THE TRUTH ABOUT ACHILLES’ HEEL

It was one of those typical Friday evenings. For one thing, I do not have a class on that day. Now after three days of getting up at six-thirty to attend class at seven-thirty (which further meant sitting dreamy-eyed through one or two hours, after which you blissfully realise that you have understood nothing), this itself should be cause for celebration. Besides, there was this further prospect of going home ( that is, giving hostel food the slip for two whole days, and getting to taste such elysian delights as KFC chicken, Irish coffee at CCD, or simply maccher jhol at home) that made Friday all the more enchanting.
But this Friday was different. Because on Thursday night I had consumed this huge plate of American Chopsuey (that too, on my roomie’s behest) that had turned out to be particularly treacherous. So, after two rounds of throwing up the earlier night, I was left with a weak body and a raging anger against all the joints serving Chinese cuisine at KGP.
All that, of course, meant that I got up at 9’o clock, gave a gargantuan yawn, and threw away the covers with lots of difficulty. “It’s Friday!” the whole surrounds seemed to scream.
Let me fast-forward the next one hour in which I brushed my teeth, had a bath, put on my going-out clothes and combed my hair. I am a woman, you see, and a woman with an incomplete toilet is no woman at all. So it was ten when I was ready to go out for the lab (Friday is a fine time for catching up on old friends through mail, you know, and what can be better than the free internet at the lab), when suddenly I saw my guide’s number ringing on my cell phone.
You see, there are times when you feel technology simply didn’t exist. The mobile phone, which is such a useful contraption for cootchie-cooing with your sweetie late at night, can really put you in distress when you have, for example, your mom’s number blinking on it while you are at the disc with a can of beer in your grip.
So now my guide was calling me, and when I picked up he informed me that I was supposed to take a tutorial class for the first year undergraduate students of the department that morning. And that class had already started. From nine-thirty. And I was required to join immediately.
The first feeling, of course, was of fear. Man, I had done away with these topics when I was in my undergraduate first year, and I had been only too happy to forget about them. Besides, doing a class yourself and taking a class are two different games altogether.
But escape I could not, so off I trotted to the department. There were around 30 of the newbies, patiently and assiduously solving a problem sheet. I was supposed to act as facilitator, helping them in case they got stuck with a problem.
I strutted around the classroom, trying to look important. They say this is the age of showing off, and it was very important that they got no wind of the butterflies in my stomach.
Once in a while, one of them would raise a hand, or some a finger. Some had solved a problem and got an answer which did not match the one given on the sheet, others were worried about a misprint in the paper, and some others were inquiring about the correct method to go about solving a problem.
You have to give time for a relationship to build up. I would never have believed it had I not taken that class on that day. Half an hour into it, and I was slowly feeling comfortable. The coldness on my palms vanished. My throat was clear when I spoke. I was no longer apprehensive while I answered their queries. Most importantly, I was enjoying it.
There was a chubby young boy in the corner, calling for me. He showed me his work. “Is this the correct way to solve this problem, ma’am?” was his question. I assured him that there was no other way as such. “I will call you when I finish the rest of the problem, ma’am.”
So five minutes later I was back at his desk. Here was a problem in which you were required to find out the percentage increase in a resistance value with temperature.
It seemed the boy was in great trouble. He had his chin cupped in his hands and looked the very picture of distress.
I looked at his work. He had calculated the ratio of the changed value of resistance to the original value. Obviously, he had obtained a 1+ an additional term.
“How do I find out the percentage increase, ma’am?” was his question.
“You have already found it out, dear,” I informed him. And then explained to him how he would get it from the expression.
And then the boy smiled to himself- a half-ashamed, half-relieved kind of smile. Given the situation, I would say it was almost beatific.
Gradually, the three hours allotted for the tutorial drew to an end. It was time for them to submit their notebooks for evaluation and leave. It was important for us to check that each had written his /her name on the front cover.
The chubby boy submitted his copy and walked off. He was apparently in a hurry.
I turned the front page, to ensure his name was there.
And there it was. His name was Achilles.
The hero of the Trojan war who was vulnerable only on his heels.

AN ODE TO LOVE

AN ODE TO LOVE

I

The rains are coming. The sky above me is a deep, sombre grey, almost slate-the hue that I always associate with melancholy. The wind grows stronger by the minute. From the roof, I look at the trees lining the road. Their leaves sway violently; it is as if they can’t wait to get drenched, caressed, cleansed.
Waiting. This is something rains always remind me of. First, there is the heat, oppressive, stifling, smouldering. It is so terrible you almost wish you didn’t exist. Then, towards the evening, you suddenly feel that whiff of sweet air which is so often the harbinger of rain. Within another half hour, clouds cover the sky. It gets darker and darker, and when it is the darkest, the first drop falls – then another, then another, till it is raining in full force. You stand under the flow; feel the drops beating down on your hair, your face, your arms, and your body. The drops form such a dense pattern that you feel like it’s a continuous sheet of cold water.
And even if you cry standing beneath the shower, no one will notice – your tears will be snugly covered by the water from the heavens. You may pour out your heart beneath the sky; it will all be sheltered by the downpour. Your secrets are safe under the rains.
As I said, the rains are inextricably linked with waiting. And melancholy. The deep, lingering sense of emptiness that refuses to go. The all-engulfing loneliness that enveloped me while you left.
I cried. I pleaded. I begged to be given another chance. I tried to reason, to cajole, even to seduce. Desperate? Yes, may be that was the word for me then. But nothing worked, you see. I was left wounded, beaten, broken. Night after night, I would cry myself to sleep, a perfect lullaby that I invented.
Gradually, I discovered a language in silence; I would lie still at night, unable to close my eyes, and watch the night-lamp creating intricate patterns on the mosquito net; the constant, monotonous whirring of the fan; the occasional whelping of a dog in the empty street. I would turn to the window and follow the waxing and waning of the moon; or turn to the other side of the room to watch the walls faintly illuminated by the road lights.
I took up the pen once more. I caught up on the writings that I had left unfinished. At the dead of night, they flowed out like raindrops; as I pined for your touch, I wrote the best verses of my life. The pain congealed to generate poetry. It was the panacea that helped to ease what it could not cure. You were gone, but my flame was lit anew.
Before I could realise it, I was waiting again.
II
Durga Puja happens in autumn. The almanac says it should happen in the month of Ashwin or Kartik, just around the time harvests are made. Hence one of the incarnations of the Goddess is the form of Sakambhari, the goddess of fertility. Mythically, the pujas are all about triumph of good over evil, truth over falsehood, white over black. Hence evolved the form of the warrior goddess riding a lion, the vanquished asura at her feet, his heart impaled by her trident.
Often, the pujas happen just before winter sets in; there might be a slight nip in the air at dawn or late at night, but during the day the sky is a wonderful, enticing blue, the blue that you see while sailing in the ocean, the blue that spells extent and expansion. The sun is not as unbearable as in summer, or as welcome as in winter; somewhere it strikes a golden mean. The ambience is cosy, almost wrapping you like a silk doth. You suddenly feel assured, confident, consecrated. It’s almost as if you’re going on a never-ending holiday.
I never knew when it happened to me again. I hardly realised when my vows to remain chaste for the rest of my lifetime had grown weak. When I came to senses, you had already stepped into my life.
Yes, I was apprehensive at the beginning. I was afraid to take the plunge. Even as you smiled upon me like an autumn morning, I could not muster enough courage to take up the hint.
The process of fusion happened slowly. It was so subtle, we never realised the union until we were deeply into it. I was laughing again; most importantly, I was looking forward to tomorrow.
As you moved your fingers along my skin, I felt the light, crisp crackle of autumn leaves; as you put your lips to mine, I took a sip of seawater; your eager breath fanned me like palm-leaves from some forgotten island; you were insatiable in your exploration of me; you left no knoll untouched, no vale untrodden. You craved for me as a stretch of arid land longs for the first drops of rain. You drank my juices with the passion of a painter on his way to create a masterpiece. You entered me, not with the force of a fanatic, but with the faith of a devotee.
As I lay, moaning, aroused and happy, I suddenly realised the same old patterns of light and darkness on the ceiling; the fan was making a familiar, pleasant humming noise. Our figures, moving in unison, created ephemeral silhouettes on the wall.
I suddenly felt myself trapped in an abyss. There were no words, no rhyme, no metre, no verse. I struggled hard to create a line. All I could come up with was a jumbled array of letters. Terror crept across me like a crawling insect. I tried to shout, to reach out for the words.
You wrapped me tight in your arms and kissed me again.
I was still waiting.

A lesson in philosophy

you are some good-for-nothing!

he yelled.

HE.

my esteemed guide in the esteemed course in the esteemed institution.

you don't put in enough efforts.

you don't understand a thing.

your scores till 12 were great. great promise.

how many time do I need to tell people that I HATE that dialogue?

you were fantastic till 12. what happened after that?

your grades till 12 were impressive. didn't you like what you did after that?

Man, I , of all people knew they were great. I know what it is like to be praised by teachers. I know what it is to strut peacock-like, down the school corridors, as people whisper in awe :"look, there's that girl......."..............and yet....and yet............

Let's face it. My grades in Btech fell, or should I say plummeted - from my school grades. More than grades, there was this uncanny feeling that however much I try, I was not going to win this game. Guide, Sir, ever knew how it pains to be the square peg in a round hole?

And it's the same story again. I am hardly at ease with what I am doing. I won't say I don't try. But all the time I know I am playing a lost game. I am depressed, disappointed, disgusted. Sir, you know what the concoction tastes like.

Years ago, I had a tryst with destiny. I slept through the chance. destiny never gave me another.

Now, I sit and wonder - did I lose it because I chose the wrong route, or is the whole idea of a 'route' or 'calling' hypothetical? Am I failing because there's no way I can pass, or is it because I am plain lazy? In that case, how would I explain the All-India First Prize in an Elocution competition?

I am still waiting for the answers. Meanwhile, my registration seminar looms large and my guide is in flames.

As for me , I just wish euthanasia was an available option.