Overthinking

Mohan walks into his room and locks the door. He puts the file in his hand on his table, takes off his shoes, and walks towards his bed. Slowly, he leaps onto the bed with his face down. The tube light in the room is on, making a small humming sound. It feels as if it has lost its once all-white charm and is now in its dying yellow era. Rather than giving in to its dullness, Mohan decides to close his eyes. He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, feeling the air going out of his body. Completely.

;

Then, as he slowly breathes, he feels his chest and stomach against the bed, rising and falling. Sensing every cell of his body, he feels the movement of all the air particles taking space in its compartments. The lighter warmth of his breath gives way to a warmer feeling of his blood flow. Discovering his different body parts through the bloodstream, Mohan feels weightless.

After several exhales, Mohan feels the blood moving toward his feet. His feet hang in the air, stretched a bit out of the bed, as he has not adjusted himself properly. The blood in his feet was always there, perpetually flowing, but only now is Mohan sensing the flow. It reaches the fingers of his feet, slightly moving them in no specific direction. One delicately touches the other.

;

The swirling of the fan and its slightly creaking sound blend in with the gush of windy air it is circulating. The resulting sound complements the dullness spread by the tube light.

Mohan unfolds the shawl. Step by step, all the folds come out of their cornered squares, and the threads restructure themselves into a familiar shape of Mohan’s body, mainly, his face. Smelling the familiar scent of his breath, the threads give way to the incoming and outgoing. Mohan’s forearm is holding the shawl on his forehead. Stretched. Inside the shawl, as he breathes slowly but unevenly, the light feels dimmer through the cross-cut structure of the threads.

;

After a moment or two, he suddenly rushes out of the shawl, gets up, and switches the light off.

Now, only a faint blue ambient light envelopes the room, coming from the window. Mohan has again lain down on the bed and has taken the shawl over his head. Inside the shawl, his eyes are wide open, and the light is much dimmer.

A moment later, he bends his legs and keeps both his soles on the bed. Both his legs are now bent at the knees, trying to balance themselves on the bed. They hesitate to come together inside as well as to fall apart outside. Never completely surrendering to either side. Finally, after some struggle, the knees touch each other and come together to lean on the wall beside the bed.

In this hesitation, he starts breathing unevenly. His chest moves in a jazzy pattern. After some breaths, he takes a louder one and rolls over to his right, his face against the wall. While doing this, the shawl rearranges itself, folding below and over his body unevenly.

He rearranges the shawl and takes it properly. The threads finally breathe a fresh air. Mohan keeps his one arm below his head, giving support to his head. Not knowing what to do with the other hand, he keeps it on his still stomach. His half-open eyes are looking into the dark, toward the table. A light shade of blue makes the file's edge shine in that undefined darkness.

;

After gazing into the dark for a bit, he takes the shawl completely off his body and rolls over to the opposite side. Now, his body is not covered with anything. His face faces the wall. His legs are bent at the knees. His forehead relaxes as he tries to breathe in a rhythm. After some time, the movement stops, and his forehead shrinks.

He again rolls over to the other side, but this time he keeps his left leg straight and bends the right leg toward his chest. His right hand is arching over his head, and his left hand is kept aside. His face looks sideways. Eyes closed. The stress is now more prominent on his forehead.

He opens his eyes halfway but doesn’t move. He exhales again and then shifts once more, face now up toward the ceiling. His eyes are open, and for the first time that night, Mohan blinks, not out of reflex, but decision. He closes his eyes, and this time, they stay closed.

Finally, into that seemingly silent night, silence falls.

Miracle

Satyam liked fiction. He liked it so much that he was never satisfied with reality. He mostly lived in his own made-up worlds, not wanting to come out. People around him were also not bothered much. But what was striking was that the worlds in which Satyam would get lost were not fantastical. There were no magical creatures or fairies, nor did they involve aliens and outer space. The worlds he would get lost in were rather different versions of the same world that he inhabited.

And, as if it were destined to happen, Satyam faced a menacing problem.

No one exactly remembers how it started. Some say it started when Satyam lost his father. Some say it started when he fell in love for the first time. Some say the problem was always there, but the world came to know about it later. As no one knows for sure, let’s say that it began when he started writing for the first time.

Mostly, he wrote about the worlds in his mind. This would mean him writing about different variations of his own reality. Initially, he used to change many things to make it seem like a different world; mainly the names of people and places. It was easier for him to express that way, without feeling the pressure of judgment from reality. Although deep down, he always knew what he was doing. But still, it gave him a good perspective, and all was fine until he was aware of that. But what he was completely oblivious to was that this path posed a deadly problem ahead.

As he wrote more and more, he began to realize newer things about himself. He understood his dead father more properly when he talked to him in a parallel world. He felt love and heartbreak differently when he tried to understand them in a fictional world. In a blissful unawareness, Satyam kept wandering into the shapeless land.

His childlike astonishments took him farther from reality. Initially, he was aware of what was happening and was able to maintain his sense of reality, but only until a certain point. No one knows when that certain point expanded itself into multiple points. Slowly, Satyam started indulging more and more in fiction. Those several potential points of return exponentially expanded themselves into several more until they became so many and so minuscule that they were non-existent. In hindsight, it was merely a unidirectional line that started in reality and ended in fiction, where its name kept changing, as that was what fiction was about.

At first, everyone thought that this was the real problem. That Satyam had completely travelled to the fictional land, beyond the point of return, was the whole situation. Little did they know, all was still curable until it was separable, as this was just a build-up to a more puzzling scenario.

As he wrote more and more, he realized that he liked fiction because it made him understand reality better. And as he became aware of this, he made the costly mistake of thinking of it as an absolute way forward.

In a mind-bending high of self-awareness (which he thought of as self-actualization), he started mixing the fiction with the real. Projections of multiple realities started colliding in a mythical, wild dance of perspectives. Turquoise, Teal, and Cobalt were no longer shades of blue. Defiled by a disruptive Scarlet, they lost their reality, and so did the Scarlet. Sometimes he would change names, sometimes he wouldn’t. Neither the day remained the day nor the night, night. Fiction became a palpable reality, and reality was no longer a scientific notion of time and space.

It was the death of both fiction and reality, as they were perceived.

;

But unbeknownst to him, Satyam was actually onto something beautiful. The Blues and the Scarlet started creating a beautiful shade of purple. Inexplicable as it was, it matched with the culmination of a day and a night. Something completely and marvelously new took form as fiction and reality merged. A glimpse. A moment. A sliver of truth.

;

To this date, no one knows how it started or what happened to Satyam after that. All they could find as proof of his reality, as well as fiction, is his writings. Even after so much time, reading his writings, some think that it was a disease from which Satyam was never cured. Others still think of it as a mystery that will never be solved. Only Satyam, alive through his writings, knows that it was, indeed, a miracle.

A hot summer afternoon

In the summer holidays after the 10^th board exams, Mandar visits Babu uncle, who has a large, beautiful bungalow in a small village near his hometown. Behind the bungalow, there is a large jamun tree, and the space is designed in a way that the cold shadow of the tree falls inside a small terrace-like section of the house, giving it a cozy vibe. It’s a yearly routine for all his family members and cousins to spend a week there in summer. Eating mangoes and melons.

One afternoon, after a heavy lunch, they are sitting on the terrace, resting. All his family members, including his mother, aunts, uncles, brothers, and sisters, are there. Laughing and having fun over a game of Monopoly. Sensing the heat, Apu Bhaiyya takes off his t-shirt and goes shirtless to make the heat bearable. He wipes his body and underarms with the t-shirt and throws it away. ‘That will make it better,’ he says.

Mandar looks at him and looks away at the game.

Seeing her younger son Yash sweating heavily, Mandar’s aunt suggests he take off his shirt too. Yash, who is an 8 y/o kid, does so. Just then, Mandar’s uncle comes there, shirtless, and sits beside him. His body is all hairy.

Feeling a bit uncomfortable, Mandar gets up and walks inside the house pretending that he wants to go to the washroom. He leans on the washroom door and takes a moment for himself, looking out of the window. Then, without peeing, he comes out. He washes his hands in the sink and wipes them with a napkin. Slowly, he walks back.

As he comes back, he sees his father sitting in the corner, having only his vest on. Looking at his mother, he sits down and continues to play. A moment later, he hears his father’s voice. ‘’Mandar, look how sweaty you have got! Take off the shirt to feel better!’

Drops of sweat begin to gather all over his body as he listens to this. Reluctantly, he turns his head toward his father and smiles dryly. He turns back toward the game and plays his turn without doing what his father said. He wins a lottery ticket in the game, and his uncle pats him on his back in excitement. He senses that Mandar’s back is wet with sweat.

‘Mandar, come on! Take off your shirt! You are soaking wet!’ he says. Mandar looks at him reluctantly, not knowing how to be. His t-shirt is now pretty wet. Mandar feels hot, not knowing if it is the summer or his shameful anxiety.

‘No, it’s ok! I’m fine.’ Mandar replies as naturally as he can. ‘Mandya, are you ashamed?’ Apu bhaiyya asks, laughing casually. Mandar, looking at his cynical laugh, immediately shakes his head and takes off his t-shirt.

The sweat-drops appear on the surface of his body more aggressively than ever. As if they are making their presence felt, Mandar senses each of them with a wave of nervousness flowing through his body. He awkwardly smiles, looking at Apu Bhaiyya. They continue to play the game as Apu Bhaiyya wins a lottery ticket.

Dear One, Yours, Two

Dear One,

How are you doing? I know you must be doing great because they really admire you. Especially in recent times, they have realized your value a lot. You are cool, independent. Everyone wants to be you. Solo is the word. No societal pressure, no binding forces, just a free and reckless life. It must feel good to have all that attention. It must feel good to live life like there is no tomorrow.

Not so long ago, they also wanted me. I was the epitome of their lives. Loving someone forever was what everybody aspired to. Everyone was romantic. It was perfect. I loved the attention. Even the ones who had broken up knew my taste. Even if they did not show, they preferred me. Heartbreak was a genre. Singers and composers made careers out of it. Those who were alone were regarded as lonely. One was looked at as sad and miserable. Two was the life that everyone wanted.

But maybe I got carried away in the spotlight. I asked for too much. I made it all about myself. I expected all of them to be like me. I don’t know how it happened, but it just felt perfect. A world full of pairs. And when I’m good, I’m really good. The best. You also know it. Language fails to explain what it feels like to be me when I am in my peak form. But when I get too full of myself, it's trouble. And maybe that’s why I need you.

And I know you have friends. Three, Five. Remember that time when you befriended Nineteen? I thought you would stop at some point, but you kept on going. Shifting cities, switching jobs. I don’t even know if you have stopped yet. Sometimes, I wonder if you do all this to just run away from the idea of being with me alone. Or to just run away from the idea of being with yourself alone. When you are with others, you have to be so much more. When you were with 30, you had to act like you were 196. With S, you pretended like you were T. That’s very far from being you. Can’t you see? One plus One is Two. With me, you can be one. With me, you can be you.

I know I have my problems. I carry dependency, expectations, of the present as well as of the future. I carry being responsible for each other’s emotions. I also carry the heavy burden of narratives from the past. And sometimes it gets dirty, I know. But I’m like that because I see too much. I see and sense everything twice. Of course, there are clashes. Having a singular perspective is impossible. But why don’t you also say anything?

I don’t want to take you for granted, but sometimes you make it so easy to do that. How can it be my fault that you keep forgetting yourself when you are with me? You can’t blame me for it all and leave in the middle of it like this to be completely yourself.

I worry about you sometimes. I worry that this new language of money and independence will just make you so lonely that you won’t even acknowledge that you needed me. This language just seems to promote individual growth and the idea of success so much that they have started forgetting me completely. Now, even if they embrace me, it has a materialistic incentive to it. And don’t make the mistake of misreading what I’m writing here. I’m not saying you need another One. I’m saying you need what happens to you after you meet another one. And that happening should happen. I should be born.

And I get it. I get the reasons for you to feel that you don’t want me. It’s better to just carry your own emotional baggage and not let anyone down because of you. It’s better to be responsible for your own shit and so that no one blames you and you blame no one. It’s better to not have any expectations. But it also comes with a selfish toxicity, you know. If it is harmful and annoying to be only me, it is also equally harmful and toxic to be only you.

I’m not asking you to commit to me. All I am saying is that we can be together while both of us preserve our own selves. You keep doing what you do, and I’ll keep doing what I do. If we give each other space, if we manage to do that, we can do wonderful things. Anyway, One can never be Two and Two can never be One.

Lastly, I don’t want to be alone. I also want you there. I promise that I am not going to ditch you like I tend to do. On the contrary, I have realized that I can only thrive if you are also present there. And if you look carefully, most of them, almost all of them, want both of us. In balanced quantities.

I think I need you. Not because One plus One is Two. I know that’s how I’m born, but that’s my mere existence. I don’t want to just exist when I can live. And I can only live if you multiply yourself with me. I want myself to be the product of both of us, and not the addition of two Ones.

Because when you leave, I cease to exist.

Yours,
Two

आणि हे सगळं असेल तर

पृथ्वी एक ग्रह आहे. माणूस एक प्राणी आहे. पृथ्वीचा भूभाग वेगवेगळ्या देशांमध्ये वाटला गेला आहे. भारत एक देश आहे. माणसं पृथ्वीच्या गाभ्यातून खाणकाम करून धातु काढतात. काही देशात काही धातु तर इतर देशात इतर धातु सापडतात. पर्वतांमध्ये नद्यांचा उगम होतो. महाराष्ट्रात भीमा नदीचा उगम होतो. पंढरपूरजवळ ती चंद्रभागा होते. महाराष्ट्रात कापसाची शेती होते. कापूस साफ करून पिंजून त्याचा दोरा तयार केला जातो.

खाणींमधून आलेले धातु सुद्धा साफ केले जातात. मग ते वितळवले जातात. एकत्र केले जातात. साच्यात टाकले जातात. त्यातून वस्तु तयार होतात. पंढरपूरच्या वेशीजवळ देगांव आहे. तिथे वीटभट्टया आहेत. ओतारी समाजाचे काही कारागीर पिढ्यानुपिढ्या तिथे कार्यरत आहेत. वस्तु तयार करत आहेत. या वस्तु विशिष्ट प्रकारच्या आहेत. धातुच्या दोन लहान वाट्या बनतात. कापसाच्या दोराने त्या जोडल्या जातात. या वस्तूला टाळ म्हणतात. टाळ हे एक वाद्य आहे. वाद्यातून सुर व ताल उमटवता येतात. त्यातून संगीत तयार होतं. याने माणसाला सुख प्राप्त होतं. काहीतरी गवसल्यासारखं वाटतं. कुठेतरी पोचल्यासारखं. नक्की काय वाटतं हे सांगणारा अचूक शब्द अजून माणसं शोधतायत. कधीकधी या भावनेला दैवी असंही म्हणलं जातं.

जसा टाळ आहे तसाच मृदंगही आहे. तोही असाच तयार झाला. असलेल्या गोष्टींपासून. लाकूड आहे. कुठूनतरी चामडी आली. मग कारागीर आले. अशाच इतर गोष्टी. वस्तू, पदार्थ. आणि आपण सगळेच. जे आहोत. उत्पत्ति आहे. असणार्‍या गोष्टीच असणार्‍या गोष्टी तयार करतात. पण यासोबत नसणाऱ्या गोष्टींची सुद्धा निर्मिती चालू असते. कधीकधी तर नसणाऱ्या गोष्टी अजून नसणाऱ्या गोष्टी बनवतात. विश्वास लागतो. विश्वास असला की सगळं असतं. मग पुन्हा तेच. एक आहे म्हणून पुढचं. असणारं काय आणि नसणारं काय. दोन्ही आहेच.

या सगळ्याबरोबर काळ आहे. काळाला समजून घेण्यासाठी माणसांनी काही पद्धती शोधल्या आहेत. वर्ष आहेत. महिने आहेत. स्मृति आहे. इतिहास आहे. पुरातत्व खातं आहे. उत्खननं आहेत. जे आहे ते सगळं कुठून आलं? हे असंच का? याची उत्तरं शोधायच्या प्रयत्नात माणसं बरीच ताकद खर्च करतात. त्या प्रयत्नातून आलेल्या असल्या-नसलेल्या गोष्टी आहेत. उत्तरं शोधण्याच्या तार्किक प्रयत्नांना विज्ञान म्हणतात. धर्म आहेत. Religions आहेत. श्रद्धेतून, भक्तीतून उभ्या राहिलेल्या परंपरा आहेत. देव नाहीये म्हणणाऱ्यांना अजून पूर्ण विश्वासाने हे विधान मांडता आलेलं नाही. विज्ञानाकडे तर्क आहे पण उत्तर नाही. पण देव आहे म्हणणाऱ्यांनाही देव अजून सापडलेला नाही. दोघांना त्यांची बाजू अगदीच स्वाभाविक वाटते. माणसं दोन्ही मार्गांनी एकाच ठिकाणी पोचतील का याचं उत्तर नाही. प्रश्न मात्र आहे.

देव आहे की नाही माहीत नाही. पण काळ आहे.  पृथ्वी आहे. माणूस आहे. पिढ्या आहेत. परंपरा आहेत. अशाच परंपरांपैकी एक वारी आहे. दरवर्षी आहे. भारतात, महाराष्ट्रात, आळंदी आहे. पंढरपूर आहे. देहू सुद्धा आहे. मध्ये अडीच-तीनशे किलोमीटर आहेत. भक्ती मार्ग आहे. लाखो वारकरी आहेतं. वारकरी संप्रदाय आहे. त्यांचं मंडळ आहे. त्यांची भक्ती आहे. या भावना ही सगळी नावं द्यायच्या आधीपासून आहेत. यातच तो मघाशी तयार झालेला टाळही आहे. मृदंग आहे. त्याचा घुमणारा आवाज आहे. टाळांचा गजर आहे. रस्ता आहे. तो व्यापून टाकणारी दिंड्यांची रूंद व लांबलचक रांग आहे. आरत्या, भजनं, अभंग आहेत. पालखी आहे. पादुका आहेत. बुक्का आहे. टिळा आहे. रिंगण आहे. मुक्काम आहेत. शेवटी तिथे पोचल्यावर चंद्रभागाही आहे. त्याकाठी विठ्ठलाचं मंदिर आहे. आणि आत वि‍टेवर उभा असलेला विठ्ठलही आहे. तो दगड की मूर्ती? विश्वासावर ठरेल. कारण हे सगळं ज्यावर उभं तो माणसाचा विश्वास नक्की आहे. श्रद्धा आहे. भक्ती आहे. आस आहे. आणि या शब्दात बांधून फिक्या पडलेल्या अमूर्त भावनांना मूर्त रूपात आणणारी अशी ही वारी आहे. असण्या-नसण्यातून तयार झालेली ही असलेली गोष्ट आहे.

आणि हे सगळं असेल, तर..