I met a man in a cab the other day. He was awful, impatient, terribly rude.
He honked at every car he saw, and almost knocked down a lady crossing the road. When I asked him to slow down, he glared at me.
I clung to my seat, counting minutes; hoping for the best.
THREAD.
A beggar lady came by. Our man glowered at her. Yelled at a tempo driver. Spoke very rudely to a couple on a bike.
What was his problem, I wondered. This rude, rude man.
Finally, destination reached, I rummaged for change. There was none.
Gingerly, I produced a ₹500.
2.
Now it was my turn to be glowered at.
Muttering under his breath, he shuffled through the storage in his cab. Papers, newspapers, photos of God, plastic, change—paraphernalia of a rude man's life.
Two photos. That just spilled out.
A woman, young. In bridal red.
A child.
3.
I caught his eye in the rear view mirror. He looked horrified.
Quickly put the photos away.
"Your wife?" I asked. Fully expecting to be shut down.
A pause. The ₹500 suspended strangely in my hand, between us.
"Yes," he replied quietly in Hindi. "And son."
"She's pret—"
4.
"They died in corona."
A long, long pause.
I shift in my seat, he looks resolutely ahead. I cannot make out his expression from behind his mask.
5.
Someone thumps by the car, an eternity passes by. The light Bombay breeze freezes into tepid nothingness.
"I'm sorry, sir. Maaf kijiyega," I attempt. Nothing more to say. "Aap kaise hai? How are you?"
He smiles. "That's what no one asks any more these days."
I nod.
6.
"I go back to an empty house. Cook for one. Parents say come back. But how to leave her house? Whom to earn for? Whom to tell about getting caught in traffic, rain, market, customer?"
Wordlessly, I nod.
"There are friends, parents in the village. Other drivers," he says.
7.
"But that is not enough. Loneliness, madam, is not the absence of people. It is the absence of the feeling of being loved. It is having no one to share with."
I listen. Someone honks. He shoves change towards me. He's been counting all along.
His eyes harden.
8.
He clears his throat. I take my cue and leave wondering if it is this need to share, to know ghey are loved that keeps people going on.
I pick up the phone, burning with the need to tell someone of this strange, strange man. This mean man with an aching heart.
9.
I look at the numbers. Five on speed dial, of which one will never pick up again.
My finger hovers over one contact. Then another. I pause.
I put my phone away. Shelve the memory.
Write it later for who knows whom on Twitter.
FIN.
(This thread is partly fiction. Based on real events.)
Damn, I changed tense randomly in the middle. Sorry about that.
Really confused by all these "Why is it fiction" questions? Fiction is life's deepest, best and most impactful instances distilled. All fiction, partly or full, is based on reality.
I am not a journalist. I am not reporting news. Then why the "disappointment"?
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Some days it hurts so much, colours all your hours. Other days, it's no where to be seen.
Death is not strange.
It's always there, ever permanent. The only thing that's truly permanent—thus entirely incomprehensible.
What is the point about being sad about death, though?
The sadness comes in waves..your heart squeezes inside your ribcage. You hug yourself and cry out of frustration—frustration because there's no end to this grief. No matter how much you cry they won't come back.
Even if you forget them, it'll make them no difference.
So unto what end goes this means?
Nothing.
Nothingness.
Afterall that is death.
Your someone special, bones and flesh, reduced to nothing, tears and wispy memories.
Indu stared at the empty-ish platform, panting. In the distance, the train picked up speed. The soles of her feet felt hot and dirty, the wet patch on her blouse clung to her back.
it was too late.
Who would bring Rishi from school today? What about Babuji's lunch?
THREAD.
On call, Mahesh listened to her predicament in silence
Then, in the way common to every man, he issued directions for the next time this happened. "Always go 10minutes early to the station. Don't attend the last darshan if it's close to the train timing. Go with a friend..."
2.
Nervously, Indu fidgeted as she listened to her husband trail on. There would be no next time! She would make sure.
But what about now!?
"How do I come back?" she gushed, interrupting Mahesh.
"Well. The next train is at 7. Take that, I'll pick you up from the station."
Three years back, when considering a job in Delhi, I found a broker online.
I saved his name as "Noida PG", spoke to him once about a flat, eventually didn't move, but somehow never landed up deleting the number.
Three years on, I feel like I've been a part of his life.
THREAD
Just like the 100 odd numbers we save ("Doodhwala Ramesh", "Aruna Taxi", "Kunal bus ticket guy" or "Satrangi Bandra Vegetables") and then forget, for months Noida PG sat in my phone contact list, forgotten.
Then, one day, while idling away, I saw a strange WhatsApp story.
2.
A bearded man in a black shirt, jeans and sunglasses was celebrating something with friends. They had lit a bonfire, and standing dangerously close to flames were laughing raucously.
I stared at the story and the name "Noida PG" wondering who this was and,
I met him about a month back, instantly affronted by the fact that he giggled at my name. And ofcourse, said it wrong.
In formal shirts &crooked laughs conversation with him flowed like Mumbai's traffic doesn't—on and on and on, almost till you want to hit a speed breaker!
+
Full of anecdotes and jokes, this man's pitara of memories seemed bottomless. From escapades in his small town home with his neighbour's daughter to more audacious runs in city malls—he was the heart and soul of every conversation.
+
You simply had to look at him, ask a question and there would be words.
"Do you talk in your sleep, too?" I asked him by day 2.
He chuckled, told me yet another anecdote.
"He's the funniest guy you'd ever meet," said of him everyone I came to know.