful state comparatively to his sickening real life, and doctors may be attempting to revive him back into a state of never-ending despair.

All we strive for is happiness, isn't it? Some may feel buying more stuff than the neighbor pleases them immensely. Others may gorge themselves on high fructose, poly unsaturated diets to seek contentment. Others may choose to use, or 'abuse' substances of some kind or the other to seek temporary bliss. Others may seek redemption and comfort from belief systems, or their work. And some others may seek to live in their own imaginations. It may seem naïve, or reckless, but one aspect of it people do not note, is that these people rarely go out of their way to harm or trouble people around them. You and me, are barely visions within their perfect world. We're part of the show they created for themselves. As much as this notion is diverse and a little bit dreamy, we may have to think that there's some value in day dreaming once in a while. Think of any person who works their butts off at work, and the only time they get to relax is taken up by the idiot tube, or sleep, or dark thoughts. Something's wrong with society, surely, if the only activities we undertake during our leisure time, are these choices that either include adrenalin rushes, mindless tasks, or homicidal/suicidal thoughts. Strange.

I guess this protagonist I created was an exploration into this idea.

Sometimes we undertake certain tasks we hate to figure out if there's any point to most of the things we do or believe in. If these are thought of rationally, almost everything is devoid of meaning. Although, we sometimes miss certain things at certain points of time. It's been almost three months since he disappeared. There's been no news, no calls, nothing. Ignoring the unfounded assumption that I miss him, I do miss his occasional abrupt suggestions.

My cell phone rang. A number off a phone booth.

"Yes?"

"Nidhi, hi."

What's the metaphor I'm looking for? A dam exploding onto an unassuming tourist? A nuclear warhead dropped onto a village that hasn't yet grasped the idea of nuclear warfare? Perhaps a tad bit overstated, but words seemed to spew forth into the mouthpiece. After what seemed like an eternity, I stopped to draw in air.

A chuckle escaped from the receiver.

"Calm down…"

"Where the hell were you?"

"Well…"

"And what was the idea of doing the disappearing trick anyway? Were you pursued by rogue elements or something?"

"If you'll let me explain…"

"No, I won't let you explain…"

"Ok."

"For fuck's sake, explain…"

"Listen, I haven't got enough time to explain now. I'll be back in a few days, wait for me by the bus-stop near your hostel."

"When?"

"Sunday. One AM."

"…"

"Well?"

"I'll be there…"

"Good. Look I've gotta go now. Nidhi?"

"What?"

"Do think about what I said before I left…"

And he hung up.

The next few days, I was a nervous wreck. I had no idea why.

This effect was accentuated ever so slightly with Ann singing "You love him, don't you" in a semi-classical tune, which equally delighted and infuriated me.

Perhaps it was because I couldn't wait to discuss my finished product with him.

Perhaps it was because I just missed him and wanted to talk to him again.

Perhaps it was because I… No, not that, surely…

Whatever the reason was, my anxiety grew to epic proportions, until it got to the day. I kept myself awake till about eleven at night by clicking the table lamp on and off, until Ann kicked me out. I wandered around the hostel, I climbed the stairs to the roof, drew in deep breaths, and scanned the landscape. The millions of lit homes looked like fireflies hovering in the distance. A slight drizzle fell over my face, and brought me back from this temporary dream state. I walked to the bus-stop, and waited.

If this was a movie, this would be the time where the visuals fade back in to the first scene to introduce a theatric effect. Bah. Too much writing is possibly responsible for this sort of thinking. Too many visuals, and I'm describing my life like a movie. I waited some more. A bus stopped in the bus-stop opposite me, and moved on after a few seconds. As the smoke cleared away, I saw him light a cigarette.

I couldn't help but smile. He drew in a puff, and saw me waiting. Blank expression, with lit up eyes. His trademark look. He walked over to me.

I found myself in a white room. Entirely white.

How did I get here in a flash of a second? I'm wearing a straitjacket, in a padded cell.

I looked around in confused terror, and saw a man with a lab coat seated on a chair with a clipboard right in front of where I'm lying face down. A young nurse stood by his side.

Pathos

 "Good afternoon. And how are you doing today?"

"Who are you, and what am I doing here?"

"Do you not remember how you got here?"

"Are you a doctor?"

"Indeed."

"What am I doing here?"

"Do you know what this place is?"

"Judging from every psychological thriller I've seen, it appears to be a padded cell."

"Very good. Could you tell me your name?"

"Nidhi… You mean to tell me you admitted me here without knowing my name?"

"No, I'm checking to see if your memory's any better…"

"Look, there must be some mistake. I was at a bus-stop waiting for someone, and…"

"And?"

"That's the thing, I suddenly woke up here. I can't have been dreaming the whole thing now, could I?"

"I'm not sure, you tell me."

"I'll tell what I remember, shall I?"

Two hours later

"So, this boy you talked about. Did he reach you?"

"I don't remember. I'm sure he did."

"Are you absolutely certain?"

"I… why am I here?"

"Do you know what date it is?"

"November 20^th, I think…"

"It's December 2^nd."

"I've been here for twelve days?"

"For three years, Miss Nidhi…"

"Pardon?"

"You've been here for just over three years."

"Why? What could I possibly be here for?"

"You've been receiving medical treatment in this hospital for trauma-induced psychosis and amnesia."

"Trauma?"

The doctor looks uneasy now, almost like he's in two minds of whether to divulge the information or not to the patient.

"You'd witnessed a death. A freak accident. Since then, you've constructed a fantasy in which the person you saw die, is still alive and well… This boy you talked about, he is…"

"He is what?"

"I'm sorry, you did see Bala die. It was another bus hitting him just as he was crossing the road."

"That's impossible… I saw him cross the road…"

"And yet, you have trouble remembering it, Miss Nidhi…"

The patient looks down at the floor. She remains absolutely numb for a few seconds, until her face gradually changes into one of demonic rage. She looks at the doctor and snarls at him with malice, like a rabid animal. She lets out a blood-curling scream, which momentarily numbs patients from wards nearby, and finally lunges at the doctor. The doctor hits her across the face with the clipboard in pure terrified defense, which enrages her even further. Orderlies rush into the padded cell to restrain the patient who's too violent and demented, with a straitjacket on.

The doctor rushes out of the cell, and the nurse follows him.

"What do we do now, doctor?"

"Sedate her. We'll try this again next month."

From inside the cell, the sound of the patient talking dementedly to herself could be heard which gives the doctor an involuntary shudder. After a few more bouts of maniacal laughter issues forth from the cell, an elderly nurse rushes with the sedative. After the sounds of the patient simmer down, the orderlies and the elderly nurse walk out of the cell with ruffled hair, and disheveled uniforms. The young nurse locks the cell up and watches the patient mumbling something to herself.

"Couldn't we just administer ECT?"

"Too risky. She might lose her memory completely."

"But this is the result of witnessing a freak accident?"

"No."

"No? But you just told her this boy was dead."

"He isn't, Miss Thomas."

"Doctor, I'm on the verge of getting as confused as she is… What exactly happened?"

"Well, the first day at this bus-stop actually happened. Every little anecdote from then onwards is a constructed fantasy."

"How can you be sure?"

"She provided us with a clue a few years ago. The roommate. We talked to her, and figured out what really happened. Her relationship with this boy starts this fantasy off, because she started to form an interest in him. The Novella she keeps mentioning in all these sessions was a fantasy tale implanted by her to make her fantasy world more complex and believable."

"For whom?"

"For herself…"

"Wow."

"Not a term I would use in the circumstances, Nurse."

"It is a talented cover story, you have to admit…"

"Perhaps…"

"Then why did you tell her this boy was dead?"

"The end of her fantasy tale, I suppose, is this boy meeting her at this bus-stop. The start is meeting him as well. She has to first learn to let go of this boy's image in her mind, because nearly 99% of this boy's image is made up. She has to first get used to the idea that this boy is no more. Then, we could reintroduce the roommate to recollect the college days to her, and then she'll be back to normal. But I'm afraid her construction of an alternate reality is too skillfully detailed. My profession states I have to try. Personally, I see no hope in this case."

The nurse is taken aback by this information, and finally manages to asks, "Why couldn't we introduce the roommate instead, and make her narrate what happened?"

"You've watched her for nearly three years, haven't you? All that would succeed in doing is the patient developing a passionate hatred for her roommate. Besides, we have had sessions with her for three years now. She rages for a few hours after a small revelation from me, then she's back to believing in her fictional story as her absolute reality. No, this one is beyond hope."

The doctor's face is shrunken, tired, and looks hopeless. He walks to the canteen for his tea.

Epilogue

The girl breathes laboriously in the middle of the cell, holding her knees. The drugs have started to take effect. Her rage drops down, her imagination slips back to her fantasy world.

A bus stops at the bus stop opposite the one she's seated in. As the bus moves away and the issuing smoke clears, he's lighting up a cigarette. Barely able to contain her excitement, she gets up from her seat, and exhibits a wide grin. He crosses the road, and seats himself next to her, while she still remains standing, smiling at him. He takes out a ring from his shirt pocket, and looks up at her with a sheepish smile, and on seeing her still smiling, grins, and puts it on her finger without saying another word.

The girl chuckles psychotically to herself in the ward.

He gently pulls her down to sit beside him, and pulls her closer to him. They watch the rain, which just got heavier. She eyes his face and the ring alternatively, while he looks on into the rain smoking his cigarette with a flicker of a smile.

Without looking at him, she asks, "Coincidences are both life-changing and fragile. Isn't that terrifying?"

He looks at her for a few seconds, and hugs her closer. They watch drunk beggars woken up by the rain, screaming abuses at the clouds now, and smile. 
They are content.

END