Formal Pain

Pain is an unpleasant sensation occurring in varying degrees of severity as a consequence of injury, disease, or emotional disorder." It was very unfortunate that I was involved in an accident on the 15th of August, 2005, and had to undergo an experience that continues to corroborate the aforementioned saying. The sensation of pain also affected my emotional behavior, mental health and thought procedures in a variety of ways, taking a huge toll on my precious time.

It was my first accident with me being at the wheel. At the moment when the accident took place, I didn’t realize the extent of the injury until the shock wave had passed. The presence and aid of the paramedics at the site of the accident was helpful momentarily. The ice-pack helped subdue the effects of the concussion on the orbit of my left eye. I shudder to think about the possibility of a loss of vision if the impact would have caused to hit my eye on the steering wheel. Nevertheless, it only seemed advisable to have myself checked for any extremely possible internal injuries.

Concerns about vehicular damage involved has been attended to, but I had to drive a rental vehicle for a whole month, and pay for full coverage from my pocket; an expense that I wouldn’t have incurred had the accident not happened. The matter still needs to be talked about as of the moment. I decided to lay that particular matter aside and concentrate on gaining my lost health.

The week immediately after the accident was one of the most traumatic experiences ever. Being an extremely health conscious person, it felt horrible to expose myself to an enormous amount of X-rays involved in CT Scanning. The long wait at the hospital and the ensuing endless procedures were not helping me relieve my built-up stress. The time involved caused timeline shifts in all the projects that I was professionally involved in. My organization had to incur a heavy loss of money as project deadlines were not met on time. It is a wonder how just 2 seconds involved during the car accident caused an upheaval as far as other aspects of my life were concerned.

Sleeping patterns were affected as a result of all the stress involved, and the lingering pain around the concussion. The accident also caused injury to my back. I have been diagnosed with ‘whiplash’ by my chiropractor, and have been undergoing chiropractic therapy for quite sometime in an effort to get my back to normalcy. The time spent has taken its toll on my professional and personal life.

Many aspects of my normal daily life were affected on account of this untoward incident. I was not able to attend regular workout sessions for at least 10 days after the car accident, thereby affecting my physical strength. After regular therapeutic sessions at the chiropractic clinic, and under professional advice, I have been able to slowly resume normal workout activities thankfully.

Sleep is still a problem however, but I am hoping with time, I shall be able to sleep well. My neck feels better now; the headaches have reduced a lot, the occurrences of blurred vision have diminished, and I feel that I am getting to being how I was before the accident.

I only hope that I haven’t overlooked anything as far as my health is concerned.

Harking down the Memory Lane.

Found some posts that were written in the beginning of 2004.
When I used to rub my nose against hers, and feel her eye lashes brush against my face, her curls tickling my neck, it felt like bliss never felt before.

The tingling giggling that escaped her soft lips, the light fingers that ran through my hair, the beady look in her eyes, used to get me lifted to the top of the world.

The way she used to wrap her arms around me, hold me tight and snuggle into my neck, nibble my ear, and blow my hair back.

The time when I used to peck her neck, steal a kiss, and touch her hair, and whisper a 'hey' into her ears, used to get her high.

And when she broke her hand, the stunts that she used to try in kitchen, her attempt to cook, whilst me sneaking up behind her to give her a helping hand, and blow air into her ear, tickle her back, caress her elbows, and all that still brings a smile to my face.

The shine in her eyes, when I used to go to her office, the glee on her face on seeing me, was worth all the effort to walk up to her place.

The way she used to sneak up behind me when I used to be punching away at the keys, and cup my eyes, and I am sure, she always hoped, that I never guessed another name other than hers.

The time when she sat and watched me wrap up my documents on Valentine's, and how I messed up all her plans to go on a long romantic drive.

The night when we had a small misunderstanding, and I could feel the tear rolling down her eyes over the phone, and listen to her stoic voice. I hitched a ride from a stranger to go to her place, the test next day could go to hell.

The drive to Billoxi holding her hand, while she sat besides me, very coy. Her nails digging into my arm as we watched 'Red Dragon'.

The day when I never saw a tear in either eye as I boarded my flight to NY. The three trips to Boston, from New York. The last one trip, I wanted to see her so much, and she declined, and then she changed her mind, and asked me to come by at the last moment. For we knew that after that day, we would not see each other for a long time to come.

The bus ride to her city, in the rains without any rain gear, no food to eat, and no bus to board for long, the never ending wait in the pitter-patter, to get onto the bus for her. The arrival at 4 in the wee, the sleepy look in her eyes, and I hugged her real tight that night.

Watched a movie at home, that was one of the things we loved doing. The romantic mood in the air, the buzz of the television, and the two of us cuddled into each other.

The hug the next morning, the last kiss before we let go of our fingers, the sight of her walkin into her department, the final wave of goodbye, the walk to the rail-station, with the thought that she would never be mine.

* * *

I sketch, she sketches better. I paint, She paints better. I am unconventionally sensitive, she is conventionally sensitive. I am lil' emotional, she is super emotional. I am indifferent, she is quite indifferent, but chooses to believe that she is not. I am a chatter-box, she talks reasonably. We both like the same kind of scenarios for photography. She loves fast-cars, I love driving any car fast, but choose to drive safely most of the time. We both have gone to sleep at the wheel. I love to laugh, she's got the best smile. I am not coy, she is sorta-coy. I love to hold her hand, she's got the nicest hands. She likes to nudge, and I love her nudge. I don't like to see her cry, luckily she doesn't cry. I like the adventure-spirit in the girl, she is quite a sport. I am hyper-ambitious, she's got her head on her shoulders. I am fantasy-minded, she's practical. Her smile makes me feel good. She loves being with me, I trust. I simply love being with her. She is 3 months younger to me, till somedays back, she thought she was older than me. She is my best dance-partner. I have seen her going all red with blush. She doesn't get green with envy, she's gets white with envy. Hmmm. I have seen her that way. She looks cute, and lovely, anyway, just as she is. She looks beautiful, when she gets up in the morning from bed. She sounds wonderful when I wake her up in the middle of her sleep, sometimes. He he heh...No no, I don't do that on purpose. She's a nice person. She thinks too much. She thinks way too much. She worries a bit more than a normal girl. She is not the nagging types. That's kinda odd for a girl, but that is true. Never seen her nag. She does not crib, she does not gossip. She talks sense. She is good-humored. Sometimes, odd-humored, with only her laughing, which is not funny. Especially, when it is my leg that is getting pulled. She loves to get cosy. She rocks my world. She laughs with me. I love her very much, and she does not love me. End of story. Hmmm. And I still haven't written much about her. Something went wrong somewhere, and I don't really know why and how. Guess, I shoot my mind, without really thinking how the other person might hear it. Hmmm.

Tinge of Salt

And then something happened...

The clock applet dropped a minute after 6.35p.m., and I shuffle my legs,pushing the blood into those limbs, running the mental prep of 'what to do next', not really expecting an answer. I don my jacket, pick up my bag, and waving a quick 'Au revoir' to my colleagues, I step out onto the wooden verandah, to breath in the fresh green air into my smoke-free lungs. I have been smoke-free for more than a commendable 2 weeks now.

I dribble my feet down the wooden steps, and my mood has swung into an altruistic nook. Ruminating my thoughts, mulling over the troubles of a friend, I pass by the local bakery, mentally rejecting the thought of an expensive croissant, feeling the embossment over the coins in my pocket. I walk by the usual thinker, who must be in his late thirties, who sits by the road, puffing away to glory, drinking a bottle of cranberry juice, and muttering unaudibly to himself.

I have seen him sit there by himself everyday, with the usual berry juice in his mud-stained hands, clad in an unclean shirt, and a matching denim to go with. I have seen him polish his light brown shoes with newspaper folds, and pull up his socks for an unchallenged day. I have seen him dutifully put 40 cents to use the public toilet, rather than ease himself on a wall nearby, for free. People walk by, throwing their extra change in front of him. He is not begging for alms, he is reading his newspaper, commenting on the current affairs unaudibly.

I am standing on the left side of the cross-walk waiting for the lights to turn green so that I can walk by. The light turned green three times, probably or more, as I continued to observe my thinker. On closer observation, I see his slightly wrinkled face beneath the sage like beard, telling me an untold story. He is not a beggar by choice, actually, he is not a beggar at all. Those coins could fool anybody, it fools him as well. I wonder what is it that happened that brought him to this stage, and what is it that he plans to do to walk the rest of his long remaining life.

The light turned green again, and I crossed the stripes. I glanced back again, to see him staring at me; uncomfortably I kept walking on, and musing over his situation. Why would he polish his shoes, why would he not use the walls to take a leak, why would he not drink alcohol like a normal wastrel but cranberry juice? If I spoke French well enough, I would have asked.

I often used to wonder, why am I in a position where I am right now! Was it where I had planned to be, according to my 5-year plans, five years back.

5 years back, I was sitting at the local tapri, with a short stubble, grieving over a then-lost-now-forgotten girlfriend, didn't drown myself in alcohol, but numerous cups of chai, smoked cigarettes on credit, read the Times cover to cover, watched every friend of mine doing exactly what they wanted to do or so I thought, and I looked at myself and sighed.

I put out my cigarette, blew the filthy smoke in streams down my nostrils and said to myself that even this shall pass. The future is not entirely in my hands, some people chalk a framework, some keep the scaffolding ready, and most of them like me then, lived in the past, but atleast they were worrying about their future, trying to stitch a net, and there I was, sitting unconcerned. Many of them, continue to worry even now, since I haven't done anything to change or save the world as yet. Luckily, I chose to differ and never turned back. Awakening from my grieving grave, I walked into another land, and it didn't just happen one fine day. That was 5 years back.

Those wrinkles behind that beard reminded me of a story that I hadn't asked for. I walked on, fiddling my keys in my pocket. I toy with the idea of defining what is 'present', for by the time, I savor the present, it's already become the past. With every passing moment, the past continues to move away from the present, and a moment in future becomes now. I had just seen what I could have become, and I shudder, and I find myself more at peace at what I am now.

A better tomorrow depends on how you choose to define it. Life does not end with the loss of something, as Robert Frost has said, 'it goes on'. You have to realize that it is your birthright to enjoy every moment of it, to savor and relish the delight of being what you are right now. You may not like the situation that you are in right now, but go easy on yourself and think about the fact that you are better off than many unfortunate souls.

It was time to put my cribbing and anxious mind in the backseat, when I see friends pick sandwiches out of the trashcan, sleep on the sidewalks with a book on their face, the temperature plummets to a minus ten degrees celcius, and he re-defines 'open house'. I consider myself lucky that I am not driven to that state of hunger, when there are no rules anymore. In the dead of night, as I walk back to my apartment after a binge, I see a soul digging his hand into the trash bag, searching for a morsel of food to apease the obvious hunger. I climb down with some remaining food, but I don't see him any where in sight. I try to offer the food to another lady, who refuses my gesture politely. With the growing concern for psychopaths who kill by feeding poison, it is better to eat from the trash than from an aluminium foil. Her concerns are not unjustified. I place my food carefully in the trash, and walk back home. What must have been their 5-year plan, if they had one, ever. Did they see themselves like this before? Where had they gone wrong? Are we not lucky? I eat food everyday and many a sight prove to be the salt for the best sauce I have ever had.

(To be continued...)

Beads of Euphoria

I walked out of FranPrix, a local supermarket, a stone's throw from my place of work, grabbing 2 chicken sandwiches and a bag of tortilla chips. I had planned on eating in the privacy of my air cubicle, at my work-station. I was feeling quite proud about not having succumbed to the pressure of smoking, over the weekend that had just scampered by. The thinker by the road, lay in shambles, with his adamantly dirty coat covering his head, a needle by his side, and crumbs of bread strewn around his limp hand.

It was about 2 in the afternoon, the sun was abnormally high in the winter sky, and it felt good basking in those rays as I trudged over the cold snow beneath my feet. Just then, I am not sure whether it was my subconsious that spoke to me as I stared at the lifeless form of the man, or a meta-physical entity, and I guess I shall never know. “Hearken! My dear friend, you were right and I was wrong. You had chosen rightly, I wish I had; I can't change the past, for I am alive no more.” It felt like a thought from a swiped chunk of memory was addressing my conscious being, beckoning me to write out about him. Tinnu, as he was then called, was taking me back down the memory lane, to when it all started.

If I had to describe Tinnu's story right from the beginning to his adolescent death, I would have to say, 'cliched' is the word. I shall spare you the suspense, Tinnu died 8 years back as a result of an overdose of methampethamine, more popular these days as 'crystal meth' amongst the hip-hop, mobile totting, youngsters hanging out in flashy outfits, atop their trendy mode of transports, whilst fashionably pouting over a cigarette. The colors of glamor and vanity, as seen
through the tinted shades, pull the wool over their innocent eyes, as they take a long, supposedly satisfying drag that pulsates the euphoria right through their systems. Tinnu got his hits via injections, another excellent mode of self-destruction, which finally led to his cosmic calling.

Parikrama, the rock-band from Delhi used to play often at Mood-Indigo, during my undergraduate years, and it was the second year of my engineering debacle, and we could hear the other bands ululating the red carpet welcome for the P-band that was to play in a short while. Thanks to inflation, we were forced to buy our 'quarters' (180ml containers) of alcohol, and make ourselves comfortable in the backyard of an isolated shanty, guzzling our lurid liquor to glory. There were too many of us to place a finger on the actual count, but a ballpark figure of 15 would be satisfactory. Through my glazen vision, I could see my drinking buddies roll and strike up a cigarette. Olfactory senses told me that this smoke was laced with THC, and unfortunately, it seemed to make perfect sense to 'try'.

Well, I am not a druggie but I have 'tried' herbal narcotics on some ocassions, a fact that I am not proud of. I am quite happy that I did not venture into other aspects of the drug-culture, that included snorting, sniffing, pill-popping, injecting, palette-lining and other methods of abuse that I am thankfully ignorant of. However, I have been a mute witness to acts of self-destruction, and am also guilty of indirectly promoting this behavior in some of my friends, by not opposing their dreadful actions; a crime that I shall forever atone in repent, a realization put into focus by the demise of my friend, Tinnu.

After the quick 'vamoose' from the Chinese stall, the freebirds flocked at the entry points of the rock concert. Some of us gate-crashed into the concert, as that was the 'in' thing to do, and some of us bought entry tickets in 'black', using a lefthandshake. We all met up inside, and were sitting snugly, with our backs resting against the topmost step of the concrete structure. The crowds were smoking anything and everything, a collosal destruction that I look down upon with contempt and sincerely wish that I could rewind and orchestrate the whole affair in a different manner. I don't regret my actions though, funnily; but given an opportunity, I would play my cards differently. Cuddled in the arms of somebody, we were blowing circles of smoke, entertaining the crowds with blith rings, and then a syringe dropped to the ground. Tinnu died with a smoky halo around his head.

The shrieks from the bystanders, as they watched him convulse, perversely trying to congress the steps. Tinnu's friends were high on substances unknown to me, his group had joined our group outside the gates, so he was more of an acquaintance than a friend to us. We were in a better position to think, considering our levels of sobriety. None of us were trained in any sort of paramedic action to be taken in such a situation. I tried to massage his already over-heated body foolishly, thereby aggrevating his already worsened situation. Tinnu's body stopped contorting, and he lost consciousness, and the scene of his possum body rolling down a few steps, still remains vividly clear in my mind. The well-wishers scooting away from the scene, but remaining within a good distance to witness a case of serious overdose. Another friend of his, probably his companion in deed, stubbed out the cherry of a burning cigarette on his body, trying in vain to revive his dead friend.

The ensuing silence in front of the operation theatre, the singed look on everybody's face, the fear in the eyes, the wailing of Tinnu's parents over his lifeless body, leaves me numb even today. I recollect Tinnu's mom, holding onto his beaded chain, as they rolled his body into the autopsy room, the distinct drop of every link to the floor, echoing through the hospital corridors, ringing through every soul present, shattering the ephemeral beads of euphoria.

Fictional Realm.