A Writer, A Homecoming and some Friends

“I write,” He said, “It’s what I do.” Sounding a little pseudo intellectual to his own ears. Almost as though he were boasting, but given that he was the only one around, and he was talking to himself, he wasn’t. He was only expressing what he thought the truth was, and he thought, he wrote…

But about what, and why? These are questions I can’t answer, as I sit here pensive, in front of my computer, the cursor blinking, both patiently and irritably at the same time. Like that teacher, watching you, when you can’t tell whether she’s amused or is waiting for you to stop before she gives it you. I re read what I’ve just written, and reflect, wondering, like an actor, practicing in the mirror, ‘I think that’s a good opening, will my readers agree?’ ‘will the audience like what I’m doing, will they get it, how can I make it more affective? Should I go down on one knee?’ of course, as a writer I can’t do so myself, but should I make my character do so in this story. Which brings me to another point, what character? What story? Why? Because, I’m a writer, this is what I do. ‘Really, you can say that with a  straight face?’

Ridicule is the price we pay for passion. I wonder if ridicule has a synonym with p, yes I will look it up.

Hmm, in the mean while, perhaps, I should now introduce my character? Hi, I’m Eduard, I’m 6feet tall, or like to say I am, the jury keeps changing its verdict. I have now, short cropped brown/black hair, and a French beard that I can’t make up my mind about, but won’t shave off because once it’s gone it won’t come back (for a while). I wish I was stronger, I wish I read more, I wish I could jump higher, and dunk, I wish my girlfriend was hotter, I wish I was cooler, I wish my friends liked me more, I wish they were cooler too. I wish I was richer, and I wish it was easier. I wish I had a six pack, and cuts, I wish women looked at me, everywhere, I wish people wanted to be me. I wish to have bulging biceps, but I’ve never been regular for a more than a week at a gym. I can’t stand routine, and I can’t abide a lack of purpose, and yes they’re not oxymorons, and yes, I’m saying all this with a straight face, entirely unselfconscious.

This is a story you see, this is my character, I can make him whatever I want to be. I can make him a scholar when he’s in class, I can make him a basketball shooter when he’s playing basketball, I can make the girls swoon for him, I can make him the frustrated man he is too. I can make him dashing and handsome, and I can do that too with a straight face.

So this is the story of Eduard, this Eduard, who becomes whoever I make him.

Eduard, was returning after a long time, from where and to where are merely incidental, so we’ll leave that out, what mattered, is who he was returning to. Or what, too perhaps, he was returning to his dogs. That’s what he said, this Eduard the character, the real Eduard, well this story isn’t about him, is it?

And a few more things, to his girlfriend, and to his best friend, and to a life of smoking up, and chilling out, not chillaxing please, Eduard, was definitely not cool. He took great pains not to be, so much so that when he bought his pair of converse, he had to rationalize the choice to his friends. It was the ultimate act of nonconformity, refusal to conform even to non-conformity, or something of that nature. The shoes were very comfortable, and it was curiosity and price more than anything that convinced him to buy it. (explaining again, aren’t we?) the shoes are pretty cool by the way, in a over sized duck flatack flatack kind of way…

Anyway, Eduard, was quite happy to leave behind all the stuff he was, and go back for one last recce I think, that’s what I mean, it’s that intelligence short form for reconnaissance, if you know the right one, let me know.  There were things he missed and things he wanted to do again, and some things he wanted to do for the first time. But mostly he missed the familiar. The new city he was in, had gone from the city of dreams to dreariness much faster than things did for him. Partially because Eduard is antisocial.

Anyhow, he set out with high hopes, and dreams of reliving three years, in around as many days. It didn’t turn out quite like that, if it did, this wouldn’t be much of a story would it? And I wouldn’t be a writer would I? Of course you could say this isn’t a good story no matter what happens, but then you’d be reading a different story, because the story I’m writing is good. If this sounds like the emperor’s new clothes, all over again, you’re on the right track. A rose by any other name may still smell sweet, but sweet is something you’ve learned, so a rose could also smell sour, cause I’m a writer, and in my stories, I can make it happen.

As the train finally pulled into the station, the night felt cold, the train crawled into platform, the steam engine leaving little clouds behind it, at regular intervals, and in his coach, near the front of the train, he could hear the hiss of the valves as the steam escaped. The hiss was a gentle one, with non of the ferocity he’d got used to over the last 20 hours. The urgency of the hiss and puff of the engine had till now found a mirror in his own urgency to be back home, and now that the train seemed to be easing off, he was getting more and more restless, because he was still an hour, at least or more away from home, and more importantly, an expensive auto ride away too.

As the train came to a stop, or actually just before, he jumped off the train and started moving towards the exit. Only then did he realize, he wasn’t certain where exactly the exit was! He stopped, paused, and looked around, then he spotted the overheard bridge. And started walking towards it. Hoping that it did lead to the outside, and not just to another platform. Suddenly, his enthusiasm caught up with him again, and he took the stairs two at a time. Still unsure if they were the right ones, but if he was making a mistake, he reasoned, it made more sense to get it over with soon, so that he could do the right thing next.

As he jumped the last three steps at once, he realized, that this wasn’t a mistake, the bridge was marked clearly with exit. The arrow pointed left, he turned, and still bouncing, walked briskly in that direction. The people around his stared. It was past two in the morning, what right did he have to be  smiling to be smiling that wide, and why? What was so good about an overhead bridge at two in the morning? Was he crazy? He skipped over an outstretched leg of someone who was sleeping there, and then took the stairs going down two at a time, which was pretty risky, given how slippery they were, luckily they weren’t wet, or he’d have fallen.

He reached the base of the stairs, and was, thankfully, not immediately mobbed by auto drivers. Given the hour, perhaps they were a little lazy, or a little tardy, or maybe, the competition wasn’t as bad as usual. He actually had to walk upto one and ask if it would take him to almost the other end of town, north campus. It would, but it would charge him almost double the amount it should. He moved on, without comment.

At two though, almost all the auto vallahs were adamant about ripping him off. They looked him up and down, and asked him where he wanted to go, and then   quoted outlandish prices, obviously expecting him to bargain, and then accepting a price higher than normal of course, because they had the upper in the demand supply equation right now.

300 hundred.

Are you joking? Really? I could go home and come back for that much

Well, it’s two, no one is going to go for less…

Really? Let’s see, I’m sure not everyone is as willing to cheat their customers as you are..

Cheat?! (now very offended, he comes out of his auto) cheat, look at the time, we’re not going to get anyone to come back from there with, what cheat? We’re poor men sir, we have families to feed too. And you’re saying we’re cheats. Okay fine, I’ll take 275.

(only paying attention to the new price, Eduard responds) What? 25 bucks less? That makes you honest? Ha ha ha, why don’t you go by meter? Huh? If you’re honest man, do the honest thing? Right? Meter, chalo, (now conceding) okay, I’ll give you 30 bucks more than the meter, because it’s so late? Deal?

No no no no sir, nothing doing, I’ll take 250, and that’s my last offer… final, 250, and no one will go for that little

Really? No one, okay, let me see, if no one goes for less, I’ll go with you. But, wait, where is the prepaid booth.

Those words, prepaid booth, all chances at making an illegal profit evaporating, have an affect. Okay okay, meter is fine, but give me 100 bucks more than the meter.

I… uh Eduard, only laughs… No no, the most I’ll give you extra is 50, and that’s my last offer, if you want it take, or else I’m off to the prepaid booth. (Eduard has no idea where the prepaid booth is, how far, and even if it’s open, but the threat seems to be working.)

50 ruppees? Sir, think of me, think of my children, I’m going to have to come back from there empty sir, at this time of the night who is going to come back?

You can go to the ISBT, you’ll get passengers there, don’t worry. Now do you want to go, or not? (he puts on his annoyed, time’s awasting face.)

The auto guy cracks, and gets into his cab.

Just to make sure, Eduard checks, so I’m paying you by the meter, and 50 bucks more? Yes? Or no? I don’t want any confusion when I get there.

Yes sir, Yes sir, that only… let’s go…

The auto guy pumps his handle, then engine sputters to life on his second attempt, and I get it. The auto seems nice, the seats are spongy and upholstered, and there is some soft, blue and red lighting above my seat on the right and left. He leans back into the seat and takes a deep breath. It had been a long time since he’d argued over a fare, and it felt good to be doing that again.

He thought he’d got a good deal, but with all such things, he was completely sure, that he’d realize sooner or later, that he had still been ripped off. But even that reminded him of being home, it was part of it, to him surprisingly… home was where you got cheated? Well, in a way, one of his friends at least would say you got cheated everywhere, so maybe, home was where you didn’t mind getting cheated?

He took another deep sigh, what did the next three days have in store for him he wondered, coming home, he knew was never easy, at least not in the stories he’d read about it. He took a third deep breath. Of course he wasn’t counting I am though, or at least inventing the number of breaths I need him to take. This third breath was accompanied by the auto partially passing over a bump in the road, as only one wheel dipped into the pothole, the auto tilted rakishly, and clunked somewhere, as it righted itself, he thought, ah yes, the pollution in Delhi does smell different to the pollution in Bombay.

But his nose was blocked… so you’ll have to take my word for it.