The Lost One: Story of the One who ends it all (Shiva the Destroyer Book 1)

by Aarohan Atwal

  My father was not around when my umbilical cord was cut. He was in the city busy earning for the bright future of his son that he didn't come to see born. My father was a farmer before he turned to the city to work in some paper mill. The land in our village was not really fertile, infact it wasn't even ploughable, the fields were farmed just like those in B&W films - with big strong bulls. The river Ganges flowed below but its water never could reach our perched lands, reason being there's nothing like reverse irrigation canal existed which could carry water up the hill. So, that was the end of it, he moved to the city, to earn and to provide, leaving his expecting wife behind. I never knew what he did there in the mill, actually I could never know because he left it soon after I was born, he joined in the state electric department - UKEC - Uttrakhand Electric Corporation. Later when he got transferred to Sambhala (a small hamlet surrounded by Shivalik on north, Ganges on east and Yamuna from west) from Sector five, Daulatpura, Ghaziabad, we too moved with him to the big city. I was five then and my sister Dew still unborn.

  It’s really difficult to understand them, they act like such freaks sometimes, in-fact all the times, they don’t care much about us, and yet they want complete control over our lives, we are forced to do things we have no interest in, and we are asked to drop-out what we are excited about. If I have to recall things that my father or even my mother has provided or done for us, I wouldn’t even be able to count on two hands. They fail to see I have my identity beyond them, my needs, my rights, my life, my aspirations, my way of seeing and doing things.

  I told my father once that I am keen to continue studies after graduation, or maybe I’ll take up research work, it interested me. One minute he’s sensible, a patient listener, another minute, he is a zealot, a fanatic. He was indifferent, he had different plans for me, he told me. He wants me to be a government servant, aim higher he says, pursue civil services. It will bring a lot of respect to the family. And my mother - she is in the same team, with him. She says, your father is a very intelligent man, you should listen carefully to what he says.

  So much so for his wisdom that during junior year, the eleventh grade, I was forced, quite literally, to take biology. I hated biology, to the core, I hated or rather I pitied dissecting those hapless frogs and running experiments on little moths. And all this merciless torture, only because, my father had a plan! He wanted to push me into medical field, he saw a doctor in me. He said back then he wanted me to be a brilliant, all-shining doctor, and why so? Basically, because our family never had one, it’d be such a pride for him.

  Chapter 2: The Day Beckons

  As a new day beckons in one more day of my banal existence, a strange unearthly feeling shrouds me, I sense something foul in the air. For the past nineteen years of my life nothing significant really happened, I ate, I bathed, I walked, I studied, I slept and I got by. But today is the day when things finally get start changing, for better or worse. Today is the day when I allow my emotions to get better of my judgment, today is the day when I trigger a chain of events that lead us to the decay, today is the day of un-surmountable odds and unprecedented coincidences. Destiny, as someone would put it, reaches out, to me.

  ~’~’~’

  The morning is really breezy, I infer from the hurling noise of wind hitting the glass window. We live on the first floor of a four bedroom house, ours is a little two room with a kitchen; open on the front it looks as if somebody just dropped the two rooms on a big wide rooftop of a bungalow. I step out ready to bear the cruel day, it indeed is windy I feel as the breeze brushes my cheeks cold. I am, however, is somewhat protected by my father’s old jacket that I am putting on; the jacket in itself is a priceless artifact, patched by hand at multiple places, and an over oversize by miles; it hangs loose so much that it makes the wearer look cool in an anti-fashion way.

  I admit, I am not one of those who spend fifteen minutes in front of the mirror adjusting their hair, neither I am like what-shirt-to-wear-on-which-day-or-occasion person, nor am I who wear shoes that goes with particular trouser. I fall more in the category in which people comb by running their fingers across, and wear whatever they could grab in their field of vision, and walk in the shoes that just fits or probably have just one pair.

  As I climb down the flight of the stairs, I hear voices from a distance, of chimes, hanging from the ceilings of the porch, appearing to talk to each other – to weave a conspiracy against the wind.

  Today is the day!

  ~`~`~`

  Involuntarily the dream flashes before my eyes, it has not stopped disturbing me, it is like an imprint on my mind, an impression of subconscious on conscious. What did it actually mean? Am I gonna die? A classical Freudian analysis would say the dreams we see are the manifestations of our internal fears and unfulfilled desires. But I am not afraid of dying, then why the plane crash? And who was the red head girl in question, to whom I expressed my love so unabashedly, do I really love someone I know? Am I capable to love someone? And what about the plane? I have never even sat in a plane, or never thought about sitting onto one, then what was I doing into one? Where was I going? Clearly neither Freud nor Jung could explain what I saw, it was bizarre and it was out of place. For a moment I consider premonition - a glance into future. Hypothetically speaking if it indeed was a future, then how did I arrive at it? Shiva didn't know, the answer lied ahead, all his answers that he sought lied wrapped in the day.

  ‘Where was I going?’

  My inner thoughts gets louder.

  If you look at it the dream was centered around the themes of Love, Death and the Journey -

  Love - for a stranger, someone I barely knew, or maybe it could mean that even though I knew the person for some time I still didn’t know her. It indeed is intriguing, feeling love for someone whom you didn’t know (or didn’t know very well).

  Death - I knew I was dying and yet I was calm as if I have fulfilled my purpose. But then again I was going somewhere, I should have been restless or at-least should have some regret that I couldn’t reach my destination. Why was love so important? How did it wiped out all my fears? Can it be so powerful as to overcome other emotions?

  Journey - itself was totally mysterious, where was I heading to? There were foreigners in the plane, which could only mean that I was going out of the country somewhere. But where to? Where was I going? And why?

  ‘Where am I going, now? And why?’

  ~`~`~`

  I am hanging on the bus door with my feet on the edge of the first step and the body hanging outwards. The gush of the chill air cancels whatever effect my cold cream might have had on my face, my fingers are already numb and stiff, and my shoulder are oozing with the pain that comes from supporting my body on the edge.

  The bus that takes us to the college is filled with blockheads, deranged fellows, there isn’t even enough space to keep the feet down. I somehow try to fit in myself. Our driver seems to be in some major hurry, like he is late for an appointment with Satan. The bus catches speed with complete disregard for the traffic rules, the safety of the other locomotives and without a dime of respect to the poor pedestrians. The only rule it seems to follow is drive ahead, reach first - in one piece or broken doesn’t matter. I grab a seat, when someone drops out in between.

  “The bus is so stuffy” I say to the girl sitting at my next, who I think thinks half of the mankind is below her dignity to talk to. The fragrance about her is too strong, Bolton? Chanel? Whatever it might be, she definitely seems to be from a family of decent means, but then why she’s still traveling by a local bus? The inquiry intrigues me. Maybe her sense of seeking adventures just like my own pulls her in here. “Yeah” she says, more of out of an acknowledgment that she heard me. I ask, to keep the conversation from dying “How did you manage to get a seat so fast?” In response, she points out to a board above our seat - ladies seat - it says.

  Closer to my seat is standing Sumit, looking nervously in my direction with the corner of his eyes. Sumit is a senior, one
year ahead of me, he boards the bus from the same stop, infact we all three get on from the same stop. Sumit has a fondness for the girl, a fondness little too strong, he has told me things that normal healthy being wouldn’t know, he bets with me often what she will wear on what day, details right from the hair clip to the socks. Socks? Wait till it gets even creepier, he tells me he knows the landlord where she lives, I raise my eyebrow in doubt, he then explains me that he followed her once. It freaks me out, he has all signs of a brooding stalker.

  She definitely is an attractive girl who smartly wears her cloth, not the designer stuff, but the comfy casual equivalent - a smartly sewn well fit trouser with a crisp white shirt, sleeves of which are comfortably curled up to expose just the right the amount of her upper arms, and a navy blue sweater half sweater with a dirty crumpled look. A fragrance of Bolton-on-Trent or some fancy Italian cultural import surrounds her. I am certain to a fair degree that she sees male as nothing but a petty race, some un-desirous beings trying to garner her attention.

  The security at the gates gets me - why my shoes are not shining black today and why my tie resembles that of a rival college - ITU. I reply after taking a momentarily pause: “It appears that the tie got mixed up at the washer-man when I gave it to him for ironing.” There are a couple of guys in our colony from ITU so it is an entirely plausible outcome that an accidental switch might have taken place.

  ~’~’~

  The road to the main building from the main gate is really long, it takes a whole ten minutes to walk upto it. There are bicycles that you can grab but the thing is they never are available when you need them. The downward slope to the main building makes a helluva bike ride. Imagine riding a bike with no breaks, just a frictionless free-fall, you’d run over few things and few people before you’d ultimately topple over. The whole journey to the top is indeed very lonely.

  On the right side of road is the girl’s hostel, standing gracefully, looking over a shallow gorge behind, and a big series of plateau across that gorge. Almost everyone who passes it, glances up in hope, that someday they would get a glimpse of someone they are destined to meet – poetic BS fed by the film industry. Instead, they often see girls drying their hair off with wet towels. Alas! Someone should give these little daisies a little brain.

  Far ahead at the end of the road, stands majestic a light gray sandstone sculpture of Archimedes on the shorter edge of a big oval shaped lawn, that welcomes you at the entrance of the main building, an administrative wing, the statue’s surrounded by the perfectly mowed yellowish-green grass, which in winter feels razor-sharp when you run your bare fingers against. Eureka! Says a wooden signboard put beside the statue. Administrative wing is where all the kids go when they have to pay the fees or when they have discipline issues or when the Dean just calls you for any reason he feels like.

  ~’~’~

  I get sickened even by thoughts of going through the routine, A starts, A finishes, B starts, B finishes, so on and so on, and then A starts again, the cycle never stops. Is there any end to this madness?

  The day begins with Humanities, the very first lecture that we have, a boring snoozefest, an overdose of sleeping pills. The inner poet in me thinks,

  ‘What an irony it is Shakespeare, Humanities being taught to a group of in-humans’.

  But we need not worry ourselves unnecessarily because in this avatar here, humanities is nothing, but just another fancy name for English literature. Literature is a subject where you study Romeo & Juliet and often while reading, the portraying classmates - opposite sexes - fall in love. Only that real life is not cinema, here we study real classics and not emotional melodrama. We are emotionally overloaded with the struggle of old Santiago and the alluding marlin from the old man and the sea, and a set of enthralled characters from the period drama - war and peace.

  I am fifteen minute early for the lecture… the second lecture, Computational Physics, the first lecture is Humanities, the class has been very conveniently placed at the top of the chart so that we, the punctual pupil, can have the liberty to be late to the college. Humanities, I observe has always been our first lecture, semester after semester, more-so all the practical are piled up together on Saturdays - the day when no one comes to the college. A serious mess truly, and if someone has to be blamed for this, it has to be Raul, for his boy-genius and his love of programming, made this dream-come-true timetable possible. Before him all the time tables were done with the bare hands - palms and knuckles, pen on papers, quill on banana leaves, taking as long as two weeks and lots of stressful head space. The answer was provided by Raul, but it was Siddhant who suggested him this outward creative expression of his genius, and the corrupt suggestion to tweak the system a little in our favor was given by me.

  Raul is not tall, or handsomely dark, or anywhere near to an attractive man, but he has certain things going for him that makes him irresistible or at least a bit charming. He has a rectangular face, a small but broad forehead, which is bare, no hair, thin hair on scalp, which he combs smartly, he sets his hair is a way that it cover most of the empty ground. A decent face, not very boyish and not very manly, something somewhere in between, a sort of mix. The overall shape is of a rectangle with curved edges and with eyes, nose, ears and mouth put in the right proportion. Good thing is he carries himself with an utter grace, real gentlemanly walk, bright smile, and is not afraid of laughing out loud when the situation demands - a trait that makes him a much likeable person.

  His trademark jacket hangs on his broad worked out shoulders, a jacket that he says he got when he played nationals in volley ball for his school. It has written Raul, 99 over its back. I have seen him play here, he is what he says - a national player, really impressive with his blazing fast service, and a fiery well directed smash, he can play with one hand just as good as with two hands. Still, he is naive in many ways, ignorantly innocent of the shrewd world and the foxy people. There's no trick in him, or no pinch of ingenuity in his personality. In the guest lecture (where rattan and I met him first time) he could have answered the questions himself, and taken the limelight, and yet he chose to help someone, a someone he didn't know. Now, this is innocence. Still untouched and uncorrupted by the manners of the world, he is.

  Raul has a brother, Mrinal, who works in US, lives an ideal life, a blue collared job as a software consultant, a homely wife, a two year old boy, a duplex home in the suburbs of LA. An ideal life awaits for Raul too, when he passes out, he too probably would fly off to the land of dreams; his brother says, he would get him the job in the Big Apple or somewhere when he comes. People say he's lucky to have such a brother, such an exciting life awaits him. But I know Raul thinks otherwise, I know Raul doesn't think of going to US, it doesn't fascinate him even a bit, he wants to be here in India and wants to do something for his homeland, and moreover he doesn't want someone to say - oh he is nothing, his brother made him. He's probably one of the most self-respecting guy ever met, even before I could know what exactly the word self-respect means.

  Chapter 3: The Girl On The Ledge

  On my way to cafeteria I see FYers - the freshers - moving around. Spotting them from crowd is a no brainer - they bear scary unsure faces and they walk in big groups. Some of them wave good mornings with their heads bowing in tandem while others try to look away to avoid my gaze. A couple of girls pass an inviting smile, I don’t bother to look in their direction or to go and talk to them.

  I skip the canteen and I skip the small CCD outlet located just outside the canteen. I move in the straight direction till I reach the end. I find a space to sit for on one of the pulia - a sort of cemented bench - it overlooks the plateaus across. Our institution is built on one such plateau itself, surround by from all side but one, with deep ravines. I take a heavy breath, and suck a large quantity of fresh air, the cold O2 molecules runs through my system - from the nasal passage into the wind pipe, my lungs expands to house the new guests.

  ~`~`~

  I wave at the group, they are
still hovering around, asking the two girls to come. I have taken the bait, juniors always try to lure seniors, it’s their best bet to get away cheaply. On the other side of the valley that surrounds our college is a dilapidated cement factory which fell out of work soon after last brick of our college was cemented in “What are your names, girls?” I ask in a southern accent, looking at both of them at the same time. They tell me something which my brain considered was irrelevant, something straight out of a sanskrit shabdkosh? They are chirpy and cheerful as any senior would expect juniors to be, at times they do it to hide their nervousness and sometimes to appeal them; but today it’s all going to be different, the smirk on their face and glitter in their eyes is going to be seized by the grip of fear, they would tremble from the icy chill that would run through their nerves. They don’t really know what’s coming their way, and I don’t know anymore what is slowly possessing me.

  “Both of you stand on that ledge” I order, pointing to the one which looks straight down the valley, you slip or you jump either way you go straight down, right at the bottom, only that you wouldn’t be alive or conscious to realize that. One of them tip-toes slightly to see across, to see what lies beyond, but there’s nothing just the sound of the wind swooshing past the valley. And they look at me, confused. ‘Is it some kind of game, he wants to play?’

  “Yes, you heard me, stand on the ledge,” I repeat, in a tone slow and soft. They look really confused now, their heads bear down from the weight of astonishment and doubt, slowly and hesitantly they move toward the bench, still thinking that this is some practical joke I am playing, and I will stop them at the last minute just before they are going to step on. How deluded they are!