4. Rain scene and all
I was on the hostel roof, which very strictly speaking, was forbidden territory. The hostel residents had been banned from going to the roof, about six years ago, after a girl had reportedly attempted to dive from the ledge. Fourteen storeys.
Rumour has it, that she was merely contemplating the thought and would not have actually jumped. Another rumour (set against the backdrop of a suitably morbid story), was that she would have jumped, had one of the sub-wardens not pinned her down to the ground just then. I liked that about stories - the fact that the exact degree of their truth was ambiguous. That, as a storyteller then, one could insert just as much truth amidst the lies, as pleased one's fancy, which could really be anywhere between all and none.
Fourteen storeys, just as many stories, if not more. I peered down at the ant-sized students and their matchbox cars. Death, surely. What would she have been thinking? Could it really be that easy to end one's life? Just one step beyond the ledge? Just a few centimetres, and one would be hurtling away from the buzzing bustle of life, towards death... whatever that was?
I slunk back to my secret nook, behind the water tank, lest I should be pinned down by a heroic sub-warden myself to become part of the story I had been a curious onlooker to. I pictured myself in the third person, as some suicidal tragic heroine, ditched by her ridiculously amnesiac (boy?)friend for her once-upon-a-time best friend. I chuckled, amused, at the whistling winds. And then, right on cue, a cold drop of water fell on my forehead. Then, another, and another, and another. Soon, it was drizzling. Raining. Pouring. Cats and dogs. An entire zoo-load of animals.
And I just sat there, shivering, watching the grimy puddles mushroom around me. The rains in India were so different. I had always loved how the raindrops hopped and splattered over the fragrant red earth, warm and inviting, dancing as we did. And then, mummy's call, and that indulgent smile of hers. Ginger tea. And Parle-G biscuits. It was a rare treat for us kids, being allowed to deviate from the customary milk topped with that hateful wrinkly layer of cream. And so, just like grown-ups, we would carefully, niftily, dip our biscuits into the tea, for a calculated two seconds, just before it could melt into a cold creamy lump at the bottom of our mugs.
But even the rain here, that struck like millions of icy swords plummeting from the sky, had that same reminiscent quality about it. In the deluge of memories that gushed through, the one outshone the others. Me, as a child, spending hours in front of the mirror, practising, perfecting faces, poses. (Reason why, my childhood photographs, when I look at them today, are nothing short of embarrassing.) I wanted to be an actress, and saw myself as one, no less. Maybe that was why I still felt so drawn to extreme emotions, so many years later. I needed an exciting, theatrical life. Bland melancholy could not possibly be my cup of tea. Ginger, it would have to be. With Parle-G biscuits. That little girl, whom I felt I could no longer identify with, she was there, somewhere, wasn't she? Utterly bored with all the moping, most probably.
There was more to life, wasn't there? Because if life really was all about Kabir liking, or not liking me, then where did this moment figure? It couldn't really all be meaningless - the pearls that dropped from my numb fingertips, the goose bumps on my forearm, the mists descending gracefully from the cloaked mountains over there, the mellifluous inflections of the rain's deafening song.
And so, naturally, I got up to swirl with the dancing twirls, on the rhythm of raindrops, life. Like a Bollywood star. Take 2. It was time, it would seem, that I moulded myself into another character, a happier, more carefree person. I shook my hair out of my ponytail with panache. If anyone could do it, it would have to be me, I decreed, giggling. I lifted my face to the skies and felt our tears mingle into oneness. Soundtrack: peppy guitar, harmonica, raindrops, then silence.
Later that day, after I had showered and changed into something bright pink, I bumped into Irene in the common area. She invited me to her room for hot chocolate. And she asked me, in a tone of rehearsed breeziness, if I liked Kabir.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I think you do," she said, avoiding the question, like I had.
"There was nothing between us. We just spent time together. But it didn't, it didn't mean anything at all. But I think you and Kabir look good together."
"No, but it's not like that. I don't like him in that way, like romantically and all. It's just for fun. We hang out together, and the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing... it's not for real. It's like a joke almost. We're fooling around. You do understand that, right?"
I could sense the genuine concern in her voice, her eyes. It was moving.
"Yes, of course," I said to end that strand of the conversation, and proceeded to swiftly change the subject.
But truth was, I could never understand them, the games that people felt they had to play, the masks that had almost become what people were, ghostly semblances of a pseudo-reality. I could never understand the plastic world where having a life meant, primarily, having something to do on Friday nights and being tagged in photos and statuses on facebook to be able to prove it to other facebook friends, who were not, like, 'friends' really. Where love could be just a word, a joke almost. What was the point? Where was the meaning? There seemed no connection between people, let alone between them and what might have probably been a more accurate interpretation of life. There was only a frantic desire to keep up appearances. Weary, hollow platitudes. OMG, Mwah, boyfriend, girlfriend.
So, you see, the problem, if at all there was one, was really me. I didn't quite fit in.
I watched Irene talk, not quite sure of where the conversation had reached whilst I had digressed into my musings. I wondered what she would look like without the makeup, without her hair having been so perfectly, brutally, straightened. I wanted her to dance in the rain with me. I wanted everyone to.
I told her so, but she only laughed at my silliness. Way too many movies, she diagnosed. I might still have been able to convince her, but I believe my subsequent, most ill-timed, sneeze spectacularly deflated any prospects of success that I might possibly have had.
Edited by ..kiran.. - 12 years ago
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