Intellect beyond reason

We were serious students at 20. A step away from tackling the world. Two steps away from making our own money. We had plans for the universe, for the way people thought and behaved. And when we died we thought we would have left a different and better place than the one we were born into.

Since we lived a lot on air we had enough time to shoot the breeze. As we sipped coffees and bit into sandwiches, we talked of living lives unbinding. We insisted on having our own minds, not giving in to social norms.

In came Mr K who pushed us towards our dreams. And laughed at us behind our backs. At a respected 45, married with kids and a couple of published books to his name, he was an authority on creative writing. And we clung to his every word. We were ashamed that Mr K thought us to be unsure and not ready yet to follow our paths. It embarassed us when M came back from sharing his bed one day and said that Mr K has offered to 'pick everybody's cherries.'

"Your friends need to loosen up. I bet they haven't been with any men. It's time they know what life is about. Get them to me and I could help pick their cherries." Exact words that were told to 20 year old M, who was the real writer among us and kept telling us "you need to experience to write."

Thankfully none of us took up his offer to help even though we were in awe of the man.

Now years later, I wonder why we didn't react some more. Why we couldn't stop the man from making such obscene offers all the time. Why we didn't do more than laugh when M narrated it to us. And finally why we didn't confront him and used some muscle power on him, trashing him well.

It infuriates me to think he could be still sleeping around with girls his daughter's age and some naive dumb girl must be waiting for intellect to get tranferred from him to her. But I hope one day there will be someone who will break his nuts before he can pick any cherries.

Everytime I think of writing something, it's no longer enough. It's no longer what I want to write. It's just not what I thought a long time ago that I would be writing. It's not what I feel happy writing.

The mind travels to a time when there was a little diary and pretty pens with coloured ink that I always carried in my bag. And used all the time at the strangest of places. A local train, a platform bench, a 3am-glass-of-water-need turning into an hour of writing furiously. As the world sleeps, I sit silently on my desk by the large window and look out to the looming building and try to catch a glimpse of the sea beyond? the mystery of the night tells its own story. I listen.

Sometimes I walk out to the dimly lit long corridor and then find my friend M walking out herself. We go to the stairs and sit together. We weave stories. We talk of different lives. We wrap each other in fascinating webs of the most amazing tales. We talk of past lives, we live them again. Some real, some surreal.

And then when we know the moon has travelled to the other side of the sky, we go back to our rooms and sleep.

In the morning, it's another day. I try to relive the stories of the night but they always seem to have flown away. But while they lasted in the night, I tell you, I lived like no human had lived before.

An Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

So I had been unwell. But in such a state, how do you deal with an OCD infected person?

It was a big medical centre, closer to home, that we went to. You have to queue up and pay the fees before and get a paper with the doctor's name and payment details before you even saw the doctor's room.

We were guided along a corridor and at the far end, there was a crowd seated against the wall. I knew they were all there to see the same doctor. They all looked like me and I was sure, felt like me too. Weak and feverish. Surprisingly they were all middle aged to elderly people. One old woman was on a wheelchair. I wondered what I was doing wrong to be getting sick at my age.

Just as we were about to sit down and wait our turn, a short perky nurse came and pointed to 2 chairs ahead. We walked there and sat. In some time, 2 patients came out the doctor's door. The nurse showed 2 more patients inside. Then she asked some others to shift to their place. And some others to take THEIR place.

After another patient had walked inside the doctor's door, she asked me and hubby to shift. I dragged myself. Then I saw the mad nurse ask an old lady to take another seat. The poor old lady limped and waddled there. I leaned close to hubby and whispered, "Bad case of OCD! Wants to keep rearranging things, including sick patients too!" Hubby nodded quietly, scared that she might hear and make us shift again.

I looked around and tried to figure out her criteria for the ever changing sitting arrangements. Was it age... or dressing... or colour... or even the way people looked... yes, right! She wanted to make sure how sick people were and how fast they could play musical chairs!! I smiled to myself. She caught my eye and pointed to another seat. I moved obediently.

She turned to seat a sick woman who was obviously very weak and came leaning on a man. I wanted to see whether she would remember where she sat me if I changed places quickly. I took a huge leap before hubby could stop me and landed on an empty seat just as she turned around. I looked at her in defiance. She lifted her arm and just then, a bell rang and the doctor's door opened. It was my turn to go in.

I smiled triumphantly at her and almost pumped my fist as I walked in.