Let’s see, it’s been 15 days now since I’d gone into my latest depression—I’m bipolar. So that’s roughly how long it takes for me to get out of one of these things. I have a habit of always wanting the impossible, which I never get, obviously—I mean, how can I, right? But, irrational thinking prevails, and in my case—I’m usually submerged with it. Story of my life, really. I think it’d all started on the 7th of July, my birthday, and I had met her to see… what was it, oh yeah, it was a hindi film called “Delhi Belly”. A, how should I describe it—it’s been 2 months now since I’ve seen it. It’s about these three friends, roommates actually, and how they get sucked into the Delhi underworld when one of them (oh, hey, here: Delhi Belly Movie Reviews: just type that into Google)… I’m sorry, it would’ve taken me forever to get that down here. And besides, I wouldn’t have been able to do half as good a job. So, yeah, I was planning to take her out for the movie that day. And she accepted my offer, like she always does. We’d met the month before that too, for another movie, and then there was this one, and we would have met again if I hadn’t had gone and dismantled everything, like I always tend to do for some reason (more on that later). But the point that I’m trying to make is that she’s a busy woman, and yet she finds the time to show up for these excursions of mine. And I like that about her.
We had gone to see the film that day (she’d told me a few days before, that she’d meet me at the theater at around 1, I think it was). I usually go and buy the tickets a week in advance, so that I get the best seats, and then can’t wait for the week to end and the day to arrive when I’m going to meet her again. I start preparing for the day by first making sure that the car’s washed, cleaned and dried. And then, take a nice bath (and by nice I mean, tortuous, because it takes me about an hour of washing myself, and scrubbing my skin, and making sure that every dead cuticle in my body has been removed, before I'm satisfied). I step out, and then change into my clothes which have already been ironed (I’d done that before I’d hit the shower), and make sure that my hair has been nicely combed. That’s code for my hand-brush (my hand that I use as a brush to comb my hair). And yeah, I throw on some nice deodorant and rub a little bit of eau de toilette on my arms to finish the process. And then I’m off to the Cinemas. I think we were seeing it at Imax that day. It’s a big place, pretty spacious, and, oh yeah, I almost forgot to tell you about the trouble I had booking the tickets. The movie was releasing on the first and my friend and I had planned to go for the movie on the eighth. And you know what? There was a bandh that day. That’s hindi for “closed” because of some political rallies that were going to be held, and if in case trouble broke out, people didn’t want anything of value being damaged. So I waited there in the car that day, parked outside of Imax (I don’t like buying tickets online; there have been times when people haven’t been satisfied with what they’d been promised, and what they’d actually ended up getting. So I preferred driving out to the box office instead, most of the theatres are a 10 minutes drive from my place anyway, rather than book it on the computer.) But as the bandh was being enforced, the security at the gate told me that they might not be opening today, and if they were, it wouldn’t be for another hour or so. So I waited in the car for the next hour, just looking at everything around me. It was a pretty wet day that day. The monsoons had already arrived and it had already begun drizzling. Hussain Sagar lake was right infront of me and everything looked just serene.When I finally went back in there, I’m not sure if I made it in or not… no, wait, now I remember—I had to go back home empty handed that day. Yeah, it was the next day that I was able to get the tickets, and they were pretty good seats too, so I didn’t mind having to have made the two trips.
On the day of the movie, I had arrived at Imax an hour early as usual. Why, because it’s usually the high point of my month to get the chance to go out with her. We usually go to PVR Cinemas, because the parking is free there, which I like, and I love their hotdogs. You can’t get them anywhere else. So it’s usually there, or I max, and if not those two, then it’s either Cinemax or the GVK mall. That’s where we’d gone to see Hanna the month before. Lovely film. So I’m sitting there, on the steps of the theatre—no, not the steps—this parapet just above the steps, and I’m waiting for her, and I’m just sitting there imagining us having a great time that day. I take out my wallet, check if the money’s in order, check my cell to see if she’s given me a missed call, and then decide to give her a call to see if she’s on her way yet. She was, she said she’d be there in some time, and I said sure. So I decided to get off the parapet, and stand near the stairs, behind this big, burly guy. I thought of surprising her, and was trying to see if I could catch her coming towards the entrance, and I don’t know where I was looking but she came out of nowhere and called out my name, in the exclamatory way that she always does—Daanish! And I said, oh, yeah, oh my god—I didn’t even see you. And she said, what were you doing hiding behind that man, and I said, well, I thought I’d surprise you… and she giggled. Well, I don’t know if you can call it a giggle (I don’t know how to describe it) but it’s her laugh. It’s… infectious. Funny, and joyful, and loud… really cracks me up sometimes to see her laugh so whole heartedly, that you think you’re going to bust a gut. I wish I could laugh like that sometimes.
And then she gave me something. She said, Happy Birthday Daanish, and handed me a bag. She wasn’t sure what my size was so she got me a medium, and she hoped it’d fit, cos now, she didn’t think it would. She gave me a receipt for the shirt and said just in case it didn’t fit I could always go and exchange it for one that did. Me, I was still so happy to see her there that the shirt didn’t really matter. I was totally surprised to know that she’d actually remembered it was my Birthday today. I had planned to surprise her, but she’d beaten me to the punch! (Last year, I had totally forgotten her birthday, and the year before that she had totally forgotten mine. But not this year; this year I had it burned into my memory, and just when I thought I’d gotten the upper hand—she comes back with this really, cool shirt as a birthday gift. Curses.) So while we exchanged our hellos, I told her that all of this was just for show, the movie, the theater, the food—they’re just the appetizers. The main course was to finally get the chance to talk her again, in person. Because the last time we’d met, it was a month ago, and now today. We went to the first floor Subways, and I told her I’d be buying the stuff, before she could whip out her wallet again (I still can’t do it, I mean, I try to be the liberal minded 21st century kind of guy, who doesn’t mind if the girl picks up the tab, and god knows I’ve tried to not let it bug me so much, but you know what—it just makes me feel so defeated afterwards that I can’t stop thinking about it, why I hadn’t asked her not to pay for anything. But then, she comes back with the retort that since I’d bought the tickets, it’s only fair that she buy the food. You can’t argue with that. But I still feel bad about it. So today, it being my birthday and all, I wanted to not feel the guilt anymore, so before she could take out the money, I ordered for both of us and paid the guy).
The movie still had maybe a half an hour to start, so we decided to sit down in the corner, and finish our food. She always has those platter-like things, whereas I prefer a good old half-footer. She looked nice… same big, beautiful eyes… her silky, smooth hair (I’d always wanted straight hair like hers growing up, and despised the curls that I had with a passion. So I’d always have my hair cut as short as possible every month. Even though I have kind of weird ears. I mean, they’re not straight, as in close to the head, but protruding out a bit. Man I used to hate that growing up. I’d even grow my hair out to cover them… what a person does to be just like everyone else—boggles the mind. There was something else that I remembered that I wanted to tell her. I asked her if she recalled that time when we were returning from that hotel where I had taken her for my birthday, right before my accident, and she wanted to take a look at some good running shoes on our way back, and we’d stopped at a nike showroom and thought we’d take a look there. And just as we were crossing the road (the shop was on the other side of the divide) I felt that it was my duty to hold her hand while moving through the traffic, for some reason (it was dark and besides, isn’t that how they do it in the movies) and even though I had never so much as even touched her before this, I had convinced myself that I had to. (Come on Daanish, you’re the man. That’s what you’re supposed to be doing. You can’t let her cross the road all by herself.) And so, whack, I made the biggest mistake of my life. Well, no—there have been quite a few of those actually, my accident, not being the least of them, but yes—it was a major gaffe on my part. You see, here in India—men don’t do that, unless they have a certain kind of a relationship with the woman. Say if you’re married, or… no, wait, come to think of it—even most married couples don’t hold their hands out in public over here. We’re not a very hand-holding culture unfortunately. But that doesn't mean we don’t love our wives any less. Yeah, you ask an Indian man to fight you for his wife’s honour, and he’ll be ready to beat you to a pulp. Of course, that’s only if the wife doesn’t kick your ass first, which she can, and will, believe me. I’ve seen it. But hand holding. I don’t know; I think they feel it’s not a part of their culture, the older generation. The younger one, well, it’s kind of cute to see a young Indian couple going hand-in-hand in the middle of hoardes and hoardes of people.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I was telling you about how I was getting ready to reach for her hand… and what was my clame to fame? Was I her husband (yeah, right) or her father (certainly not) her brother (a definite no-no) her boyfriend at least (I wish). No, I was nothing, just the guy who’d take her to the movies from time to time. We were just cinema buddies, I guess. So when I put my hand into hers, she very quickly heaved it out, instantly, and, oh my god—the stare that she gave me, I don’t think I’ve felt anything colder. Her eyes were like a piercing arctic winter, and her pupils were staring at me like two death rays ready to fire. Heck, they already had and hit me right in the heart. Me, what could I do—I just looked down and gave her a weak smile. Anyway, we went into the store and she tried on a couple of shoes, and then we left. And as we were leaving, I did it again. Saw how many cars were flitting past us, and thought, no, I have to do it this time. And, oh my god—she pulled it out again, and there was that same, haunting stare—god save me. This must’ve happened three years before the day we’d met for the movie. She said that she had no recollection of this and said she was sorry for doing that, but, she’s not used to people holding her hand. She’s been living here all alone for almost ten years now, and has always had to do things by herself, so if I’d felt hurt, she was sorry. I said, the whole reason for me telling you this story was because of how bad it made me feel, and that I ought to be the one apologizing to you. No, that’s alright, she said. I don’t even remember the incident. I remember we’d gone out that day, but I can’t recall the specifics. Well, good I said. I felt like I’d violated her space in some way that day.
It was almost time for the movie to start, so we went up to the third floor, and then went inside the screening room showing the movie. It hadn’t started yet, so I thought I’d go and get something to eat… snickers. If I had to choose between popcorn and snickers, then I’d choose the snick any day. So I went and got the bars and by the time I was back, the room was packed. I took my seat next to her, gave her the chocolate, and couldn’t wait for the movie to begin. Right from the first minute, I think it was, you knew that this movie was going to be different, and different in a good way. That of course depends on which side of the fence you’re sitting on, because as many people as there were who liked the film, there were just as many who didn’t like it either. They said it was too immoral. I guess you’d have to be the judge of that. After the movie was over, I couldn’t help noticing how much everyone was laughing, including her. First time during a filming had I seen her so boisterous; looking at her was almost as enjoyable as watching the movie. She went to the ladies room after that and I waited for her outside. She came out after a few minutes and I was wondering what we’d do now, and she said “why don’t we have some coffee?” So we sat down at barista and had our cup of joes. No wait, she ordered some kind of a ginger garlic tea, which she absolutely hated (the ginger was too strong) and I said I wouldn’t have anything, but she persisted, so I said I’d have some pop corn. After she finished her tea, she said she had to get that awful taste out of her mouth, and so she went and stood in line again and got herself another cup of tea, this time Lemon flavoured. What was I doing while all of this was going on… oh, talking, and thinking, and talking. When she got up I noticed how beautiful she looked, and now I can’t even remember what it was that I was talking about with her, but I was blabbering on as usual, and eating her head. She would see me sit quietly for a second or two and ask me what was wrong, what was I thinking. I’d tell her, eh, stuff, and move on.
It was almost 6 now, I think I’d been there since 12, and she had arrived at about 1. So I asked her if she wanted to leave, and she said yeah—she did have to go in for work today, so she’d better get a move on. Okay I said, and got up. We both went down the stairs, I asked her where her bike was parked, and she said it was on the other side of the road. Oh-oh, not the road crossing ordeal again. This time, I made sure that both my hands were firmly inside my pockets at all times. So we reached the parking area, and as she was leaving I asked her about the helmet that she was wearing. I thought the Helmet rule had been relaxed. She said it had, but the company that she worked for preferred it’s employees to wear them . So I said nice, better to be safe than sorry, and then, I’m not sure who it was that put their hand forward first, I think it was her, but I don’t think she put it forward so much as offered it to me to not feel threatened to make the first move and actually shake her hand this time if I wanted to… which I did, of course. We both smiled at each other and I stood there seeing her race away.
After coming back home that day, I’d felt like I’d always feel after having spent some time with her—totally and utterly euphoric. She’d have this effect on me, and I’d be elated. I’d return home and then spend the rest of the day thinking about her, and the wonderful time we’d had. The first thing that I did after coming back was check the shirt she’d gotten me. Drat, it was a size too small, so I might have to go to shoppers stop after all and get it exchanged. I didn’t want to; if it would’ve been anyone else I would’ve just put the shirt aside saying that it was the thought that counted, and been happy with the fact that they had at least remembered my birthday and got me something to celebrate, even if it didn’t fit. But today, knowing that she had gotten herself out of bed that afternoon (we usually work during the nights over here, for all the American companies we have: ge, google, microsoft etc etc) and spent some time at the mall, picking out something for me to wear, so I felt like I owed it to her to go and exchange her gift and get something that would fit me at least. And it’s not like she didn’t have anything else to do that day; she has an entire team of people to lead so she’s pretty swamped the entire week more or less. But that day, and many more days like that—she’d made the time for me.
It was on the second day that I went to the place where she’d gotten the shirt from, and I’d taken my sister along with me. We parked the car in the cellar and made our way inside. Man it had been a long time since I’d been back here; when I used to come here this was like one or two of the only malls we had in the city, but now—they’re like a cock-a-block. So we went in, and went up to the third floor, I think it was, and found the rack where all the shirts similar to the one she’d gotten me were kept—but they were all either too large, or the same size, so I wasn’t able to get any one of those, even though I wanted one just like the one she’d given me. It was a grey-coloured striped shirt and it looked pretty good on me, too, except it was too small and all the others were too large. So we looked around a bunch of other shirts when I thought I spotted something I liked. It was similar to the grey shirt, only it was red, and I was in a pretty upbeat mood as it is so decided to take that one instead. I changed into it and asked my sister how it looked and she liked it too, even though she had picked out something not as flashy as the shirt I was wearing, but for some reason I didn’t want to wear anything bland that day. We paid the cashier the difference we owed him and then went home.
She had told me that she might be heading home pretty soon, she lives in another state, to complete the work that she’s got going on. It had been in the works for the past year or so, and now, finally, it was going to be completed, so I was glad to hear her go. She said she might be staying there for a few days so it might take her a while to come back into town, but I said it was alright—I could wait. She would usually make trips there, up and down for a day or two, and fininsh whatever work she’d have and be back by the end of the weekend. I had totally forgotten about her trip that she’d mentioned in the theatre that day, and was assuming she was busy at work as usual, and would probably reply to my mail when she found the time. I knew from prior experience how insane I come across when I just can’t stop talking with the other person. A letter a week—fine, two letters—tolerable, but three or four or five letters a week—that’s kind of scary, which is what I’d sometimes have the habit of doing with most of my friends. But you know something, she was the only one who’d put up with me for some reason even despite this. I mean, she didn’t have any motive to, and it’s not like she didn’t have loads and loads of other things to do on her plate at the moment, but she would still try and be the good natured person that I’d come to adore.
I think it was the attacks in Norway that kind of freaked me out. I’d already sent her two mails in the days leading up to the attack, after we’d come back from watching the film. But now there was a sense of urgency to getting in touch with her. So I sent her a message and asked her to get in touch with me as soon as she could please. I couldn’t sleep that night. It was like watching 9/11 all over again. So I stayed there on the couch the whole night, glued to the tube, watching the bbc cover the whole thing. I think it was pretty late by the time I dozed off right there, and then a day or two after that when it had been confirmed that it was a christian nut who had done this, and not a muslims one, I heaved a sigh of relief. I received a message on my cell soon after that and I wondered who it was… and wouldn’t you know it, it was her, and she was on her way back home tonight. She was on the bus right now and would be reaching home in another six hours. I decided not to message her back but wait till tomorrow and give her a call and see if she’d reached home or not. When I did, she was still in the bus, and was about to reach the city. So we chatted for awhile and I told her to disregard my last mail to her because of the terrorist attacks that had taken place in Norway the other day. And the other two, well, she could tell me what she thought of them after she returned home. She said fine, she would.
It must’ve been the last week of July by now, and the day was approaching for my sister to leave for Bloomington, and she was busy getting all her stuff ready for the trip, and her stay there. She’ll have to settle down there for the next three years to complete her doctrate, but she at least has her sister in Baltimore to take care of her. She’s the one who my mom’s gone to visit for her delivery. Which means its only my dad and me for the time being; has been for the past two months, will be for another two. Which wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that we were diametrically opposed to each other, unfortunately. But somehow, we managed, and would have to manage now that my other sister was leaving us too. The driver had come for her when he was supposed to. She’d gotten in touch with a guy from work who’d do this on the side, so not only had he to ferry people from work and back during the day time, but he then used to take hirees to the new international airport over here, which is quite a distance away. Safa was all packed and ready by now, and so were dad and I, and we took the two suitcases out and the driver loaded it in the car. I didn’t even notice it, but my dad recognized him as the same guy who’d come to take my mom to the airport as well, and he said “yes, sir—I had”. Doors locked, gate shut, and everyone got inside the car and we drove off.
We reached there like 3 hours before the departure time and said goodbye to Safa. You could see she had some faint tears in her eyes. (My sisters are not the crying types for some reason. No, that gene went to me, apparently. It’s not that bad now, but oh-my-god—when I was younger, I just needed an excuse to cry and the tears would just start pouring down my face. But my sisters, no. They’re too mature for all of that. They’ve learnt how to hold it in, even if they’re hurting.) So Safa hugged dad, or was it me who hugged her first, because it’s not something that I’ve ever done with my sisters, unfortunately. Having lived half of my life in the gulf, Saudi Arabia that too, I was always confused about how it was that I was supposed to behave with the opposite sex. Even if they were my sisters. Could I hug them? But how could I hug them if I’d have to touch them for that. And there was no one around me who could help me out with these sorts of things. (My dad wasn’t big on the whole touching thing. Forget my sisters—they’re actually lucky whenever they do get the chance to be hugged by him—me, I can’t remember the last time when that’d happened.) So, it was time for Safa to leave us now and head on into the terminal. We stood there as we watched her go, and then she disappeared.
So after coming back home from the airport that day, I’d decided that I’d do all the cleaning up. We’d arrived back home by 4, 4:30 in the morning, and I hadn’t slept the whole day, so thought I’d take a nap right there on the sofa. Dad was praying and I thought he’d wake me up when he’d get up, and so I dozed off. The next thing I know, I open my eyes to find my dad sitting there on the on the couch right next to me, watching the news, so I get up to see what time it is, and it’s already 11. I quickly get up to go up stairs to my room and tell my dad that I’d be right downstairs to fix the living room. My mom had been after me for the past few months to get that room cleaned up, and because of my accident I didn’t feel I could do it. But today I thought, why not take the chance and see what happens. So I went up, washed my face, brushed my teeth, did my wadu and said my prayers, and just as I was coming downstairs, dad stopped me and told me that he’d be getting someone to come and move the beds from the room, which were pretty heavy, and would have to be lifted out from there and put back in the guest room. (After my accident my parents had turned the living room into my bedroom and would sleep on the two sofas that were there to take care of me. This accident that I keep referring to was a hit and run that I was involved in, in September/October 2008.)
A car had come at me from out of nowhere and totally side-swiped me, crushing my knee cap, breaking my leg, and giving me a blood clot in the head. What was I doing so late at night at night you ask—the accident happened at 11:30 pm, and I was busy crossing the road to either go and buy a cigarette, or was coming back after having bought one, and boom—my whole world turned upside down in that one minute. The one or two guys who were there at the time said I’d flown for quite a height and landed on my head. They tried to get a number of the guy who’d done it, but he had sped away. Looked like he was drunk, they said, from the erratic way he was driving. A few people had already gathered over there, and one of them called the ambulance service, and I was soon taken to the Yashoda Hospital for surgery. And all this was happening not 2 minutes from my house, and no one knew anything about it. While the guys who were taking off all my clothes found the wallet in my back pocket, one of them opened it and tried to find a number where he could reach someone. I think I’d just filled in my contact details recently, for some reason, and they were able to find that and get in touch with my family. Mom was the one who received the call that night, and yelled for my dad to pick up the phone when she figured out what had happened. My dad picked up the call and took down all the information and told them that he’d be right there. Mom woke up my sister and asked her to get dressed, she would have to drive everyone to the hospital. By the time they reached there I was still lying on the gurney waiting for it to be decided what was to be done with me. My dad came in and got the bad news from the doctor. He said, by the injuries he’s sustained, mainly the trauma to the head, it’s not likely that he’ll survive. I’m sorry, and as he was leaving my dad asked him to please go ahead with the surgery any way. He didn’t care if I only had a three percent chance of surviving that day—he wasn’t god to be making these sorts of decisions anyway, so could he please do his job and get the surgeon who’d operate on me.
I stayed in the hospital’s icu for almost a month after that. The surgery itself took a couple of hours, and I was in a coma for ten days afterwards, in which they said I could go at any time. So my whole family had come down to see me. My sister Tazeen flew down from Baltimore, when she heard about what happened, with her husband (who brought his mother and father down from Calcutta). Her husband’s a Doctor, so tried to see if there was anything more that he could do. When I’d come out of my coma, from what I can remember about what my mom had told me, I mostly used to lie there in bed, asleep. And when I would wake up, I’d just stare blankly at the world. My mother now tells me that she had prayed that if it was my time to go that day, for god to take me as peacefully as he could, and to not make me suffer in anyway by having to live my life the way I was. My head and brain had already been operated on, and now it was time for the bone specialist to come in and take care of the knee and the leg. He took some bone out of my ribcage and used that to put my knee cap back in, as best he could, and then attached a metallic plate to keep the knee in place. The leg bone, well, that was in pretty bad shape too. The doctor attached five five-inch screws to hold the whole thing together, and placed a rod in my leg to give it some support. My femur had broken off from the middle, and was jutting out of my skin when they’d brought me in that day. They couldn’t work on it then because the brain took precedence, and when it had started to stabilize did they go after the knee. I stayed in the hospital till the end of October, and then the doctor who’d operated on my brain said that I now had a 50-50% chance of survival, so could be discharged. I was carried home in another ambulance that day.
The first few days were the most difficult, my mom says. I couldn’t talk, and I couldn’t move. I would become so agitated sometimes that I’d try and bite who ever would come close to me. I think I even tried to bite my mom a couple of times. The only people who could handle me well were my sisters. Tazeen would try and reason with me and explain to me why I couldn’t do the stuff I wanted to do. Safa, on the other hand was a bit tougher.” He’s just acting. He knows what’s going on.” Hehe, I love my sister. But, yeah—it was really bad for those first few days. My favourite Uncle, my mother’s younger brother, who’s settled in Sydney right now, had come down to Hyderabad to visit me as well. I can’t quite recall the last conversation that we were having together just before he’d left. He’d only come down for a day, and had to go back to Mumbai. I don’t know what we were talking about but he was probably trying to give me hope for the future. And if there’s one man in my family who knows about that—it’d be my uncle. You see, in 95 I think it was, this big, beautiful hunk of a man, lost both his legs in a horrific train accident. His wife was expecting at the time I think, and he was in a hurry to be back home, so decided to run after the train that was racing off of one of the platforms. And before he could get in, the train threw him off the steps and onto the tracks, and he ended up losing an entire part of one leg from the knee down, and the other from a part of the foot. But he still managed to remain calm and tell the people who were there to go and get a cooler for him to keep his cut foot in, and asked the doctor amongst one of the people who were there to stitch his other leg until he’s taken to the hospital. He then called home and told them what had happened.
It was on one of the trips back from the hospital when I said something to my mom and sister who would accompany me. We would go there for my weekly checkups, which then came down to every fortnight, and then a month, and finally once in 3 months. Now, it’s been maybe more than a year since I’ve been back there, although it has been brought to my attention that it would be better if I went and had my leg checked up since it has a rod in it, and I might have to get it removed. It’s been the first time since my accident that I had opened my mouth that day, and my sister was ecstatic. Tazeen took out her note pad and quickly started scribbling as many three letter words she could, and asking me to tell her what it was, and every time I’d answer—the smile on her face would grow wider and wider. I was now able to put some words together, finally. Rat, bat, cat, fat, sat. And on and on. It was nearing the time for my sister to leave for the states again. She tried to make everything as comfortable for me and mom as she could before she left. She had a big tv installed in the living room and got a bunch of dvd’s recorded for me so that I’d have something to watch whenever I’d get bored. She also got my mom a new washing machine and threw out the old one. Oh, and she got me this really cool wheelchair which I used to ride on, for the next three months or so—until I’d gotten good enough to start walking. And the bone in my leg, well, at first it was covered with a plaster from knee to toe, and then, after about a month, it’d come out, and it felt so good to be scratching my legs again.
The wheel chair came after that, after I’d gotten my cast off. I think. No, no—it was already there. I remember now, I used to ride it with the cast too. And when it was time to leave the chair, it was sort of a sad day; I’d gotten so attached to it… my speech was also improving little by little, although I still had a sort of a drawl, or lisp. And you know something, now it meant I could go to the bathroom again, and give myself my own baths and clean my own arse. Because, you know what—that’s what my mom and dad would have to do for me when they’d brought me home from the hospital. My dad used to take care of my baths I think (oh-oh, you know something—I just thought of whether I’d be naked in front of my father when he used to give me a bath… uhhh, oh yeah, now I remember, there was a chair that he’d put in the toilet, and I’d have to sit on it and he’d pour water all over me, and then leave when it was time for me to wash myself). My mom, poor thing, was in charge of my toilets (although now my dad informs me how he used to have to do both of them, and my mother would have to do it when he wouldn’t be around… the first few days were tough, no doubt, since I had no idea what was going on around me—so they would have to wear gloves and do all the dirty work, but then when I started getting better I would do all the washing up by myself, but they’d still have to get rid of the toilet… . I also had these two guys that used to come over for physical therapy. Nice guys. They were both friends and had been doing this for a couple of years now. The elder guy had finished his degree in it, and the younger one was sort of an apprentice of his, learning the ropes I guess. But I’d like when they both would come. Who else was there for me to look forward to everyday? The elder guy was a bit of a body builder, professionally I mean, so he was in pretty good shape, except his arm. He had suffered an accident too by the way, and had a rod installed in his arm. But he got better, and was now back to body building again. Besides them, there was another guy who my dad had hired to be there to watch over me during the day. The doctors had given me some pretty powerful sleeping pills ,which I would have to take just before my dinner, and by the time I’d finish—I’d barely be able to make it to the bed. But in the day he’d always be there, and I’d have someone to talk to the whole day.
It was this room that was going to be dismantled now. I told my dad that I’d be able to handle it, no sweat, but he said no—he’d go and get some help. So I said fine and waited their until he went and got the maid who used to work for us and her husband. They live right adjacent to our place, and said that they’d be able to do it. So my father told them to go ahead, and pretty soon the room was rid of everything that was crammed into it. Dad paid them some money and I said I’d get to work right away. First, I’d start off with the dusting of the wall unit, which didn’t take as long as I thought it would, thankfully, since it’s been cleaned recently. Then there was the sweeping of the entire room, and then the mopping, and then I had to arrange the Sofas and the centre table. The centre table was a bit hard since it has a glass top so I asked my dad to come and help me with it. I removed the bed sheets covering the couches, and by the end of it, the entire room was looking just like it used to before the accident had taken place. To think it took me 3 years to to get around to doing something which only took me 3 hours to complete.
I stood outside the room, proud of the work I had done that day, and wondered how happy my mom would be to see the room back to its former glory, after she’d come back home. The rest of the week went along the same lines more or less. I’d wake up and start doing something or the other around the house for the day, and be satisfied with a day well spent. Cleaning the house, dusting the furniture, sweeping and mopping the floors, cleaning the toilets and basins, and washing the clothes. My mom had shown me how to operate the washing machine before she’d left, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to remember all her instructions, so had written them down and made a detailed note of it. And with my mom calling me up every day to check up on me ever since Safa he had left, and me and dad being all alone in the house, her calls had become more frequent and all the more necessary for me to clear any doubts I had. The washer being one of them. To pre-wash the clothes, add them to the drum, fill it up with water, add 4 to 5 scoops of the detergent, and then some antiseptic liquid to clean out all the germs, and turn on the machine to 4 and leave it for the next hour or so. It would stop at the half way point and that’s when I’d have to add the fabric softener, to give all the clothes that smooth, soft feel. It was on Saturdays that I’d do the whites, and Sundays I’d leave for the coloured’s, so it would be a full day on the weekends. I’d also have to hang all the clothes in the evening by the time they’d come out of the machine, and that would take me another half an hour. Half of them in hangers, and the other half of them on the huge swing that we had sitting outside our bedrooms. They would take a good day to dry, and by that time I would’ve finished the next load and would hang them up. The next week I decided to do something different, and washed both the clothes together, since they’d be so few between my dad and I, but I was careful not to put in any ones that would leak their colour and spoil the other shirts. But the no. of clothes were so few that it wasn’t worth going through all the trouble, even if I was saving on a whole day by doing it. So the next week I shifted the time to wednessdays and thursdays, just before the Friday prayers, and that suited me just fine. So I had the sweeping on Mondays, the mopping on Tuesdays, and the washings on wednessdays and thursdays, and my prayers on fridays, which would leave me with the weekend off.
I thought I’d spend that time chatting with her, and so after I’d finished sending her the two or three huge mails—she made the mistake of replying to me by acknowledging their length, and how well written they were. At first I thought it was a joke, and maybe she was just making fun of me, but she seriously said she liked them, and so I took that as a sign for me to send her even more mails now, more longer than the others, and soon ramadan had arrived and I was wondering what to do for the whole day now that I’d be fasting and wouldn’t be able to have any food either, so thought I’d just spend the time writing to her. I told her of my plan, to write to her every day of the month, and by the end of it, when eid would roll around—I would have sent her 30 letters. She said fine, whatever would keep me busy, so I started mailing her a letter every day from then on, except this time it would be on facebook for some reason. I just thought she’d have a better chance of reading them there then if I’d sent it to her by mail. I was wrong; there’s only so much a person can take, and after giving me a reply or two for the first two or three days—I was left marooned and didn’t even know it. But, to be fair, it was insane the amount I’d write. Sometimes the facebook page would break and would tell me that there was too much content to post, so I would have to decrease the volume, and divide the message into two parts and then mail it to her. But that didn’t stop me, no, although I should’ve gotten a hint when she had lowered the frequency of her replies. Me, I thought she’d find the time somehow or another like she always does, and would reply to me sooner or later. And so I wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and as I was closing in on the half way mark that month, I started to feel the panic a bit. This had happened to me before, falling in love with her and devoting myself so totally to her, that I’d feel so vulnerable if my feelings weren’t returned in some way. And it looked like I was heading down the same path.
I’d decided to take us out for another movie that month, cow boys and aliens was already playing at the time, and I think crazy stupid love was just about to come out, but I decided to go with something a bit more neutral than those two. I can’t remember what I’d picked out, but whatever it was—it was good. I’d sent her a copy of the Beaver earlier in the month, and hoped she would like it as much as I did. Not to mention the Conspirator which I thought did a very good job of telling me about all the stuff I had no knowledge of, of Lincoln’s killing. Sure, we’ve all heard the stories of how he was shot in the head while sitting in the theatre with his wife, but we never got to hear about what happened after that, and Robert did a pretty good job of showing us what did. I thought what was working for me was that she’d be impressed with that choice, to get to learn something about Lincoln, and a little bit of American history, so I told her not to miss that one either. And that’s when I decided on going out for the movie. I was sure she wouldn’t say no, how could she—she’d always come before, so I went ahead setting up all my plans on where we’d meet, and what we’d eat, and the movie we’d watch. I even thought of giving something to her in exchange for the gift that she had given me on my birthday. But I couldn’t think of what. Oh yes, and I had decided on wearing her red shirt to the theatre that day. It would be perfect for the occasion. So, as I was laying their on the couch that day, my eye sort of veered to the “welcome home” dedication that had been gracing our family room wall ever since we’d moved into this house… I wasn’t sure if I should be removing it or not, but we were planning to sell the house anyway, and live in something that was a bit smaller than the place that we were living in currently, and not have so much to manage now that there were only going to be the three of us—I thought it would be okay if I did take it out.
The only problem was that I’d have to get some new wrapping paper because the ones that I had wouldn’t fit it, and so after finding one that I really liked, I bought it from the shop around the corner and came home. I measured it with the frame to see if it would fit alright and then went up stairs and put it in my room. I had gone out to get it when my dad had gone to the mosque. Oh, about that—it’s not that I don’t pray, I do, but I prefer doing it at home, where I can pray with my own voice (you’re supposed to vocalize your chords when you’re in the solitude of your own house) and I’m not that confident of my own voice, but they have improved considerabally ever since I started using them, and now I’d rather prefer praying at home than go to the masjid, except on fridays when I do head for the mosque, but not the one where I had been going with my dad for the past fifteen years. I’ve found a new mosque these days, where the imam (that’s the religious authority who guides you—he’s my age that too, maybe even younger than me by a year or two)—gives his sermons with such passion, and zest, that there’s not a hint of pride in his tone, and that’s what I love about him. Most people in his position stand and give the khutbah as if they were appointed by god himself to do it, and it seems so fake. I’ve always wanted someone who’d lead me, and I wouldn’t have a question of following him wherever he aksed me to go, and this man who might be young (a year or two younger than me) has a certain kind of a style to him, an aura if you will, and you just feel that you have to listen to whatever it is he’s saying. Maybe that’s why there’d be so much of a heavy rush at this mosque, even though the other one is pretty full too, but this one is a a lot smaller, at least the ground floor is, and yet it’s filled to the brink with as many people as it can hold—and then a few. There’s a first floor too, and a second floor which start to fill as well.
So gift in hand, I waited for my dad to leave for the night prayers and the extra prayers that he has to pray during ramadan. I took out the wall hanging and the gift wrapping paper to see how much I’d have to cut off for it to fit as seamlessly as possible—granted, I don’t know when was the last time I’d done this, or if I’d done this at all (the sales people in the shop usually help you out with this stuff whenever you purchase something from them) so I was a bit of a novice at doing it and wasn’t feeling too confident about it. But it took me the better part of an hour to get the whole thing inside the paper, to fold it shut, and then tape it as best I could. Oh, before that, I forgot to mention everything that I had done to it to get it ready for the wrapping bit… it had been on the wall for 15 years now, and I’m not sure how many times it had been taken down and cleaned during all this while, maybe twice or thrice, if that many times, but by the amount of dust on it, it seemed like it had been up there for a long, long time. I think I must’ve cleaned it a couple of times at least, and then used a brush to get at all the nooks and crannies before I got it ready to send it to her. But it was worth it, to see it all white and glistening like that. I knew I was going to get good marks for this, and tomorrow, I would go and buy the tickets… I couldn’t wait for the day to end soon enough.
When I woke up the next morning, bright and early, I had planned on going to the Imax again, and thought it would be better to get there as soon as possible, and get those good seats. Only thing was I had to confirm it with her. I had already told her about my plan for a movie that month, and she’d said sure, and I thought it was going to be a shoe in, so I wasn’t even going to call her before I left, but it’s a good thing that I did. At first she wasn’t able to lift the phone because she was still in the office at the time, and then while I was checking the times of the movies on the computer she called me back, and I reminded her about my plan. But she gave me the bad news: she wouldn’t be able to come out for the movie that week, I think a friend of hers was throwing a goodbye party that weekend, just before she was to get married and leave for home. So I said that it was alright, maybe we could do it some other time, and she said sure, and we hung up. It was only then that I realized I didn’t have to go out for a movie with her—maybe we could just meet-up and hang out for awhile, and so dialed her number again. But she said that it wouldn’t be possible either, because it’s usually like 3 am by the time she heads for work, so she’s doubtful that anything would be open at that hour. Hmmm, you’re right; I doubt there would be anything open at that time. So we hung up again. I was starting to feel a little sorry for myself by this time, but the minute I started to feel that I was going into a depression, I caught myself and pulled myself out. I knew that the key was to keep myself busy, and so I decided I’d go to the inorbit mall and have something to eat. I had some money in my wallet, and I was fasting at the time, so I thought why not. I went and washed the car, took my bath, and waited for the clock to strike 6 o’clock. I told my dad where I was headed (it was the first time that I’d be going alone after the accident, without anyone in the house either who I could call to help me if I needed them) so dad cautioned me to be careful and I said I would. The mall’s in Hi-tech city (that’s where all the bpo companies are located) and it’s maybe a 15 minute drive from my place. So I arrive there, and park the car, and then head up to the third floor, the food court, and spot pizza hut in the corner, and go in. I sit down and order a spicy chicken, with some garlic bread exotica and a glass of water to break my fast when it’s time. The garlic bread comes out to me in five or ten minutes, and it’s just in time for me to break my fast with. I’d brought along some dates, so I have some of those and a glass of water. I then take a bite of the garlic bread and wait for my pizza to arrive. It comes in another 10 minutes, and I miss how long it’s been since I’ve had one of these. I have half of the pizza, and all the four pieces of garlic bread, and ask the guy serving me to get the rest packed and bring me the bill.
I pay the bill and pick up my leftovers and then decide to head on down stairs to have some coke and chocolate to get my mind off of her. After I reach the other end of the place, where all the elevators are, I notice a man and two women standing in front of the doors with this huge shopping trolley in their hand, so I stand behind them thinking that I’ll enter the lift after they do. The lift then arrives, and it’s going where I want to, but the two ladies seem to want to go upstairs, and I can’t seem to get in because there’s this huge trolley in front of me. The lift soon leaves and I’m stranded there; it usually takes quite a while for it to come back up again, because it has to stop at every floor and let everyone out, before it proceeds. So I decide to step forward and then ask the ladies whether they want to go up or down. Up they say, and so I press the button and wait for the next lift to come. It comes fairly quickly, and I decide to get in and go up again, and then come down. The husband tells the two to go on and that he’d get the next one, so they say fine. They both look American to me (blue eyes, blond hair) and they have this huge shopping cart in the lift between them and it’s kind of congested with all the people in it as well. I welcome them to India and tell them to get used to the flood of people, because that’s just how we roll and they laugh. I notice that the girl who’s getting out is wearing different slippers on her feet and it looks so odd that I wish I had my camera right now. I go downstairs and finally reach the lobby, that’s where the super-market is. I go in and pick up a coke, or was it a pepsi, and then head on towards the chocolates isle, and pick up some snickers. I then go and stand in the line that looks the least crowded to me, with people holding the least amount of purchases. But it still takes me like 5 or ten minutes to reach the front of the queue. While standing there I tell the girl standing behind me my philosophy on shopping in one of these places. Never come in here if you only have one or two purchases to make… she has some kind of jello in her hand and smiles. I ask her how long she’d been waiting here, 15 minutes, and she laughs and says no, more like five. The clerk apologizes for the delay and then asks me if I’d like to buy a plastic bag to carry everything in… all I’m holding is a bottle of pepsi and a snickers bar, so I tell her no, she’s too kind—but I’m actually going to sit down right here and have it.
I then went back down to the parkinglot, got into my car, and headed back home. A day well spent if you ask me. But I still couldn’t stop thinking about her, so wrote out my whole day and messaged it to her on facebook again. Maybe she’d write back to me. And maybe we could go back to the way things were before I had the audacity to think there was anything there, that wasn’t apparently. I hoped that this wasn’t going to be the end of anything, and I thought I’d be fine, but when I felt that her replies to me had started decreasing a bit, I panicked, and was worried that I’d done something that I wasn’t supposed to, and it would mean her stopping to want to talk to me. So I did the only thing which seemed sensible to me at the time—doubled my efforts to get her back, which only seemed to have the opposite effect. It was starting to take its toll on me too. A few days later I’d have to go to the facebook offices and clear some stuff up for my sis, which was the last good day I had. I’d now started working on my blog where I thought I’d type up all my emotions and post it and send a link to her and see what she thought about it. I don’t know if she ever replied about reading them, but even if she did, it just wasn’t the same. I was crushed, she was slipping away, and there was nothing I could do about it. And then within a few days I was deep into my depression. A full blown manic attack, and that was it. The more I’d tell myself that it was alright, I’d get better soon—the worse off it’d get. I was sleeping 12-13 hours a day, instead of the 4 or 5 that I was used to. I’d stopped maintaining my physical hygiene and the only thing I’d do was sleep in bed, or just lie there thinking about what had happened to me—why was I like this. It was horrible. My mom would call to talk to me, and I’d tell her to kill me, all the way from Baltimore—I’d wanted to die; I couldn’t take it any longer. I’d avoided taking her calls when the pain started getting too much to bear, or calls from my sisters, or anyone for that matter—my aunts living in Mumbai and my relatives from here. I just wanted to go into a shell and lay there.
I wanted to blame her for it, for everything, but I knew that wouldn’t be fair. She hadn’t done anything wrong. But then who could I blame it on? Me. I always have the habit of blaming everything on myself so I wasn’t sure if I was the best judge of my character right now. But I wanted to see if I could analyze this and see where it would lead me. It would mean having to tell the truth to myself for once, so I had to be ready for anything that would come at me. First thing, I’d made the mistake of idolizing her so much, so that she had nowhere else to go but down. Or the relationship did anyway. Second, I wasn’t being truthful to myself, or her. She had told me repeatedly that it wasn’t something more than a friendship that she was looking for, not with me or anyone else for that matter. But I couldn’t help thinking of how it’d feel for me to swoop her off her feet and for us to live happily ever after. My third mistake was that I put her up on such a high pedestal, it was almost impossible for her to not feel uncomfortable. And the last was how much of a better man she’d make me feel through all of this… that’s it, isn’t it—it was that… what “I” was going to be getting out of this, this relationship. That was what was making me feel so miserable. Because now that she’s gone I’d felt like a part of me had gone with her, for good. I had no idea if it was ever coming back. I had no idea if I was ever coming back. The same old, fun loving Daanish? (Why couldn’t I have a girlfriend, just someone to love, and be loved by in return—that’s all I’m asking for god.) I’d constantly give her credit for making me feel the way I was, instead of giving myself a little bit of the credit as well, and now it’d come back to bite me. Sure, she was a big part of how I’d feel, but that didn’t mean I’d have to be completely dependent on her. I thought I’d never find anyone like her, and the heartbreak that I was feeling was excruciating. I felt like it was going to be like that forever. But then, slowly but surely, it started to fade away. Like I said, it took me 2 weeks to get out of the slump that I was in, but when I did—man, did it feel good to be alive again. And all it took was a little bit of clear thinking.
