Read Truly Madly Deeply Online
Authors: Faraaz Kazi,Faraaz
Truly Madly Deeply (3 page)
“I know you'll like this one. Listen... Mrs. Brookes' hubby once told her that he fancied kinky sex and wanted to cum in her ear. She looked aghast and said she might go deaf. Her hubby replied, âI've been coming in your mouth for the past twenty years and you're still fucking talking!'” Sahil thumped the desk with his fist, making Mrs. Brookes turn back from the board.
He immediately stiffened and assumed a straight face until she turned back to resume writing on the board.
“Not funny enough? Ok, digest this. What would Mrs. Brookes' hubby say if you ask for him while he is kneading her tits in their bedroom?” Sahil continued, holding onto his tummy.
“Pass? Well he'd definitely say that he has his hands full⦠haha!” Sahil laughed loudly, making Mrs. Brookes focus her ire towards their direction.
***
Sahil would point out all the âattention magnets' on the campus to him whenever he spotted them.
“They generate more attention from guys than the state's thermal plant generates electricity,” Sahil informed him daily. Rahul would resume whatever he was doing without as much as a glance in the direction that Sahil would point out to his lost eyes.
“Laura!” he exclaimed, one day in the school grounds. Rahul looked at him, for a moment considering how an Indian brought up in the States could utter a disgusting Hindi expletive.
“There, there⦠She just looked at you and smiled⦠I swear. Wow, again⦠look, look!” Sahil pleadingly pointed out, but sensing the real source, Rahul continued his promenade across the grounds, showing more interest in a crawling caterpillar on the dull ground grass than in Sahil's puerile excitement.
***
Sahil remained befuddled about Rahul's behaviour and would remain so like everyone in the class, all until one fine day when Prof. Sarah ordered them to note down some important Physics problems in their books. All the students including Sahil, who was till then busy staring at the professor's shapely bottom, started rummaging in their bags and so did Rahul. He took out all his possessions to find the concerned book and replaced them all back in the bag after finding it. All but one â his diary.
And then as fate would have it, he moved out of the classroom to attend nature's call during the break, and the diary went into the hands of the person seated next to him. Sahil picked up the unusual looking object out of curiosity and flicked the lock open using the key peeking out from the hard cover in the front.
The first page that Sahil opened was the last as his eyes fell on the sketches that covered the handwriting around them: blood-dripping hearts with arrows pierced in their cracks and glasses placed beneath to collect the pain of the beating organ, surrounded by decorated letters that looked like snakes slithering on the pages. Before he could dwell on their understanding, his eyes fell on the words that accompanied the sketches; SEEMA they said in exquisite calligraphy, the name heralded a cord in Sahil's mind. It was the same name that Rahul's roommates had informed Sahil about, the one, which he muttered, incessantly in his wavering slumber. A random page sticking out of the diary caught his eye. He pulled it out and unfolded it to reveal a white sheet of paper that contained an adeptly drawn sketch. A sketch that Sahil would never forget!
The beauty of the portrait caught his eyes and overwhelmed him with considerable awe for the artist. It was not just a mere portrait but also the outpouring of someone's emotions and feelings, Sahil realised that. The more he saw it, the more it fascinated him. The shades of human creation seemed to entwine themselves with God's fingers as the expressions of the pretty visage announced; the portrait was a work of an exquisite artist.
The face of the girl in the portrait highlighted not just her beauty but spoke of something much more. He sensed the pride that was evident in her eyes and a searching look that they contained. Such depth, such charisma, he had never seen so far. He sensed the isolation that she felt inside her and the call that escaped her lips; he felt her need for a companion though he saw the arrogance of success written all over her charming countenance. Her free flowing curly hair highlighted her unadulterated desire for freedom to escape the travesties of the world and discover her true potential. Sahil let his hands roam around the portrait to feel something more, but before he could do that, the portrait was snatched away from his hands. He turned back to see a bald bulky guy with reddish freckles on his face, the feared school hooligan holding the portrait and whistling like a wolf over the perfection of the creation.
“Got this from Mr. lonely, did ya?” he asked Sahil without looking at him.
“Keep it back, he really won't like it, if he sees people making an issue of his things,” Sahil advised.
“Who cares a damn man, who cares a fuckin' damn,” the big guy replied, still looking at the picture.
“Give it back⦠” Sahil tried to reason it out.
“Yo, easy brother, take it easy now! You can drool over her all ya want but ya won't give us the chance, huh? Wha' kind of a jackass in-charge are ya, man? Anyway it's not me who's taken it. Hey guys look at this, man⦠ain't she great for a good fuck?” the huge guy called out to his partners.
“Damn mate, looks like she's got nice boobs,” one of the guys behind the hooligan whistled.
“Is this the loonymoony's Mona Lisa, haha!” another
one guffawed.
“Mate, when're ya gettin' her?” another of his aides asked the
bald hooligan.
“Won't go for less than a hundred dollars! Get collectin' guys⦠the mad, lonely guy supplies hot chicks. Looks like he had a deal or two goin' with old Sal here and we thought that all that weirdo does is jack-off on seeing his own ass in the mirror⦠haha!” the bald guy, who was standing to showcase the picture to all the people who remained in the class, shouted.
“Keep it down folks! Please BD, Rahul won't like it⦠it's his personal life and this would do no good,” Sahil requested but no one listened to him.
Therefore, Sahil did what he normally would not have done. Though being the class in-charge, he had always been deterred by the presence of seniors in the class and he had learnt never to correct them, but this time he just walked off towards the bald guy, the leader of the pack and pulled the portrait out of his hands. There was a stunned silence as the sheet tore off from the corners. A big, wide protruding gap displayed the chalkboard behind the professor's desk to the eyes peering at the sketch.
“Chill down mate, ya will get your share too⦠but looks like ya want it a bit too quick, eh?” BD advanced up on him, stretching his intertwined fingers as they made a crunching sound.
Sahil moved back immediately almost regretting his hasty decision, a big lump formed in his throat rendering him incapable of saying anything except âerrs' and âlistens'. The sheet was right in his hand, hanging loose from one of the torn sides. Sahil bumped into the protruding tummy of one of the three others who had surrounded him from behind and as he turned back, a hefty blow to the right side of his face knocked him over to the entrance of the classroom. He felt a searing pain shoot up in his right cheek and fell down near a pair of feet near the door. He painfully raised his eyes to see Rahul standing, calm and quiet, eyeing him in a passive sense until he looked at the portrait dangling loose in his hands. Sahil watched Rahul's facial expressions change almost instantly. He lifted Sahil up, but not at all gently, and grabbed the sheet from his hands.
“WHO DID THIS?” he shouted. The whites of his eyes were more prominent and the pitch of his voice left a prodding silence in the classroom. The mini celebrations of the hooligans died down almost immediately. People were not accustomed to hearing, who they thought as a mute guy, shout in their ears. Many were even surprised that this new Indian had a tongue in his mouth.
A visibly shaken Sahil could not point his finger at himself but sure did point it towards the hooligans, saying “Sorry... ” which he doubted Rahul heard. He believed at least he had told half the truth. If Rahul was really asking for who had hit him,
which he doubted he was, then he had surely directed him to the right person.
Rahul went from the entrance to the middle of the classroom in just two strides using his long legs as springs and looked at the devil with burning eyes that hid away no extent of his anger.
“Gawd⦠don'cha look at moi like that⦠I'm shit scared,” the leader of the pack mocked him and the guys around him started laughing. Seeing no reaction, the leader crunched up his shoulders and puffed his frame, half-a-feet over Rahul.
“Looks like no one, not even your hooded Robin, told ya what Big Daddy really is⦠one punch from me and ya will go back to ya motherland, jackass,” the hooligan said with a cold look. Rahul did the same with rising hatred.
“I'd rather say he'd end up in his mother's cunt, BD,” the shorter guy behind him mocked.
Rahul stared back with twice the infuriation. Sahil could faintly see him clench his fist tightly, the green nerves standing out on
his membrane.
“Don'ell moi, you asked for it, you piece of pussy,” BD brought down his hammer like right hand on Rahul but the swiftness of the act was interrupted by a collision in mid air. His hand struck something more solid and more powerful and twisted to align itself in perpendicularity with his elbow. Big Daddy had hardly any time to muffle a scream as a powerful kick to his jaw sent him sprawling to the opposite end of the class. He did not get up after that, his imposing figure going limp. The shorter guy, who was standing by BD's side all the while, pushed Rahul with both his hands. Caught unaware, he staggered a couple of steps back.
“Don'cha pride too much jus' cause ya punched BD on the wrong day... Wha'will ya do, ya piece of shit? Don'cha dare glare at me like that? What'cha think I'm scared by your fuckin' crazy shit? I ain't to be taken in by your fuckin' Rambo techniques. What'cha gonna' do, temme? Crush ma skull between ya hands?” the short guy asked with angry eyes, pushing him again.
“Worse!” Rahul whispered and pulled out the loose steel hand of a chair from the one to his left. Before the short guy could react, Rahul kicked him in the stomach making him lunge forward. He held his head in a vice grip and plunged the steel rod in his backside. The wet pants only aided his cause as the short guy tumbled to the ground with a painful shriek, the rod sticking out from his pants. The other cronies ran out of the classroom, almost ramming into each other, for that moment to protect their backsides.
“Arsehole!” Rahul mumbled angrily, dusting his hands on his shirt.
“Exactly!” Sahil overheard him and nodded.
***
Sitting in the class today, Sahil recollected that incident clearly and hence had avoided interrupting Rahul's thought process. He did not know until today what went on in that mind, but he knew that somewhere inside that body lay a genius and somewhere deep, a broken heart. At that precise moment a third guy; Sam, dropped in, his features highlighted by a mix of races giving proof to his identity as an Anglo-American. Though not exactly as close to the bearer of pain in the vicinity, his statement went pretty close than his proximity to the receiver.
“Well⦠Rahul, honestly speaking she was not worth you, bro! She's a worthless cheat. Many more fish will swallow the bait buddy. Why did you have to choose this bitch?”
The reaction was instantaneous. Like a fish that has just reached the saturation point on the surface of water, Sam, too was gasping for breath as his throat got throttled by a firm wrist, the force lifting him off the ground for a moment. The lion in Rahul roared,
“NEVER EVER TALK ABOUT HER THAT WAY AGAIN OR YOU WON'T REMAIN TO WISH THAT YOU HADN'T!”
The boy buckled up under his knees as he fell down in a state of shock, not ready to believe that his careless comment had
just brought out Rahul's ire, which had scared the daylights out
of him.
The others were equally shocked. When Rahul let go of Sam's collar, Sahil stepped in as the mediator.
“Chill Rahul, we are your friends buddy⦠we are here to help you pal,” Sahil said keeping his distance, knowing very well both his slippery tongue and the situation at hand.
“Rahul, even we are worried about you and can't, can't just see you this way⦠even if she⦠I mean⦠we just can't, dude, you are⦠you are our friend, we are here to be with you and ask you to share it⦠you will feel better⦠”
“THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO NEED FOR THAT,” Rahul bellowed back. Picking up his bag, he walked out of the dull classroom taking the stairs in a manner that had defined his famous attitude in school. The other two so-called âfriends' of his, took steps towards the door to follow him, but were held back by the strong hand of Sahil who whispered in a low tone, “Let him be alone!”
***
THE FIRST DATE WITH FIRST LOVE
Rahul boarded the SEPTA that would drop him near his hostel. âSummer of 69' was playing on the radio when he stepped inside the bus. Once upon a time, he would joke around about that particular number with his friends back home and occasionally even masturbate picturing the position but today, the song did not even register in his mind.
At an age, when his hormones were raging, his heart was raging a thousand times more intensely for someone he longed for, with an appetency that remained deplorably unsatisfied. The bus drive ensured that he ended up just five minutes from his hostel and then he would walk with his thoughts drifting away, looking down near his feet, strolling ahead like a conquered horse blinded from the sides. But in reality he was not looking ahead, though he wanted to.
He took the last seat, as usual, a subtle reminder of what he was and what he had become.
He did not feel any penitence for the act that took place in the class. He owed no one an explanation, not to his fake friends, not to this unworthy society, not even himself. He was not like that. But when and where had he become what he was today? The answer was as difficult to trace as obvious it seemed. A part of him knew it, the rest wanted to ignore his confessions. He was a happy, jolly teen until a year ago; the kind who studied, played, read books and sometimes even wrote poems and excelled at all that they did and of course, love!
âLove?' he asked himself, giving no sense of recognition for that word in his mind's dictionary. It was the only battle he had lost in life, the only thing that had been snatched away from him, before he could even claim it. Miles away from home, miles away from the shattered pieces of his heart, he existed in his own lost world of dreams, dreams that he had woven in his eyes, dreams that were once realities but mere fantasies today. Life was more difficult than death, but he was not the one who would take the easy route out. He was a fighter, always had been one.
“Son, please remember that there are people behind you, people who still love you, who still care for you, people for whom you are the only world, their only hope. If ever life lets you down again, please think of us before you do anything untoward,” were the last words of his father before he left home.
Fate, they say, fate â the clay that moulds the events of your life, and it was this same fate, which had thrown the stone of her heart on the building of his expectations. But then wasn't it his fault that he had constructed the building of glass? Hadn't he failed to cement the bricks of his love with trust and colour them with security. There was no insurance for broken hearts, no ointment for wounded souls and there would never be one, he knew.
He looked out of the window, with no curiousness to grasp the pain of a solitary beggar lying on the pathway as people walked past him. He only saw the endless sky that stretched in a seamless boundary over the world like an overprotective mother. He stared deeply into its eyes, and received no motherly comfort as the blazing rays of the harsh ball of fire penetrated his eyes, making them water for a different reason than the one which he was so accustomed to. He could experience his past swimming in those tears. He felt himself fade away in the waters of his
past. He looked at the sky for one last time. It suddenly seemed
so distant.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, -I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!-and if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.”
How Do I Love Thee, Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Exactly a year before, it had been the very same sky in another corner of the world, covering them as they sat together near the joyful sea watching the tide rush in.
Oh, those were the golden days of his life, the ones he cherished and missed. He yearned to live them again, partly to enjoy them but more so to correct his mistakes. Those were the days of incomprehensible fun, of unforgettable memories and of a seamless joy that she gave him and of a loving hope that he gave her, perhaps of a happier tomorrow. Oh, how he wished the days would return. He wished to rewind himself, to immerse himself in the thoughts of peace and comfort once again, the peace that the feeling of love brought with it and the comfort her presence carried along.
The enchantment of first love was so fascinating that Rahul wished he would remain in that state forever and never grow up from that enduring bliss that had enveloped his aura. He loved it when he smiled for no reason. He loved it when he used to start thinking about her in the middle of whatever he did. He loved it when his night time superhero dreams were replaced by the delightful sound of her laughter ringing in his ears. And he really adored himself for the time that made him itch and wait; and perhaps the wait still lingered somewhere in some corner of his heart. He never believed in love until she came in his life. It was not his age or so he thought.
Even then, he knew he fell in love with her the moment he interacted with her for the first time. She came up to him after school one day. He had heard a lot about her, seen her sometimes from a distance but never had the chance to talk to her. Being a grade senior to her, he almost always was not near her earlier classes in the years that had gone. But it was difficult being in the same school and not hearing about Seema Tandon, the quiet, shy and most intelligent girl of the school as most of the teachers would indubitably announce.
He was the assistant head captain of his house in the ninth grade, she a prefect of the eighth. When she opened her mouth to ask him about the next day's âMeet the Scientists' programme for which he had been appointed as the student in-charge, a responsibility that came from being the Head of the Science committee, he could not grasp what she had said.
“Seema Tandon,” she said introducing herself through her generously curved lips which parted to stupefy him.
Her features were dainty, her small slender wrists climbed up to become the delicate shoulders that beckoned him. Her skin was like peach-tinted cream and he need not have touched her to experience the melting softness of her body. Her perfectly oval face was austere and her manner a little haughty. Her expressions had delicacy as well as a particular strength that did not abate her femininity. It seemed that the world had stopped, her voice sounded like a melody and she looked like a dream, an illusion, up close and personal.
“Rahul ⦠naam to suna hi hoga,” he said sheepishly, extending his hand from his pocket.
“Sorry?” she looked at him in a weird manner, not reciprocating the handshake.
“Oh, I mean, I'm Rahul⦠Rahul Kapoor. What can I do for you?” he said quickly, thrusting his hand back in his pocket.
“I wish to register my name for the âMeet the Scientists' event,”
she said.
“Oh, sure! What's your name?” he asked, fumbling with the registration sheets.
“Seema Tandon,” she repeated, heeding the wish of his heart. Somehow, each sound, every syllable of her name sounded
so magnetic.
“Ok, done. Tomorrow 8 a.m. sharp. Please be in your school uniform,” he said, trying to show the authority he possessed while nervously running his hand through his hair.
“Thanks,” she said, fluttering her lashes that swept across
her cheekbones.
An obstreperous urge seized him. He desperately wanted to hold onto her, to support his slipping heart, and when it slipped away, he realised she too had gone away, incarcerating herself in his thoughts with her smile and unblemished innocence. And from the 27th of February that year, he realised he could not escape her, even if he wanted to and he decided that he never would.
How, What, Why? He did not know, nor did he want to. Perhaps that is the real surprise of love, it exists, but one may not attribute causes and effects to it. The existence may appear to be a mere fallacy to the minds of some, and by the time, they realise what hit them, they would already be down and dead. But this was not the case with him. The picture in his eyes bore a striking resemblance to that unforgettable face. Was it her eyes or was it her innocent talk? Was it her brown hair or was it her pink lips? Was it love? He found the answers the very next day.
That evening as he hung out in the parking area of his society alongwith Raj, his best friend and neighbour, there was a strange silence in their conversation for the first time in their nine years of friendship. Raj, a short chap was slender but full of virility. He had short, smooth hair that fell down his small face and braces that shone on his teeth. He was a couple of years junior to Rahul and studied in another leading school on the suburban side. He and Rahul were partners in crime. None hid anything from the other.
“... and then Spiderman feels something approaching from behind. His spider sense never fails him you know, and just when it seems the knife will plunge into his back, he does a back flip over the travelling blade, landing safely on the floor and... Hey, you are not listening,” Raj caught him staring ahead with a silly grin on his face that did not match the scene he was describing from the last half an hour.
Rahul broke out of his reverie after a rough nudge and faced his agitated friend.
“Sorry, what're you saying?” he asked.
“What's this? I've been talking since ages, telling you about our class test and the Spiderman movie I went to watch with my family last night, and you're one hell of a sample piece, not willing to even talk or listen to my blabbering. Is it because of last week's match when I mistakenly ran you out? I did apologise ... ”
“Hey chill down yaar, nothing like it. It's just that today... I'm feeling a bit distracted. Her face keeps swimming in front of my eyes all the time.”
“Whose?”
“Hmmm... Seema!”
“Gosh, don't tell me you're seeing a girl!”
“There's not much left to see in this world if one sees her once.”
“Stop sounding like those filmy chutias and tell me, what the
news is?”
And sitting under the blue parapet on the cement stairs of the water tank, Rahul recounted the adventures of his heart to his best friend and then they started devising a plan of the do's and don'ts for the next day. After that, they went on the lookout for a greeting card that would befit the face in Rahul's mind.
***
The âMeet the Scientists' program was to take place in the auditorium of the Nehru Science Centre on the 28th of February, a day that would redefine his life and change his outlook towards living it, forever. He would call it their anniversary day and bring her to the very same spot each year to relive those moments again and again, he had thought happily.
He remembered the sunny day and the gregarious company that he still missed. His friend and classmate, Asif was the only other guy in the small group and his excitement was nowhere close to his. There were only three others excluding them, all girls. The file inching towards the Science Centre had Sapna starting the order. Sapna was âpleasantly' plump with round chubby cheeks that everyone loved pulling with both hands.
“Owww!” she would scream in her usual nasal voice if anyone attempted that. She loved teasing her friends and after that particular day, never missed an opportunity to make a âgood point' whenever she saw them together.
Right behind her walked a dusky lady, who showed her prominent catholic features openly, Jessilda or Jess as she liked to call herself, was a girl almost always bubbling with enthusiasm. Being Seema's best friend, of course, she used to be with her most of the times. She was from the same school house as Rahul and was a jovial, fun-loving girl who appeared to be in a tremendous hurry whenever she had something to do. Right then, she was urging everyone to walk faster to catch the bus that would take them to their destination.
However, the trail that followed caused Rahul's breath to break mid-way. Such was the beauty, and such was the charm of Seema.
Beauty is the only human aspect which cannot be captured on any canvas howsoever hard an artist tries. At the most, the undaunted artist can replicate the beauty on paper but what is a replica in comparison to the original! The humbling resemblance can only be respected, not truly adored. Beauty cannot be imprisoned in the lens of a camera. The images of beauty are a moment of its essence. Beauty cannot be displayed to evoke pleasure for all on a cinema screen. Those are just its imprints, mere illusions of its existence. Beauty cannot be described by words; it cannot be written or read about. There are no suitable words in all the languages of the world, ancient or modern to hold it between a paper and a pen or a script and an eye. Beauty can only be experienced from far, its delightful aroma can only be tasted through one's eyes and its pleasurable sight can only be felt from the soul.
Beauty can only be best described at its origin through a befuddling silence, the kind that leaves one almost on the verge of a pleasurable death, just because one chooses beauty over life. There is nothing in this world to hold something so pure, so divine except a loving heart. And it is the only manner through which love recognises love; the language of love has no alphabets.
And it was a similar experience that Rahul came across that day while walking beside her, breaking the linearity of the movement. Her beauteous face was beyond his descriptive abilities and her comely mannerisms addled his line of thought. He could only put himself in poet Bilhana's place, when he wrote this particular couplet for his beloved,