PAST FORWARD- A SHORT STORY

PAST FORWARD

I could not recollect whether it was an ‘odd’ or an ‘even’ day.   The prowess of my mental and physical reflexes had diminished and could not steer my car. This was a period of spiritual rejuvenation and physical recuperation.

 So I hailed a cab. In wake of the revised traffic regulations to combat pollution, Praji was reaping a windfall. Soon, he would operate his own taxi service and give Uber’s deep pocket a run for its money.

 My mind travelled to Travis Kalanick. By his own admission he walks 60 plus kilometres a week. I used to  footslog  on the treadmill  for long periods of time trying to maintain a chiselled body, reasonably handsome and  was enhancing my proficiency  in economics which made  some  friends envious.

We were both fire signs, she an Arian with an astonishing mane and I a Sagittarian sporting dishevelled hair. Knowledge of the curves (micro and macro) earned me the epithet of Keynes Jr.

 Women mature rapidly while men remain gawky, I used to quip.  She was alluring, prepossessing and intellectually stimulating and had triumphantly ingratiated herself to the opposite sex and the faculty (old farts!). However, there was opposition to her; some   covetous, others pedestrian, primarily from her clan. Why do women slander each other? We were not misogynists, though.

 Elections were announced in the college. I planned proposing her candidature for the Presidency. But our hedonistic yet intellectual gang torpedoed my concealed agenda and I was projected as an alternative candidate.

 She masked her affection and admiration for my intellectual prowess and debating skills. Handsome girls are spellbound by talent and the power of the brain, but cannot withstand opprobrium. It was a rugged battle. On the campaign trail and stump excursion, we traded charges. So much so, my occasional smoking and drinking too became incredulous subjects which were bandied, much to my chagrin.

I romped home by a whisker. We shook hands, though I could see indignation and tears in her eyes. She wished me good luck. Like   Obama, I wanted her to be a part of the team, which she politely refused. She was no Hillary but smiled infectiously like the former First Lady.

It was party time! Bacchus flowed the drains of the campus.  Someone spiked my drink with sedatives which left me mourning next morning.

Apparently in a riotous state that night, we (the gang) manhandled the warden and her daughter was molested. We were put in a lock up and rusticated.  Hearing about my ignominy my mother suffered a PAT (Paroxysmal Atrial Tachycardia) attack.

There were no re-elections and she was appointed the President. She missed Keynes Jr in the classroom, at seminars, and during debates and discussions over coffee. So did the faculty. I was cerebral, donnish and polite to the core. Such humility can be misconstrued as play-acting at times.

  She had no opposition. Be it scholarly pursuits or extra- curricular activity, it was a cakewalk and a virtual monopoly. Those insecure of her phenomenal growth facetiously called her a monopolist.

My proven track record and goodwill, reputation as a raconteur par excellence and no previous charge of any turf war with the establishment came in handy. The suspension was revoked at the cost of a term. This was the time when the President stepped in and bailed the buddy who purportedly assaulted the warden’s daughter. She happened to be her cousin.

The stock of the President appreciated dramatically. This gesture earned her enormous goodwill. I apologised to her excessively at every aperture and managed to earn her benevolence.  May be covertly she needed an ego massage.

Since we lagged by a term, I borrowed notes from her. And she appropriated my brains. Over a period of time our friendship blossomed into love.

 However, she suspected something was amiss. My hands trembled and at times I reeked of cigarettes and liquor. I circumvented her pointed queries and blamed it on the medication prescribed for my anxiety attacks occurring on account of losing a term. But indubitably   during that hiatus I was slowly getting hooked on to drugs and alcohol.

Things appeared hunky dory for some time. The college canteen discussed the Paris Climate Change Summit, the ISIS, destruction of the Twin Towers, growth of a nationalistic party and its powerful and popular leader, stagflation, unemployment and also our entanglement.

At this point in time   a group christened as the Flotsam Panthers   and Jetsam Army (FPJA) staged a play called ‘T Vs I’, an acronym for Tolerance versus Intolerance. The response was initially tepid. But FPJA soon mobilised comrades from other colleges and universities. As crowds swelled and momentum gathered the subterranean   climate in the college underwent a change. The college became a mute spectator to the engagement between the youth wing of the nationalist party and FPJAs.

Our hedonistic gang too faced a split. Some FPJAs amongst us   changed their loyalty and the rest of us were called ‘royalty’. It was a woebegone sight. Friends, who had once shared and cared split; the fissure became irremediable following a bloodbath between FPJAs, our students union and the youth  wing of the nationalist  party. This   lead to further rustications more lost classes and a vitiated atmosphere on the campus. In the melee the life of one FPJA was snuffed out. His angst against the system had been palpable and led him to commit suicide.

 He could not become a Stephen Hawking or a Jim Holt, but became a Mars Orbiter.

 College, once a haven of intellectual repository became a burrow of caste politics. And vultures in the form of archaic tapered intellectuals, politicians, anarchists and overbearing electronic and print media, all fed on the carcass of the departed FPJA.

 The President lacked the canniness and statecraft to deal with a particular civil servant’s guile (now on a sabbatical), whose trademark style was to pitchfork himself into battles in order to disseminate his anarchist ideology. This was his aspirational window moment.

He earned admirers from the FPJA group, the nationalist party and our students union. My girlfriend was attracted to the intellectual rigour of this gentleman. We had raging debates about the intentions of this gentleman, while she was consumed by his alacrity and skills. I fancied myself to be anti-establishment with a kind of bohemian streak and  an  intellectual lifestyle , but  my girlfriend  found  the civil servant’s ideology winsome and joined his crusade. The union got divided and large numbers joined the bandwagon and deserted our ship.

“Impermanence is the only permanent thing in life,’’ said Buddha. Life is never a straight line or a rising curve; it is full of peaks and valleys. This event too was consigned to history.

 A few years later this civil servant who possessed indefatigable energy became an accomplished politician. His financial rectitude was unquestionable but intellectual uprightness was doubtful.

 Time trudges on the traversing years and she multitasked as the President of the union, fellow traveller on the campaigns of the Civil Servant, and when not confined to these activities outsourced my mental faculties to decode fiscal and monetary policy.  

We texted romantic messages like ’luv u’, ‘missing u’, ‘unable to sleep’, ‘thinking abt u’, ‘how r u’, ‘how was d day’, ‘gn’, ‘swt drms’. But the regularity waned. Yes sparks ignited when we met and exchanged those passionate moments. We did talk about the longevity of our dalliance, promising to exchange rings. But the tumultuous relationship was ebbing steadily.

I started calling her Comet Hillary which she laughed away. Meanwhile, our gang regrouped, with a new crowd. Our junior’s embraced us. New friendships were forged.

Her absence injured me and I became intimate with other girls. Something she resented. Our relationship was floundering. She was preoccupied and I miffed. She was the potentate and I the ordinary populace. I began questioning her intellectual propriety, especially the association with the civil servant, his NGO and the crusade. Sensing widespread public support, he quit the hallowed portals of North Block and a sinecure government job. His NGO metamorphosed into a fledgling political organisation. Vacuum cleaner wrapped with a muffler was the party symbol.

“He will suck all u guys and strangulate you with the muffler,” was my contrarian view point. She did not appreciate my standpoint. I   wrote highly critical articles, questioning the philosophy and motives of the party which won appreciation from a saffron clothed   evangelist, an advocate and a psephologist(one time associates of the former civil servant).

 I was invited by youth wing of the nationalist party and the trio to share my views. But I steered clear of politics and was busy writing and drinking. The former civil servant tweeted about my intellect and   conveyed through my girlfriend that I ought to join his party where I would be ‘suitably’ accommodated. However, wary of the guy I was   firm in pursuing economics, and earning a doctorate.

The leader of the new political party had by now mesmerised the youth, particularly the FPJAs and my girlfriend. They swore by him, much to my disquiet. She passed on their literature to indoctrinate me but in vain. I used it to smoke grass. Our fights and political differences grew over time as I continued drinking and sniffing smack.

 In sheer desperation she took me for psychiatric help and literally escorted me to Alcoholic Anonymous meetings. But I continued to be in denial mode and refused to kick the habit.

Some weeks later we all set off on a ’study tour’. This was the break she had been seeking so that we could ventilate our feelings and rekindle our passions once more. But my self- opinionated and conceited mind had devious plans. She found me and a junior in a state of stupor and compromising position. That was the last straw. An avalanche of emotions engulfed her and she decided to desert me once for all. No amount of entreaties and platitudes could convince her and the parting SMS was ‘F *O’.

   While these dramatic events unfolded in the second term my alcoholism and drug addiction became quotidian. I was admitted to a rehab. The same night my mother was admitted with a severe second attack of Paroxysmal Atrial Tachycardia. The heart beat at a furious pace and was accompanied by sweating and breathlessness, informed my distraught sister. We both clasped our hands and shed copious tears. But the monkey mind, never in the present moment, wanted a fag to avoid the physical and mental chatter.

My mother was on life saving drugs while I was administered a strong dose of Nitravet to put me to sleep. With remarkable resolution she visited my mother and me; gave us flowers and notes for a quick recovery.

That night I was restless and cried inconsolably. My heart melted and bled in anguish and pain. A well-wisher gave me a book “Guru of Joy”, about Sri Sri Ravi Shankar. The book struck the right chord in me and I joined the Art of Living classes being conducted at the rehab. I undertook the detoxification programme, went to the Bangalore Ashram of the Art of Living and had Darshan of Guruji. He just smiled and tears of gratitude flowed. I did various courses of the Art of Living, gave up my addictions and within a year and a half became part of their faculty. It was the grace of the Master that I quit the addictions.

My rehabilitation was conveyed to her and friends renewed efforts to initiate a rapprochement. But she didn’t drop her guard. She was thrilled that I had given up the vices and my mother recovered from PAT attacks. But what she could not pardon was my infidelity. In the theatre of her mind my infidelity and the molestation of her cousin played incessantly, throwing up questions. Was I also censurable?

 It was a typical Delhi winter night. Government of India launched a programme to promote yoga and lead a healthy life-style. Not to be outdone the savvy politician directed his followers to undertake moral policing against those who consumed drugs and indulged in illegal flesh trade. My former girlfriend led the charge of the light brigade against a group of peddlers, their accomplices and partners in these activities. There was a virtual bedlam in which she and some others suffered serious injuries.

She was shifted to a hospital and remained comatose. Her life hung tenuously. Thousands had gathered and maintained a candle light vigil. FPJAs, our union, members of the nationalist party were all united in praying for the brave-hearts. I now dressed in a Kurta Pyjama, was clean shaven and holding some literature of Art of Living, a rosary and Guruji’s photograph went to bless her. I joined those who were praying for her recovery. The guilty were booked   and imprisoned and that catapulted the former civil servant to the status of a national icon.

She regained consciousness after a few months. Her mane remained intact, but the bruises and scars mutilated her beauty. And she too lost a term while recuperating.

Our relationship remained tempestuous; we had our share of love, affection and fights and our pangs of physical and mental struggle. Yet our souls were intertwined in a strange manner.

 We graduated the same day………..

It was still dawn when I stepped out of the cab and walked towards the entry gate of the Delhi airport. The early morning February air was pleasantly cold.

I was travelling to Bengaluru to attend a college friend's wedding. It had been four years since we graduated from the same college. This wedding was also going to be a reunion of our batch mates. But what I didn't know was that the reunion would begin much ahead of time; right in the queue in front of the airline counter.

I was almost sure it was she. Same height! Same long hair! Same complexion! Curiosity had my eyes glued to her. And then about 60-odd seconds later, when she turned, she proved me right. My ex-girlfriend stood two places ahead of me in that queue. We had never met after the college farewell.

We stared in disbelief; my heart beat rapidly, palms sweaty and mouth dry. Our past welled up her eyes. We realised it was perhaps impossible to rewrite the past. We had moved forward. Her cousin was getting married to the politician friend and she was to undergo treatment for the scars which still remained.