That flat lemon!

 

I was an asshole. I was and to some extent am still a big- time jerk. Smoke, sex, sake and sizzlers were my staple. I was one of the eminent ring masters of the print media circus. Freelancing is a new found crush for me now but back then I was an editor. I was hot news in the boss’s eyes due to my ability to get things done in spite of the idiots around. My strength was my selective hearing and my super power was my quality to maintain poker face come what may. Things above my pay scale never bothered me and I never argued with the morons. My motto was simple, drink your coffee, do your job and say your prayers. Life back then was like page- 3; shallow but sexy. In a plush apartment in Juhu I was living hangover to hangover in bliss and euphoria. I was a rouge but a lovable rouge nonetheless. Things were all good but then she came along. There is always a she who screws up everything. She diluted my sarcasm to sensitivity. I was like tea without tannin, coffee without caffeine, cigarette without nicotine and bloody merry without blood.

She was an intern and my boss hung her around my neck probably to save his own ass. He was hen- pecked and last thing he would have wanted is an eye candy intern at his desk. She was good. Her shadow sure was sensuous, if you know what I mean. Straight hair, big eyes and nice long legs. If asked, was I smitten? …. well, I won’t lie. I was head over heels for her. She was that pretty. To hide that gasp of pleasure with a deadpan expression, sure was a tough thing. If flirting was an art I considered myself Picasso. For first two weeks our interactions were frugal and formal like an empty canvas. This Picasso was starving for colors and one fine day rainbow did shine with a golden pot at the end of it.

I remember our first informal interaction. She was looking pale, grumpy and it was evident that she had just finished her 8^th bout of sob. I asked her with care and concern “All ok?” She just nodded. Now here is the thing with me, if someone is crying, my first reaction is to laugh; so as soon as I received her nod I paced off. Later when I was loitering around in the cafeteria she came and hugged me. She whispered a warm thanks. I knew this was my cue and asked her out for coffee. It is true, a lot can happen over a cup of latte. A cup of latte and a cookie monster. Girls love sweets when depressed (wink).

Soon our WhatsApp days started with good morning sunshine and ended with take care baccha, sleep tight. Our travelling times started to synchronize. We were visiting coffee houses and made small bills while sitting there for hours together. I am a good listener and it helped me a lot. Now here is the thing about good listening. You listen to every fourth word that she says and repeat it. You copy her gestures. As in if she touches her hair, you nonchalantly do the same; she smiles you laugh, she crosses her legs and you do the same so on and so forth. Like college teenagers we started to make out a little in the cinema halls. Eventually we were couple but with no strings attached.

Apparently getting in someone’s pants is easy but getting in someone’s mind is difficult. She was a permanent, rent-free resident in my head but the other way round was still a far fetched thing. Her plans were her plans but my plans were her plans too. Asking too many questions was like being a borderline male chauvinist pig. On the other hand, being least bothered made you a selfish prick. If she did something wrong, it was a mistake but if you did the same thing, it was a crime and that is the problem of the modern day metro-sexual males in the cities. Our compatibility started to wither. It was like we were reading the same book but were on the different pages. After all compatibility is the balance between girl’s capacity to throw tantrums and boy’s patience to tolerate them and now the ice was thinning out.

That Monday morning, I was feeling terrible. My mind was scattered. I decided to Netflix and chill so I called in sick. She called me at around 9 ‘O’ clock in morning and asked if I can come over at her place. She asked me to hurry up as she had some work at 11 am. I realized that I was in for some quick action. On my way I picked up couple of magnums. Testosterone was eager to meet the oestrogen. When she opened the door, she looked ravishing. I hugged her and kissed her but before I could manage some more of mischief, I noticed her packed bags. I abruptly stopped and asked “You are leaving? Why, what happened? All, OK?”

“Yeah, Yeah all OK. I am taking leave of one week. I would be visiting my parents.” She said.

“But why suddenly?” I inquired.

“No re. Its just that I am missing them a lot.” She replied.

“OK! But you need to apply for the leaves.” I said with futile authority.

She handed over the leave application which was lying on the table. “Here you go. Sign it boss and please be a sweetheart and submit it in the HR.”

“Also, this is my favorite plant. I want you to take it home and take its good care. I will collect it once I am back.” She dictated.

My mind was trying to refute with logic but I guess blood flow was redirected from brain to something else. We spent some time together, had coffee. Sharp at 11 she turned her butt on me and walked off with the bags leaving me with that plant. Just before the thud of the door I heard her saying “Close the door when you leave. Don’t forget to water my plant. Might not be able call or message; please don’t be mad.”

I felt like I was used like a door mat. I felt like that guy who never got a phone call after his first date. I felt like a guy who was hung up on his prom night. Like a guy who was left alone at the altar; at least I had a plant though. Well to be honest it was not even a plant or sapling. It was freaking five feet tall treeish plant with oval leaves and wood branches. I was completely clueless. “What the f^#* is this?” was my first reaction. I didn’t know how to carry it home forget about taking its care. It did cross my mind to just leave the thing there itself and visit it daily to water it but it was her request. I was a flea-bitten love moth and her wish was my command.  I couldn’t just leave the breathing leaves there. I hired a tempo to shift it to my place. Then I went to the office and submitted her application. Frustrated, irritated, confused I went out with my friends to booze and snooze. Lets say after lot many days I again relived the hangover next morning.

The next couple of days was a fake-athon. The entire Bollywood was faking their concern about certain new government policy and we were faking that we really cared about their opinions. The readership transiently increased and we partied again. It was Thursday afternoon when I realized that I was a single plant parent. It was stashed in a room which had a tread- mill, stationary cycle and few dumbles which were biting the dust. The dust turned gold when the sunlight peeped in through the split in between the curtains. This was the first time I was looking keenly at my botanical toddler. The soil was dry, the leaves were turning yellow at the tips. It looked less lively than our first meet. “It is a plant after all; what else it could need apart from some water?” I thought. I poured some water, took a selfie with my new friend and sent it to her. I captioned it as ‘Flant= Flat +plant”! I waited long for those double ticks to turn blue; alas I gave up.

It was Friday evening and the week end blues had set in. Strangely neither I had missed her so far nor she had messaged me. It was decided to go to a winery to uncoil and recoil. The place where sobriety meets insobriety. The place where living liquids carve the monkey out of you. We were ready to give in to the spiritual fluids and annul our inhibitions. We were ready to embrace the wisdom of whiskey and vices of vodka. Tantalizing tequila and crimson cognac. Rum, like poetry of Rumi. Gin and tonic like Jinn in the bottle, kissing our problems away. Unbearable company becoming bearable with beer. To whine a little with wine. Well, that reminded me of her. It was late night Saturday and there was verbally constipated response from her to my romantic essay on WhatsApp. I was emotionally numb at that time because my head was woozy. I just slept.

The Sunday brunch was an open-air buffet amidst the nature. My head was spinning more than the torque on the race cars. The atmosphere was at its typical cliché. Blue skies, white clouds, maple filter on sun and breezy wind. A class of Mandarin trees was being tutored by the gardener on the left and on the right the grapevines were being groomed for harvesting. In the middle I sat sipping my coffee waiting for its ingredients to kick in. Near the giggling stream one particular tree caught my eye. It had small oval leaves. Some had reddish tint, some were green and few were yellowish. The branches were angular. The twigs had pointy thorns. That tree sure did look familiar. As the caffeine blended with my blood, I realized that was the bigger version of my ‘flant.’

As I went nearer to the tree, the aroma brewing up from my coffee mug got replaced by the citrus fragrance. It did give me a mini- orgasm. A localite was trimming the leaves and branches. He was patting the tree bark and talking to it.

Looking at my quizzing looks he said “It is a flat lemon. Their cousin.” He pointed his finger towards the mandarin trees.

“It has its dwarf version too, engineered by the agriculturist. It is a fad pampered by rich in the cities.” He continued.

“Ohh! So that’s what it was in my apartment.” I silently thought.

I asked and he told me all that was important to know about my plant. He told me to keep it near the window where there is abundant sunlight. He advised pruning it periodically. He encouraged me to speak to it as a close friend. He suggested a fertilizer. He said that the key was to keep the soil moist; not too dry not too swamped. He advised me to replant it in the ground. Let the roots explore beyond the pot; it helps in development of the personality of the plant, he had said. We shared numbers. I sent him a friend request on Facebook which he gladly accepted. It was our time to check out. I checked out with a content mind and satisfied heart. However, the big smile on my face was because of the fact that she had messaged. She was back in town.

For that evening I had converted my living room into a romantic jazz bar. The candle light was just about enough to radiate her glow. Her sparkling eyes had racy badness in them. The ordered continental food was steaming hot yet very lukewarm in front of her. Stunning she was looking, in the champagne green halter; like the bellisma bottle of the port wine. We were talking and laughing holding each other’s hands. I told her about the vineyard and about the new friend and his advice. I talked and talked and talked a lot but somehow, I was not striking the chords. I was not hitting the home-run today. It all looked picture perfect but still something was amiss.

“All ok?” I asked her.

“No!” said she.

“Why? What happened? What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Us.” She said sounding to be very sure.

“You are nice and all but you are shallow. You mask it by being profound and deep but you are not. Off lately you look at me as a destination but I look at you as a mere pitstop. You are old, I am young. I want to expand and explore.” Unnerved she continued.

“Every relationship has a pinnacle and a debacle. I guess the pitstop is over. We went on from sweet nothings to sweet somethings. Lets just keep it that way. Lets stop before nothing sweet remains.” She paused to sip wine a little.

I had gone dumb and mute. I wish I had gone deaf too.

“This is a faux relationship like that lemon tree I had given you a week ago.” She concluded.

“That tree is artificial?” I yelled.

“Yes! It is rather funny that with your observation skills you would notice my bra strap but miss out on 5 feet tall artificial tree. That is why i say you are superficial.” she said calmly.

A jab from the south paw and the champion failed to defend it. The challenger’s gloved knuckle met the champion’s headgear at temple. The champion was knocked out cold. The referee was in the middle of the long count and the champion laid motionless. But the champion was champion after all. By the count of ten he was back on the feet. The bout ended in draw but it had dented the champion’s ego. I was the champion; she was the challenger. That day when everything was over, I tried plucking the leaf; the chlorophyll didn’t ooze out. There was no fragrance of citrus either. The dummy was out in the open field. She continued to work at the firm. I became a freelancer. I still have that artificial tree; I have that and 35 other real plants. Now people fondly call me 'The botanist!'

The war wick.

From the blunted summit of a hillock, the camouflaged enemy bunker was hawk- eyeing the village near Monte- Casino. The village had a bigger road, few big lanes and many small getaways. The allied troopers entered the village and fanned out. The allegiance forged by force had Indian contingent as well. From atop we must have looked like mice entering the maze in search of a cheese cube; or like the minuscule rodents trapped in the back alley. With pussy feet we advanced. With backs walled up we peeped through the corners of the remnant buildings. Our vigil ricocheted from roof tops to windows, from closed doors to empty pavements in search of enemy signs. Eroded benches, stained window panes, broken street lamps and abandoned lanes is all what we could see.

I was following Him, we all were. We climbed a mound of rubble and ruins. This gave us a better leverage and better view. Taking cover behind the big boulder we hunkered down. We were squatting on the wreckage pile of someone’s house, on the debris of someone’s dreams.

While carefully peeking through His binoculars He said “It is funny, how the definition of treasure changes during the war. For empty water bottles it is the undried well and chlorine tablets, for growling stomachs it is the half rotten fruits and vegetables or the tinned tunas…..and for our depleting arsenal, it is magazines for our Thompsons.” A wry smile followed.

We on the other hand just sat still, trying to calm our exploding hearts in the chest wall. After all we were in Italy assaulting against the winter line held by Axis. We all knew that the Germany and its friends were not exactly of compassionate kind. They outnumbered us strategically, numerically and technologically. We all knew that we were waiting for our turn to die; our eyes were wide open just to see from where it was coming. From the corner of my eye, I could see a bulleted polka dot wall, it was the only wall standing. Even the ceiling was blown off. It could have been a class room once, or may be something else who knows. There in the heap of rocks, concrete and bricks, I could see a black trunk, half buried filled with ammunition. I brought it to His notice.

Happy but not convinced with the find He pierced through the binoculars for 15 minutes.

“Why the enemy has the ammunition matching exactly to our weaponry?” He thought.

But before He could think aloud a young British officer darted towards the find. What seemed like any other residual junk left behind by bombings; was actually a booby trap. One wrong step and the British ammunition boot was tugging on the trip wire. The bombs exploded with deafening decibels. Those in the close range were in shambles. Others were drenched in blood and then it started raining.

It was not cloudy but it started drizzling. The sun was vomiting heat yet it started raining. The rain drops were acidic. The screeching shells started shattering all around. The ground below vibrated and the dust whirled up. As the causalities increased the screaming and yelling increased. All opened fired in the direction of the source of bombarding, the hill. The bunker was out of reach yet everyone kept on firing in frenzy. He was the only one who calmly cowered down and waited.

“Just stay put. Don’t shoot you morons! They are out of range. Save your ammo. We will require it when they send a squad to swipe and shoot us, once the shelling stops.” He kept on shouting.

The explosions were un- ceasing. He was saying something to me, but all I could do was to try and lip read. All I could see was dry, cut, dusty lips moving incomprehensibly. The blasts had torn my ear drum rendering me useless to hear. The smut and soot pierced the eyes; blind- folding us if not blinding. We were changing positions to dodge the in-comings. A heavy slab flew from the blast near by and hit my right knee. The pain was so excruciating that I collapsed. I blacked out. I thought It was my time up.

Then my eyes opened only intermittently to witness the misery around. The first time my eyes opened at that time I realized that He was carrying me on his shoulder, running helter- skelter in search of a shelter. The second time around I was propped up against the wall with a pistol in my hand. He was at a distance aiming and shooting at the enemy. Next time around the shelling had almost stopped. My knee was crushed and drenched red. His body was sprinkled with jagged pieces of shrapnel but still He was fixing the bayonet to his gun for close combat.

Looking at me He said with deep in-drawing voice “Remember, a bullet in the back is more painful literally and metaphorically than on the chest. You too have a gun and bullets with name.” He started aiming at the enemy in the prone rifle position. He never moved after that.

The callosity of the human nature is unskinned during war. We all were strangers to one another. It was strangers for whom we fought and it was strangers with whom we fought. We were blood brothers destined to either kill or get killed. One final time I saw up above towards the heaven. There were angels over our shoulders. The British Hawker Hurricane was roaring and tearing the air. In no time the bunker was fumed. I realized that, on that day, no bullet, no knife had my name.

 

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 

The tape recorder went blank. The silence was punctuated by the squeaking of the ceiling fan which had one of its blades, bent a little. The little air that it moved, fluttered the pages of 1969 hung on the wall. In the olive-green room near the window sat a tall thin dark man who had side partitioned, oiled hair and a paralytic limp on the right. He was wearing grey trousers, untucked off- white shirt and golden framed glasses. Near the opposite wall sat an army uniform with a maroon beret worn with a rakish angel. Adjacent to him stood a solider, with hands ramrod straight by his sides. The room was filled with few more people sitting on netted, wooden chairs near the main door.

“I despise the greed and rapacity filled in this room. It is sad when people lie for glamour that too on the doings of war veterans posthumously. In spite of army pension and other perks, it is dispiriting to see the youth claiming more on the basis of a blatant lie.” Said the counselor tucking his white hair under the beret.

There was a ripple of disapproval from those seated on netted, wooden chairs which was shunned by the solider standing next to the counselor.

“For 25^th anniversary of Indian Army’s contribution in World War 2; we were compiling the war stories of that era. The idea was to identify and honor their supreme sacrifice and bestow upon them the medals they well deserved.  We got many letters. We came across 3 specific letters and this tape. The descriptions bore remarkable similarities. They each claim that their story is true. Now there can’t be four heroes in the same story, right?” The counselor chuckled in sarcasm looking at the man in off- white shirt.

“Which means three, out of four are lying.” Piercing through the crowd he continued.

“This meeting is to clear the misunderstanding. They all gave your reference and hence, regretfully I had to invite you to this circus to testify.” Said the counselor looking at the golden glasses with a guilt face.

“This is not a meeting. This is a mock trial to make a scapegoat out of us, so as to hide the short comings of the defenses in identifying their own heroes well in time.” Said someone from the crowd. A rumble rose in the crowd and faded away.

The counselor asked to the man near the window “Are you the first person in the narrative?”

Yes, said the man with golden glasses.

“And who is the ‘He’ you are referring to in your story?” asked the counselor with a subtle sharpness in his voice; looking at the crowd

After a pin drop silence he continued, “Is he sepoy Laxman Singh or Sonam Sharma from infantry? Is he Harpal Kartara from Sikhs or sepoy Gobind Yechury?” His eyes pierced through the families of these veterans.

The families listened the silence. Today their strong belief was at the brink of an earthquake. They were seeing for the first time the man who could have written those letters or could have sent the tape. More so this was the man who could have seen their family heroes in flesh and blood when the heart was still pumping. Each had a quizzing thought, was there anything more to share. A hope lingered that others were lying.

“The soldiers are the war wicks. The wick of the cannon ball anyway burns. The cannon ball doesn’t know the direction of the friends or the foes.” Said the man adjusting his golden glasses.

“The Britannica lured the hungry Indians to volunteer, which they had starved in the first place. Remember how the British Raj looted our grains and assets to feed their war horses?” he momentarily looked at the counselor. The counselor looked away not able to withstand the directness of the stare.

“Humpty- Dumpty sat for a war; Humpty- Dumpty had a great war.”

“Jack & John went up the hill to fetch the pail of power. Both fell down and broke their brow but crown prevailed last laughter.”

 “Churchill used the colonial people as pawns; first in line to die last in line for cereals. Different war codes for different colored derma. Bunkers for whites, pigsty for others. Whites fought on full stomachs; others fought on left- overs. They had plenty of bullets to rive, blacks and brown had few with couple of bullets in the pocket for self; in case the capture was inevitable.” He continued passionately.

“Indians expected a heart- felt thanks from Chruchill which they never got. Many lost their lives on the foreign soil, fighting for the sworn flag; fighting for Britannia. Many lived with everything lost. We don’t even know if they were buried or burnt; or just left for the vultures.” He paused.

The humid eyes stared at him.

“You ask me who is the hero of this story. Well…. everyone is. You ask me who is lying. Well…. No one is lying.” Said he curtly looking at the counselor.

All were confused, relieved, bewildered, stuck by tornado. The kaleidoscopic emotions were difficult to contain in the eyes and the feelings started rolling down the cheeks. The Counselor's face became white like an A4 size paper, as nothing was unearthed yet.

“There is only one liar in this room and that would be me.” On this statement everyone exchanged befuddled looks.

“I am not a war veteran. I am not even a soldier. I am just a simple person who felt that the mourning families of the soldiers need little more than just the pensions and perks. They needed a story to live on. They needed a story to remember, a chronicle to cherish, a tale to be inspired. I just gave them that.” He got up and hobbled towards the door.  

“A coward can kill but only brave can face the death with dignity. Remember, willing to die needs guts. A soldier is a hero irrespective of his kills. Decaf death or Latte demise; the soldiers face it like sipping a hot coffee.” Saying this he exited.

The air which was riddled with tension eased out. The hall gradually became vacant with intact prides. 

On the other hand he still awaits the courtroom trial; the minutes of this meeting however are long lost.