Free Falling

I was a good girl; at least they thought I was. Most people would buy it even today, ask anyone.

It all started with a little water only about four to five feet deep.

My father, a rather kind-hearted misfit of a military man, took me swimming to a shallow pool. The good girl that I was, I fared well on the very first day. Papa took me home and patted my back in front of all the awed members of the family. That was a good job done.

But it was only just a small pool.

When I grew up just a little, Mom took me to a bigger pool. A swimming course rather, for tiny little fast learning ‘otters’ like me.

This one was a kidney shaped blue bliss. The water would always be deliciously cool, and in some bizarre way, stimulating to the touch. In the smaller pool I would bravely launch myself into the water, come what may. Yet in this pool, I would step in slowly, letting the icy twitch of the water swallow me up from all sides.

The first thing I noticed however was the diving board.

It stood majestically, facing the deeper end of the pool meant only for the brave of the heart. During my swimming classes with the other children, nobody would dare go near it. Silly kids, I thought, they would cling helplessly to their mothers as I swam across the pool- in the shallow end of course. The trainers stood sentinel right at the beginning of the deeper end, and a uniform long rope divided territory.

My friends stared in awe as I swam back and forth in a single breath. Even more so when I would stay submerged, looking the turquoise blue of the pool right in the eye. They would become paranoid when I didn’t resurface when they thought I would. I simply wasn’t done looking beyond the depths.

I scared them when I was in the water, they said. They refused to believe that I was the same little girl, the type that did her homework right on time without the extra nagging. The moment I would go in the water, the calmness about me changed into a raging fire. It was like a rare disease, and the water seemed to aggravate it. And what made it worse was the highest level of that diving board.

One day, there were fewer trainers than there should have been. One day, there were hardly any parents.

I went with my friends that day, for Mom had work at home and she trusted me. The moment I entered, I noticed the lack of guards, the lack of chains to keep me bound.

With steady steps, I pretended to head towards the shower with the rest of the swimming group, eyeing the three-tiered mystery carefully as I went. In a fleeting moment, I saw the trainers busy in a chat, hardly looking this way. I said a little prayer.

Run.

Run.

Run.

I obliged, magically drawn in.

My steady feet took me to the base of the diving board, for I was good at running on wet surfaces. All my swimming acquaintances screamed in alarm. The trainers whirled around and made a run for it too, but they were too late.

By the time they got to the base I was standing on the highest level, the tallest tier.

Ultimate bliss was moments away.

My mind numbed almost instantly, blocking all the screams and taunts coming from below. All that was now like a distant memory, like a faint buzz of insignificant chatter. I knew that I was beyond their reach, beyond doubt, beyond everything.

The trainers and volunteers got busy climbing up- all of them begging me to come down and not to be scared.

Scared? Not me.

With all my might and all my willpower bundled into one, I mimicked an Olympic diving posture; hands bound in a Namaste at the front, crouched back and a bowed-down head. The moment I bowed was the moment I saw it- some kind of bizarre Nirvana, enlightenment strewn all over the blue water surface. The board sprang precariously, but I was oblivious. There was no going back now.

I synched my feet with the boi-oi-oing of the board, and launched myself right into the air.

Down there, my audience let out an all-shattering, blood curdling scream.

My body cut rapidly through the air, my breathing became heavy as I gained altitude. And then suddenly, I began to lose height. In that single moment I was mortally terrified.

The terror ceased to last though. Very soon, but it felt like forever, the cool blue waves welcomed me with open arms. They engulfed my form like crazy fans at a concert, some patted my back. Others gave me a series of high fives. One or two waves, as if punishing me for disobedience, slapped me across the face affectionately. I felt right at home as I sank, and surfaced back up quickly.

It was the day I returned home both a mischief maker and a hero.

Your Bandwagon of Cool

                                                                           1

One of these days, on an enchanted evening we sat in open air. Above us, God’s skillful hands created magic from the heavens as the sun bade adieu. Colors, warm beautiful hues spilled forth in a clear summer sky. The fiery reds and the balmy yellows blended and spread generously, making room for a hint of purple here and there. The purples became deeper as the moments passed, and soon paved way for an even, unending dark blanket of blue. Together, we watched the sky at play. We sat wondering when the concert would begin.

The round, Greek amphitheatre-esque venue had brick steps instead of seats. The stairs descended from all sides into a round platform where a mundane stage was set. Fluorescent lights were focused and refocused till perfect, illuminating the arena in rich neon greens. Black silhouettes traveled back and forth, carrying heavy instruments from a minivan to the stage. One of them tested the screeching mikes as an open challenge to our eardrums. But the setting was breathtaking- the lights glistened and flicked ever so slightly, caressing the stage and the gallery above. As a soothing breeze blew to match the surroundings the seats filled up quickly. The venue was soon overflowing with excited chatter from all sides.

The cool night air twirled around each of the nameless faces in the gallery, tying them together into the same palpable anticipation. Mostly strangers, they were pulled collectively to the same event. Looking down at the stage occasionally, their faces conveyed a mixture of excitement and impatience at the countless unfamiliar people on all sides.

Enclosed safely in our own little bubble, we, a mess of fervent teens remained completely oblivious to the world outside. Cars continued to screech by demanding the attention of the mob but inevitably went unnoticed; the whine of their engines dying into the blurred night. Badam-wallahs and popcorn-boys were definitely the busiest that night, as possible customers yelled for refreshments from almost every step of the gallery. Even in the midst of all the commotion, a small voice from behind did not escape my notice- “It’s all over the internet, their fanpage confirmed it too. It’s the guy’s first show tonight.” I pretty much whirled around to face a younger boy who seemed to excuse my bizarre reflexes with a smile.

“It’s Requiem, apu” he explained animatedly “If nothing goes wrong then they’re introducing a new member tonight!” he said, and got busy explaining the same to everyone else who asked. Word travels faster than light, they say; and proving it correct, the crowd soon seemed to discuss nothing else. After all it was Requiem, one of the more popular bands in the underground scene. But a question lingered on everyone’s mind - who would they accommodate in their already strong, well-organized lineup?

When the babble of the crowd had more or less ceased, there was a stir in the front rows. The two sets of doors on the makeshift stage were both temptingly agape. Lights thrummed from the opening, on and off, on and off. Lights set up around the stage changed colors from blue to green to yellow. Those at the front could just see into the entrance and eye the security guards over, both of them significantly bigger than any of the onlookers. Like lions, they breathed heavily and bristled threateningly under the wary gaze. A quick announcement on the microphone soon claimed the crowd’s undivided attention. And then silence fell, a hush almost overwhelming.

The silence was kept for only a second. There was stillness... And then…

A cheer tore through the calm, reigniting the buzz in the air. A metallic melody soared from the stage, closely followed by an epic bass line, a heavy drum beat. Someone began to sing- an unmistakable growl of the celebrated lead vocal. ‘Hemlock’ had taken the stage by storm. I am a lucky girl tonight, I mused.

The whole, chaotic evening had been in preparation for this one moment. In this moment, we strangers are woven together by freedom; a freedom in the expression of music. But eager fans, including me, had one final attraction to witness - the mighty Requiem and their brand new surprise.

2

I glanced at the concert leaflet clasped tight in my hand. By then two other bands after Hemlock had performed and left the stage. When the lights flashed yellow I skimmed through the day’s lineup - Requiem was on number four.

Let’s see what you guys have found.

For a moment, it seemed that time had simply stopped then and there. Some of my friends had tried stirring up a conversation, but nobody was in a mood to talk. Popcorn and cola was passed from this end to that, sometimes to complete strangers. Those few moments had tied us together in friendship, in undivided attention, in longing and in restlessness. But then there was an announcement, and some silhouettes- five of them, emerged from behind the makeshift doors.

The five original, ever so awesome members of Requiem.

A large group to my right had already started to hoot at the top of their voice.

Then a sixth figure was seen emerging from the backstage.

Louder hoots this time, followed by a few excited, girly screams. This new member took careful steps, consulted with a senior nearby and slowly advanced to take center stage. A yellow spotlight was focused directly, and solely on him. Yellow phosphorescence flooded his entire being.

For a moment, nobody spoke. All eyes were on this rather tall, slender boy of about my age. Like the rest of his band-mates, he was dressed in a black t-shirt and a pair of black jeans. Long dark hair, long for a boy’s standards, reached his shoulder and created a sharp contrast with his ghostly pale skin. A rather strange looking instrument case hung from his shoulder, a case that he soon got busy rummaging. Out came a long, thin and silvery stick- as if a magician’s wand at the ready. The crowd gasped as they found out who he was; a person unlike any other- the flutist of a metal band.

Fred the lead guitarist held his guitar tighter, ready to play an accompaniment. The new guy exchanged a quick nod with him and took the flute to his lips.

Isara

A silent, spellbound audience seemed to breathe in this newly created ambience. In those few moments his flute told us tales - tales of sights unseen, of words unspoken. His expert fingers closed just the right opening at just the right time; hence a smooth, flawless melody swept us off our feet. Magic seemed to have finally found a place with us, magic and nothing else.

But unlike other flutists he did not sever ties with his audience; he kept his eyes wide open. He gazed at his now captivated listeners, trying to scan every nook and corner of the amphitheater. He was apparently reading faces, expressions, thoughts - everything. It was probably something in-built, an urge to read people’s faces. But at one point, his furtive eyes stopped their seemingly unending search.

His eyes met mine.

I had never felt so exposed, so ‘caught in the act’ in my entire life. Truth to be told, I was gaping at him too. It was rude to stare; quite the school-time lesson I had been taught. Except this time, some two hundred other eyes were doing the same. Like a deer at the headlights I was flustered, my frightened eyes in a desperate search for cover. However, his remained fixed on mine; and I read, what looked unmistakably, like a smile in them.

Encouragement?

The flutist’s captivating solo performance followed a deafening roar from our end. His five legendary seniors took turns in patting his back, and then Fred whispered something in his ear. Another ‘nod’ took place; the new guy took center stage again and mumbled a shy greeting to his mesmerized fans. A name was revealed, an identity, an existence. As if a flimsy explanation was given to a great mystery, merely a phenomenon. And then there was a smile; a melancholy smile which was directly and unquestionably, at me.

Other songs had started in full swing. These were Requiem’s popular tracks destined to become all-time greats; from the thought-provokers to the revolution - enkindlers, the party-starters and the stadium-shakers. Our new flutist was the perfect fit in this already perfect band. Perfection was taken to a whole new level in just one night. Everything fell into place as the music continued to captivate, to enthrall and exhilarate. In the midst of all that, a pair of grey eyes followed my every move. I delved into his eyes that were now an open book, and a curtain lifted.

His cold grey eyes emitted a warmth unknown to many. Yet a hunger, a longing rested there. As if in some part of his smiling eyes he hid a forlorn tale. As if he were helpless, heartbroken, torn to pieces. Perhaps he had loved one day, perhaps he had some place to go home to. But something fell apart; something went missing in those batting false lashes. Perhaps the eyes that he would seek comfort in wanted to look elsewhere for a change. Maybe they were too smoky, too ‘cut-creased’, too busy and too tired of his presence. Smoke, ugly grey smoke filled his life slowly. Smoke came from dry ice, from smoke machines, from sheesha, from betrayal. Soon he had trouble fitting in; a trouble more troublesome than most teenage troubles. ‘Fitting in’ became more than just an everyday chore, and love seemed to disappear in a floodlight of success.

He was lonely, he was cold. He was stuck in a realm of illusions. Illusions of fame everywhere.

And he needed a savior.

His eyes pinned me to the ground, threw countless questions my way. I was almost up on my feet; I was ready to give anything to be by his side. But then…

My eyes saw something that night that I would never have seen before. They saw inability, my own inability to challenge what made him suffer. The hundred something people that swayed to his music had fallen prey to it, so had I, so had everyone else. It was a difference, yet more than a difference. A difference between the cool and the uncool, the dreamy and the practical, the revolution-starters and the onlookers.

I realized that I was helpless in a world of illusions, where everything had a stereotype. A little different and boom!- an instant label of ‘misfit’ seemed to coil around your throat by an invisible noose. Love and betrayal go hand in hand in this world of make-believe; ‘trust’ hides itself in closed spaces as the vices bask in limelight. A bandwagon of cool roams the streets of my city, a wagon we all want to board. But once on board there is no getting down, no going home to ones values; to oneself.

His eyes remained fixated in mine, still searching for some hope in my mundane brown ones. I simply lowered my defeated gaze.

The Artful Dodger

“I'm actually planning to give up smoking for one last time”

“Huh?” I raised an eyebrow, for I knew this guy all too well. In twenty six years of life he has made countless such promises to himself and all his friends, nineteen times to be precise. So with a chuckle and an ‘oh dear Lord’ expression, I hid my face behind a dog-eared magazine.

However, there was no deterring him with sarcasm. Once started, Rishad was unstoppable “I have a simple enough plan, hey. Every time I want to smoke, I’ll go to the tong, buy a banana and a bun…” which comes to about the same price, he told me in an undertone “and give it to some kid to watch him eat it. With that feeling of contentment, I’ll go my own way” I snickered as he smiled from ear to ear.

The humidity of Dhaka was at its worst that day, making sensitive people literally forget how to breathe. Suffocated and coaching-battered as I was, there was only one thing I could pray for- rain. But sometimes, prayers are answered a bit too late. By the time it started raining, here I was; sitting across my polar opposite in a cozy little café. This friend of mine is a self proclaimed free thinker, an underground rockstar, a poet and five years older than me. I on the other hand, choose to wear a salwar kameez in a room full of miniskirt and tank top clad mannequins.

“With your reputation and everything, this mohapurush method will never work. So keep weird thoughts aside and think of what to write for the mag.” Yes, this is how we are friends; we write for the same magazine.

“You don’t believe me, eh kid? Here’s a little demonstration. Observe” Rishad’s facial expression was changing bit by bit, probably an urge to smoke. I followed him to the exit when I realized- “No umbrella, what now?” It was then I caught sight of them, four street urchins playing in the heavy downpour. The plastic bags and tattered rucksacks covering their makeshift huts should have kept water at bay, but soon became an abode of innumerable water droplets. Through the watery windows of the café I could make out their shriveled silhouettes running around in a complete frenzy. Even in the midst of their apparent frenzy, the smallest boy in the group artfully picked an unaware office-goer’s pocket. “The Artful Dodger” I said a bit too loudly when Rishad interrupted my chain of thought “Oliver Twist? You and your Charles Dickens references….now stay here and watch”. A little rain doesn’t hurt, I thought, and followed him outside.

A humble tong always made better business than a posh café- never have I seen an exception to that. On a rainy day however, people would rather catch the first bus than sit around on tea stall benches. The cha-wallah was rather intimidated by the pot bellied, enormous bear I had brought along, so it was I who asked for the banana and bun in a reassuring ‘it’s okay, he’s harmless’ tone. I felt a little overly generous so with a quick “My treat!” at Rishad, I absent mindedly felt my way through my sling bag for money. A few ten taka notes would have popped out, except my bag felt nothing like the usual canvas; more like tender human skin.

The alien hand squirmed and writhed in my grip, but my persistence was no match for the malnourished little thing. Still holding tight, I made its owner go around the bench to face me. No surprises when the infamous ‘Artful Dodger’, the little pickpocket faced me with knobby knees. “What was that about?” I asked, as if I didn’t know what it was about- survival.

“Apa, please forgive me? Never again” was the reply- rehearsed, calm and collected. My friend sitting on the other bench prompted him, and the words came flowing from the little guy’s heart-

“My mother’s no more, father remarried. I live in my sister and her husband’s makeshift polythene hut on the railway tracks over there” Lutfur, our Artful Dodger reminded me of Pip at this point. When asked why he picked pockets, there was a smirk on his face. Indeed, laughing at those just-robbed, clueless faces was not only justified, but also human. However, he quickly hid that slight hint of amusement and carried on- “I went to work too, janen bhaiya? The work was making pipes on a machine and cutting polythene. I cut my hand, see? Stealing is ‘upori paowa’ apa, you can’t really resist”- Lutfur’s honest confession.

We expected to see a small cut, something that any child could endure. But what we saw was a missing finger. “Still better than being maimed to beg” he declared.

Lutfur might have been a bit quicker, cheekier than other kids, but all his cunning and experience was backed by untold misery. These streets, these hostile unforgiving streets had no place for the righteous Oliver Twist. ‘Survival of the fittest’ says natural selection, and the unwritten iron code of this concrete jungle knows no other law.  

Dickens’ The London slums had a suffocating, infernal aspect; the dark deeds and passions lingered in dim rooms and pitch-black nights, while the governing mood of terror and brutality stood sentinel in the cutting cold. When the half-starved child dared to ask for more, the men who punished him were fat. Today, after two hundred years London is devoid of slums. British ecstasy is at its peak; revolving around the Queen and her triumphant hatboxes. But here in a country of all-possible, street children remained as they were. Their misery, their tales of struggle is a two hundred year old legacy- only worse. Our slums are humid, merciless, filthy abodes of ‘lesser beings’. ‘Brown sahibs’ I muttered under my breath, that’s who we are.

“If it bothers you so much…” began a little voice inside my head, but I checked it with a sharp hiss. For now, I looked on as the Artful Dodger became the lab-rat of a rich kid’s whimsical experiment.

Play

There’s a small voice at the back of my head.

It’s very small, hardly a tinkle-but never silent, never resting. And on that particular day it was determined to nag me out of sleep.

Get up, get up, getup getupgetup…..it went on.

“Give me a break?” I half-pleaded, half-ridiculed.

No, it is time….

I obliged.

I looked at the cuckoo- clock perched overhead- 5:30 am. Under my breath I uttered every curse possible, at that voice perhaps; but got up anyway. The moment I abandoned my blanket the chilly wind struck me like never before. It wasn’t supposed to be so cold in mid March, a surprised me thought. “I left the window open I guess” I gave myself an explanation, and looked outside- where more surprises awaited.

“Why is everything white?”

White indeed- the buildings outside, the trees, the grass. “The trees? The grass?” At that point I jolted out of my sleepy trance and scampered to the windowpane- a snowy, white windowpane. Fascinated, I touched the fluffy white matter- and shuddered at the sudden, alien chill.

It did snow okay? Snap out of it

And no, I don’t live abroad.

I did anything but snap out of it- a snow covered Dhaka? Wow, never in anyone’s wildest dreams! My regular glass window as if, led to a world of pure make-believe. The grim, bleak buildings looked like snow capped mountains- a pile of snow accumulated on top of each, and the entire colony resembled a never-ending mountain range. Narrow streets were covered in a blanket even whiter than the whitest. Trees looked just as awed as me, as though they were having a hard time getting accustomed to their non-green self. I was reveling in the newfound beauty when the voice decided to strike once more-

Crops – spoke the small, yet powerful existence inside me. And it didn’t stop there

Street children

Schools, offices

Roads

I was no social activist, but I instantly knew that what I was staring at was real-time crisis. At once, I scuttled towards the living room, only to find Papa already absorbed in the news headlines. There was a scroll going under every news channel and they all contained, much to my relief, reassuring news. Apparently, it was snowing in Dhaka alone, and only within a certain radius. Snow did not spread its icy claws up to Ashulia or even Purbachal for that matter, so the paddy fields in the marshy terrain of Ashulia remained undamaged. 

However, roads within the city were blocked for the day, so there were government orders to close down all schools and offices till further notice (YAAAAY!!!) And of course, climatologists were going haywire over the abrupt change of weather in popular talk shows. Evidently, politicians were too stunned to start a new blaming episode, so the shows were not exactly heating up.

“Papa, baire jai?”

In this unsafe city for girls, miscreants were too tired to wake up in such untimely hours. Maybe that’s why Papa gave me a solemn, affirmative nod- “Yes”

To the roof now, I reached the edge painstakingly wading my way through a heavy pile of snow. The cold cutting wind lashed out at me- get off the roof you timid little imp. More buildings this time- like white mountains rising from all directions. All the pallid sights around made my city look like a scene straight out of a snow globe. Dhaka was, as if an olive skinned beauty forced in gaudy bridal makeup. Her beauty was flawless, but she was just not herself. I let out a heavy sigh and decided to go for a walk downstairs.

On a snowy street, I walked alone. Well, not quite alone- I soon came across some children, street urchins playing near a dustbin. White snowballs were clutched tight in their hands, “Never thought I’d be alive to see this day” I chuckled. But just then-

Street Children

I trembled, and my world came to a sudden standstill of realization. These impoverished, pitiful souls had no idea how dangerous it was. Scantily clad as they were, playing in snow in this attire gave out nothing but open invitations to pneumonia and such.

“Aye! Aren’t you guys cold?” I suddenly remembered my old sweater trunk, “Wait here, I’ll get you a few things to wear”. I was just about to speed my way upstairs, when a boy said- “Apa, it aint cold at all, see?” He gestured me to hold one of the snow balls they had reserved for their fight. I held one, and gasped.

Warmth! Such warmth, oh! It made so many pictures; so many voices in my head come alive. My mother, my mother’s hands- the hands that had left me, they were just as warm! I touched my cheek, and felt a tear trickle down.

“Apa, khelen na amgo loge!” they invited me to their little world of bliss.

Play now – my conscience told me

Play, my child.