Mimosa, with Samosa, Vani (Part-1)

This is Part-1 of probably thirteen. At this point, I am not sure. Comments, critiques and suggestions are most welcome. The title is a working Title, and the blogs will be first drafts. Oh, it's a work of fiction, and any resemblence to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

Black. I am omnipresent in the atmosphere, in the elements. I am the deepest of the clouds formed during the strongest of the storm, the richest of earth, the darkest of midnight sky. I am black, I am achromatic.

O revered one, they tell me, we honor you with the noble opportunity of wrapping the bodies of the innocent graduates standing at the threshold of the beginning of a new life so that you teach them the virtue of absorbing the knowledge that comes in thousands of hues. I am perplexed when they despise me as a bad omen and dress the bride in the purest of whites. Little do I know the arts of displaying a spectacular spectrum of rainbow colors to lure enthusiasts to fall in love with my innocence.

They dip the funeral in all my shades to honor the life that lay still reflecting nothing from the colors of existence. Like me, it lay bare, exposing its soul to the elements, colorless, dark and thus black. There is no light, they complain. I challenge them, immerse your soul in your own light and radiate your own thoughts, not the reflected one.

God chose to create and develop all forms of life in dark and I embrace them with open arms till they blossom into beautiful and colorful beings of nature.

I read aloud my prose, just like my writing class instructor has advised to, so that I catch any words that are out of sync, or just plain misspelled. Job as a software engineer isn’t fun as I had expected fifteen years ago, before joining engineering. Everyone seemed to be taking up Information Technology, and going to US making big bucks within years. I didn’t want to be left behind. Besides, Architecture was a princely course that my parents couldn’t afford. They advised me to be a software engineer and make a life for myself. They weren’t wrong. Today I make more than a hundred thousand dollars per year, an amount my Indian parents have stopped converting to dollars. But I slog ten hours a day at work to make it happen. To add to the woes, there is Ruchi, my darling daughter, already ten years old, and growing fast, physically and mentally. Boys. Math. Music. These are the only topics of prominent importance in her life. I feel lonely sometimes, but I am not complaining.

I remember what happened to Manisha Gupta’s daughter. Manisha kept insisting that she brought up her daughter so conservatively that she wouldn’t dare to date anyone, leave alone have sex underage. The girl was a plain Jane, Manisha wouldn’t allow her to wear miniskirts, or groove to the latest Disney tween queen medleys. The girl was made to attend religious classes in the temple and sing bhajans at the temple during the weekends. The voice was a magnet of sorts for the devotees. But, the girl shocked the daylights out of her mother and everyone when she became pregnant at thirteen. Manisha wouldn’t have told any of that to us, but the girl called me first and asked me to talk to her mother. She was so scared. All her conservative ideologies notwithstanding, Manisha took the girl to India, had an illegal abortion, and came to US, life as a clean slate, physically. I can’t imagine what the girl went through emotionally. I don’t think Manisha cared though.

I shouldn’t let that happen to Ruchi though. I have to be a balance of east and west, and let her enjoy the positives life has to offer, without being an over bearing parent. Easy said, than done. I am fully aware of that. But we will see what happens when it does happen. Right now, my focus is to get my creative juices flowing, so that I show interest in my job again, and not treat it like cubicle slavery. Some days, I am haunted by lines of codes written by some offshore contractor, and some days, my boss shows me a glimpse of hell handing out morning support and evening code red call. But I can’t complain. There is just too much competition. Especially in this market. If I make any noise, there are younger people ready to put in more hours, and charge less, and perhaps do everything that I can. So I keep my lips sealed.

Actually taking a writing class to relieve stress is a sham. Deep inside, I nurse my dream of being a Rushdie. Of being a Lahiri. But I know that’s not possible. No one will bail me out with a million dollar writing contract and sing laurels of what I dish out, mixing history and my surroundings. If I share it with Shekhar, he will probably laugh at me. I dream. I dream big. But I don’t do the work to bring that dream into the light of reality. Dreams are only my escapes from reality. I will continue to be a code coolie probably until my retirement, and see lines of codes attacking me and blurring out when I have dementia. Such is the story of my life.

I proof read my work of art and upload it to the assignments section, and send a copy to Neena and Manisha. They will send their prompt “wah-wah” replies within minutes. I don’t think they read either, but they are too good to tell me the truth. Shekhar on the other hand has told me not to bother him with lengthy emails containing my story plots, or non-rhyming poems. It’s beyond comprehension, he tells me. I tell him that it’s beyond his imagination. That leads to days of silent communication later, which of late has become a norm of our married life. Sometimes I wonder why we stay married after a certain point. If not for the sex we have once in a week, sometimes once in two weeks, there seems to be no connection. He is in his own world, and I am in my own world. Neena and Manisha seem to know more than Shekhar about the happenings of my life. Ruchi has become a shared responsibility like the mortgage, car payments and bills.

But, I am still grateful that at least we try to connect with each other. Last year Minal Shah’s husband had an online affair, and got caught. That too, how! The girl he had an affair with posted every single detail of their relation on a weblog! Or is it called blog? The whole world got to have a look at it. Everyone thought Minal would file for divorce, but they just moved out of the state and started life anew. I wonder what Minal says now, when they have a fight. May be she teases him. Or maybe they don’t fight at all. May be it’s just a living arrangement now. Minal after all has been a homemaker all her life, and wouldn’t want to handle responsibility of two teenage boys suddenly! Of course she could have made Satish pay up, but she decided not to. She made an honorable decision, said my mother, who visited at that time. But she was living a life without respect, each moment. How could she even see Satish’s face without thinking about “details” that still lie on the internet for everyone’s amusement? How can she pretend to put all that behind her and move on?

To be continued....