To Be or not To Be

“To Be or not to Be.”

Thus cried out Prince Hamlet in great anguish, as he started off his tirade; a fierce debate raging in his mind, whether to “suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” or to “take arms against a sea of troubles by opposing end them”.

[William Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Act three, Scene one. The essential purport is that his state is so wretched that death would be decidedly preferable to it. So Hamlet wonders eloud, in his dilemma whether to Live on or to commit suicide.]

One of the best soliloquies ever penned by the Bard.

Our English lecturer, I heard, did quite a wonderful job in teaching it, but sadly, I never could empathize with our hero; felt that the whole display of dilemma was unnecessary, unjustified and highly theatrical. I eventually ended up staring wistfully at the boys, who, without a care in the world, played basketball on the courts outside while I slugged it out in class. It seemed highly unlikely then, that I could ever relate to the plight of our prince. It is another matter that I did relate, rather strongly, in the most unrelated circumstances.

It happened while I was standing at a crossroad on the way back from office. I was quite tired, after a stressful day at office.

The road which went straight would lead me home. The road which went left had a rather non-descript looking building at its fag end. The building, in turn, had a translucent, diamond shaped name board on top of it. The name board was white, was fiercely illuminated by a bright, white neon bulb which shone inside it. Three letters of the English alphabet were inscribed boldly on it in blue.

'B', 'A' and an 'R'.

BAR.

It was New Year, and I was still fresh from my New Year resolution which forbade me from drinking again. The new-born teetotaler and the age-old beverage connoisseur inside me (sorry, I hate the word drunkard – it is so degrading and commonplace), engaged themselves in a duel. One pushed me forward. The other pushed me to the left. To the road where the bar was. A whole avalanche of ideals, concerns – both health and monetary, ennui and stress, weighed in to add spice to the duel.

It is tough to stop an old habit and tougher to refrain from it once you have stopped it. But it is toughest; when you have stopped unwillingly, and a chance to resume the habit comes up and there no solid reason to let the chance go.

The dilemma was all-pervasive. If I were not on the road, and if my creative instincts would have backed me up, I would have broken into a thundering soliloquy of my own, right then. Maybe Shakespeare, if he was alive and had seen me, would have needed no more inspiration to repeat his magnificent feats.

I stood confused, scratching my head. An epitome of uncertainty, very much like our Prince Hamlet. The board stood in the distance, a titillating sight to my weary eyes and stressed nerves.

It is such a lovely place, the bar. With its mysterious dim lights and its smell, which is a curious mix of alcohol, tobacco smoke and human sweat. You walk in, and somehow feel suddenly at home. The sight that greets you is that of a whole group of men, each at varying degrees of inebriation, staring dreamily at each other.

You never find such a relaxed group anywhere else - I’d swear by that. Some would be laughing, celebrating something. Some would be unwinding, after a tiring day at work. Some would be hunched close together, and sharing a secret or two. Overall, the air is of genuine relaxation. It rubs off on you, and once you have had your share, you blend seamlessly into the laidback air that seems to hang over the room like a comfortable woolen blanket.

The ambience and the drinks encourage you to wear your heart on your sleeve. How else, other than under the influence of the Divine Drink, can you give someone a piece of your mind; still walk up to him the next morning, and seek forgiveness, under the ludicrous excuse that you weren’t in your senses?

Of course, there are killjoys. Sparingly though. They throw tantrums, spread destruction, get into brawls and spoil the fun. Thankfully, they are just a minor aberration. Let us ignore them.

And then, there are the waiters who never cease to amaze you with their power of recollection. Walk in a couple of times into a bar and if you are consistent with your choice of brands, be sure the guy would not need to take an order the next time. So good, so reliable, are their retentive abilities. And not just in the matter of remembering the brands.

Once, somehow, I forgot my belt in a bar, and went in search of it the next morning. I struggled to find the waiter who had served me, and was trying to find him out from the assembly of white-and-white clad men who roamed about, when the guy came out running with my belt and even enquired what happened to the car that I regularly drove. Incidentally I had come in my friend’s car on the day.

These waiters; their case is a study in irony. They busily scurry around, catering to the calls from every corner of the room, handle the most liquor in the bar but eventually end up consuming very little of it. Very much like male bees who do all the donkey work for the females to feed on.

Speaking of males and females, there is one thing which is thankfully absent in bars as long as you are in India. Women. With the result that you don’t get an inferiority complex seeing amorous couples sitting hand-in-hand; you don’t damage your ear-drums by exposing yourselves to the high-pitched chit-chat and gossip. And most importantly, you don’t get distracted from the task at hand. Finally, you end up agreeing with the oft-disputed theory that the world would have been a much better place if it was not for the fairer sex.

You get such a lot of wonderful insights, few of which I have mentioned already, while you are at the bar, that you don’t realize how quickly time passes.

By the time you finish your drink, the bill comes. Figures typed out by a dot-matrix printer, on cheap quality paper. It comes, most often, in a porcelain plate with a bunch of Jeera thrown atop it. If you feel that the drinks leave a bad taste in the mouth (literally, not idiomatically) you could always take a handful of the Jeera and pop it into your mouth and masticate to your heart’s content.

The bill is often quite steep and leaves a medium to large sized hole in your pocket. But the beauty of the whole thing is that, as you stare at the bill, swaying on your feet and struggling to keep your eyelids open, you don’t feel it is expensive. You even go on to tip the waiter generously and his thankful smile and his barely perceptible bow seem to make you incredibly happy.

Now, that’s yet another thing that I have always noticed with people who drink. We don’t cringe over money. Over the little trifles that a human being is bound to loose, time and again, in this cruel, mad, insensitive world. We don’t bring money with us when we are born, nor do we take it with us when we die. Do we?

So much for philosophy. Unless exorbitant, every sum lost is equated to the price of a peg or two, or to the price of a cigarette pack. This helps us a great deal to reconcile to the loss at hand. And to drown the little sorrow that remains in even more drinks.

Okay buddies, I forget that I am still on the streets, staring at the lovely name board, perched atop the building, which bathed in twilight, now seems prettier than ever before. The teetotaler in me, I realize, has sunk away and no longer troubles me by pushing me into indecision. I ache for a drink, curse the wretched moment at which I made my resolution, and walk with firm footsteps towards the building which stands ahead and beckons me.

I am amazed that I needed so long to take such a simple decision. With due apologies to the Bard, I rechristen the fierce dilemma that I endured over the past few minutes.

With a couple of extra ooz’s thrown in between.

With the soul of the soliloquy quite intact.

“To Booze or not to Booze.”

Vicissitudes

The sun had begun to set on the temple town, shooting fountains of color from the horizon upon the streets, mingling with the neon light of the street-lamps, lending the town an ethereal look. Hari alighted from the bus, mulling over the uncanny coincidence of the day's events which had brought him back here – to this place which once had been his sanctuary, his second home.

Five years. Five long years had passed, Hari realized, since his last visit. Life had come full circle since then. He had seen it all. But the place was still the same. The calm, cool air. The occasional, high pitched toll of the temple bells. The wafting aroma of incense. The mumbled prayers of the dhoti-clad, busy looking priests and passers-by. Even the lodge still looked the same, though it looked a shade younger in its new coat of blue which had come to replace the faded gray color which had once characterized it.

Time seemed to stand still here. On this street, where he had once set foot on, as a twenty-five year old who had nothing to lay claim to, other than his own dreams, unbridled confidence and fingers which could weave magic on canvas with every stroke of a brush. Hari ran his hands through his unkempt, browning hair, wishing ruefully whether he could go back in time, and be that impetuous, prodigiously talented young painter once again.

No. It wasn’t to be. There was no way back. His shoulders had drooped from the agony of repeated failures. The eyes had sunk deep into their sockets and had black patches round them, lending him an appearance which would have suited a man who was double his age. The truth that he himself was accountable for his current travails weighed him down even more. In the frantic, mindless race to the top, in those years which sped dizzily under the spotlight, amongst the ubiquitous accolades and encomiums, he had never known what he had been losing; and when the realization finally dawned on him, everything precious in life had been lost.

Everything. Destroyed beyond redemption. Like dainty flowers trampled down into the sand by a firm, ruthless boot.

He stepped warily into the lodge, feeling a slight apprehension about meeting someone who knew him. In the very next instant, the sheer meaninglessness of his fear struck Hari. It was years since he had faded away from the spotlight and from the public consciousness. It was foolish to think that anyone would recognize him. His parched, tobacco stained lips cracked into a wry smile at the thought.

Hari was not fully in his senses, even as he signed the guestbook, pocketed the key and silently followed the room-boy to the room allotted to him. He was shocked into his senses, only when the boy stopped at the room numbered two-zero-six on the second floor. The boy unlocked the door which opened with a creak.

The familiar, faint, damp smell greeted his nostrils, as he stepped in. As he locked the door behind him and opened the window overlooking the temple, the golden flagpole of the temple gleamed in the distance. When the door which led into the balcony was opened, the cool night breeze rushed in like a playful, rogue child; bringing with it a whole deluge of memories. The past, with the aid of the day's numerous coincidences, seduced him, like a temptress.

The memories of a similar evening, in the same room, overlooking the same golden flagpole, floated up in front of his eyes. Hari stretched out on his chair and poured himself a drink. It had become his habit of late, to drown himself in drinks. Drink and drink till he faded out into unconsciousness, till memories no more troubled him.

But today, each peg that he downed only served to accentuate the memories of that evening. And about the woman who had been with him, that day.

Arundhati.

Her smile. With the warmth of a thousand flames.
Her touch. With the coolness of a mountain spring.

It had been on a similar evening, that he had made love to her for the first time. In this same room. Though it had been on impulse; as they lay in bed afterwards, spent, both of them had felt that they had never done a more natural thing to each other.

Hari had met Arundhati for the first time at one of his painting exhibitions. Then, she had flitted about him, like an insect around a candle flame. Blind in her adoration for the upcoming, brilliant, painter. That was just the start. He became besotted too, with her beauty and her vivacious self. The relationship grew. It was he, who then took the initiative. He had given her all the attention he could, so much so that, it flattered her; and had found time to be with her

She had been an elixir, an obsession. In her presence, his brush seemed to move as if in a trance, his works transcended the ordinary. The very sight of her inspired him. Life became beautiful. It was her prayers that drove him on. When, like a typical greenhorn, he was distraught at a failure, she would lend him a shoulder to cry, would fuel his optimism. When one of his works had not hit the right notes, she would come up, with prompt criticism.

Each of his paintings drew a thousand admirers. Awards and accolades seemed to chase him around.

But Hari could not recollect when the fame had started to get to his head. With each step up the ladder, his mind had grown narrower. Overconfidence and arrogance pulled blinds over his eyes. He had lurched mindlessly ahead, towards the beckoning glory. Like a firefly which rushes into light, unaware that it would only end up burning its wings.

And he did burn his wings indeed.

It was a dizzy ride to stardom. He toured worldwide, held painting exhibitions everywhere. The group of admirers grew; and he forgot himself amidst the paeans that they sung to him. Arundhati faded away into oblivion from his memories, just another forgotten one, amongst the bevy of starlets who now chased him around.

Like a hurriedly snuffed out candle flame. Little had he known that without this little candle flame that he snuffed out, life would plunge into darkness.

The last time she had come before his eyes had been at a public reception arranged for him. She had made her way, painfully through the crowd towards the dais, and held out a piece of paper on which she had scribbled her address. He never had heard, rather had chosen not to hear, the muffled sobs and tears. He had been too busy to think of the past. In the ensuing hubbub and the flash of camera lights, Arundhati was forgotten.

Only to resurface again at an obscure corner of a local daily. In an obituary report. It had been a suicide.

That was the beginning of the end.

He came to know of it only after a while, from a friend. The news shook him. He could not concentrate on anything, anymore. Unable to do anything to atone for what he had done, the magic, slowly but surely faded away. The fingers which once wove poetry on canvas were now numb and paralyzed by guilt. The colors and once elegant brush strokes now made only a fleeting appearance. The paean-singers left too, one by one. A permanent pall of darkness descended upon his life. The clutch of the past grew stronger, and had pulled him down, deeper and deeper into abyss.

He set up the canvas at a corner. He did it every day, a meaningless custom, in spite of the fact that he hadn't done a worthwhile painting in over two years. Sitting in the room, Hari drank hard, staring blankly out of the window at the crimson sky, which seemed to reflect the cinders which smoked within. Usually, no amount of drinks, no amount of drugs could free him from the memories and the guilt.

Ever.

But, now, in the same hotel room, in which they had lain together for the last time, looking into each others' eyes, each of their bodies pressing snugly into the grooves of the other’s body; the pall of gloom slowly seemed to lift steadily and he felt a rare lightness in his chest. He felt dizzy, and tried to keep his eyes open.

Then he felt as if Arundhati stood before him. Her hands outstretched, beckoned him. With the same bewitching smile.

Then she came close, and ran her fingers through his hair. The sights around grew more and more blurred. The sounds around became less and less audible. Tender fingers lifted up his chin, gripped his fingers and guided them, across the canvas. Slowly, but surely, he felt the magic return.

Bit by bit. Like the moon waxes from behind the clouds.

Lines and shades started to fall in place, as he drew on, still in a trance. She held him close as he drew, pressed her soft, luscous lips to his forehead as he applied the finishing touches.
Then Hari saw her drift away, as he closed his dreary,careworn eyes.

He woke up in the morning, feeling the warmth of the sunlight on his cheeks. He reached out for the whisky, and found the bottle broken, at a corner in the room. Then his eyes fell on the painting. It was perfect. The delicately carved temple walls. The crimson skies. The busy street. All were perfectly etched out on the canvas.

With tearful eyes, he walked out, to the temple pond ,stepped into the knee-high water and dipped his head into the pond and rose up. As the cool water trickled off his hair and bare back, he felt the burden of guilt wash away. Then he looked up towards the sun, closed his eyes and prayed for Arundhati's soul.