Shabd

By Prerna Prakash

almost /ˈɔːlməʊst/

AdverbNot quite; very nearly.

The last line just wouldn't write itself. Varun slouched over it in parks, on study tables, but that final ending never came. It was almost as if the piece did not want to finish itself.

The first time Varun met Gagan, they spent almost the whole night sequestered in a corner, away from the party. Varun had gone only to use the free alcohol to bolster his flagging creative processes but ended up staying for more than just amber liquid. All the people that milled about him, he knew. Their conversations were bland and sparked little interest. Recently he said, that she said, that we said some shit that you wouldn't believe; all this he had done before. 

Maybe it was because he kept circling the same few circles of friends. Over time their conversations and ideas had become the swill of water cycloning down a kitchen sink. Seen before, admired sometimes–in the right light. Pinballing through guests, brushing up contacts he might need, Varun made his way up and down the drawing room of the colorfully artistic house. A house with the ugliest blue door with a green lining. The decorations, he thought, were garish and clashed with the dark colors that many artists like to associate with these days. 

He liked it. 

Everyone laughed from the belly, spent not a single second silent. Laughter and words seemed to pack the smoke-filled room until there was almost no more space for movement.

He came across Gagan–the only other he had never met before–swirling ice in the chunky glass he held between his forefinger and thumb. His eyebrows had knotted into a dark line and his lips, red with the revelry of the night (presumably), were mashed together. He stared into his almost empty glass as if to interrogate it, but no words came.

Varun felt an indescribable attraction to that one corner festooned in fairy lights and made his way to the somber man. Soon, the expression of disquiet melted off that face.  After a few more drinks, they heard the music, the laughter, and the chatter as if through thick gauze dipped in honey. Even the crash that came with someone breaking glass, the whoops and laughter, came slow and did not really startle. 

nb: When asked later, Varun could not remember much of what passed between them. He remembers holes within the whole; spilled alcohol, crinkled eyes, a tattoo that peeked from beneath the collar. 

nothing /ˈnʌθɪŋ/

PronounNot anything; no single thing.

He remembered nothing of consequence. 

always /ˈɔːlweɪz/

AdverbAt all times; on all occasions.

Varun wrote constantly. His pens scribbled, his keyboard rattled, and once even a typewriter clunked through the silent nights. The chik chik takat of those keys had overjoyed him, but soon after, the exhilaration wore off. As much as he loved posting the typewritten pieces on his social media, the time it took to create them nearly made him stop writing. It had belonged to his grandfather, the poet. This black, slightly beaten-up instrument had helped his dadu become a lauded artist, one of the most respected back home. Varun loved the romanticism of the notion of using the same instrument to craft his masterpiece, but soon he realized, the magic was within. 

Rather, it was not without. 

He did make some significant changes when he worked on the typewriter though–things he didn't think he would change. Some characters he scrapped, some he just killed off. One particularly great paragraph he deleted entirely, and that took all day. First went one word, then another, and the sentence followed. Another sentence and that punctuation. Coffee break, and then the massacre continued. A lot he subtracted out of the piece in that go. 

With all the arithmetic, however, he lost some beautiful characters, cherished friends almost, at this point. For days he played around with new people, introducing them to the piece just to say goodbye soon after. 

None of them stuck too long. None had names, and they always left too soon. A good character, dadu used to say, was like an old friend. Somewhere in the glades of memory, but not quite visible. When you felt the note of their being, you knew if they were discordant or not. Always choose the one that is discordant, he used to say. It causes more drama. Every character that Varun dreamed up was too perfect, fit in too well. Never fit. 

After meeting Gagan, a boy kept appearing within the pages of his work, though. A character who was but a shadow in Varun's mind–without a face. Sometimes when he was thinking up the character, Varun could hear its laugh, smell the scent that wafted along with it. He could feel this entity and the harmony that played within its strings. He was, however, always too hard to finish writing. 

nb: The boy, Varun admits, did not have a name. Soon after his arrival into Varun's psyche, the boy became the boy, and him, and his. He sometimes, admittedly, visited Varun at night. 

seldom /ˈsɛldəm/

AdverbNot often; rarely.

The visits were seldom recorded. 

maybe / ˈmeɪ bi /AdverbPerhaps; possibly.

As the leaves fell off the trees and the breath started condensing around people, Varun met Gagan more often. Usually under the pretense of work, some sort of illustration on a cover, maybe a graphic or logo that his start-up needed. Mostly under the pretense of coffee. He had always hesitated when offered coffee. The horror stories that his mother had told him about children consuming coffee or tea at a young age and losing all their hair had subconsciously affected him more than he would care to talk about. He loved his hair, curly and long. 

But, some things were worth the nightmares. 

Soon, they met elsewhere, and otherwise too. They consumed coffee and tea, and alcohol diluted with coke. Ice made droplets dribble down the sides of their glasses as they spoke about truth and death and other things they did not know about. Some days they drank outside, in bars and cafes, amidst throngs of people, the chaos and noise forcing them to lean into one another, scream into each other's ears the words that did not need to be said. Some days they stayed in, buying all they needed in advance, wrapped in brown paper bags. Alcohol and other things that the world hesitated to accept, at least out in the open. They had soft exchanges within, away from the bustle of the city, and its eyes. 

The thing that marked their exchanges was the hesitation that bloomed out of Varun. 

When their hands almost touched, when Gagan looked up and caught his eyes, when he took a long drag then held out his cigarette for Varun, instead of just handing it to him–the moment before he took that drag.

nb: the fingers that had brushed his lips had been cold. In hindsight, Varun thinks his lips might have been too chapped. He thinks that he used to think too much, and the thoughts always ended when their eyes met, and did not shy away. 

several /ˈsɛv(ə)r(ə)l/Pronounmore than two but not many

There were several such moments. 

confusion / kənˈfyu ʒən /Noundisorder; upheaval; tumult; chaos

They woke up that night to banging on the door. Varun had not meant to fall asleep, but warmth always had a way of pulling him under. As they groggily made their way from the inside out, switching on the lights as they went, they heard voices from across the door. Too late for visitors, but not too late for alarm. 

The night watchman stood at the door, lathi in hand. That was causing all the banging. With him were other people–in the mask of the night, faceless. Ominous. They screamed, and grunted and waved their arms, a gaggle of terrible confusion. Gagan had been pulled by his collar into the middle of the throng, and Varun had not been able to grab him fast enough. Screaming about sanskaar, the group had pulled them out. 

Funny word, that. Even as Varun fought to get his hands on Gagan again, struggling to escape the anger of the crowd that stormed around him, he couldn't help but think. Sanskaar. Values. Sans Kaar. Without bonds. Languages were funny that way when you mixed and matched as you wished. Latin and Sanskrit were not that far apart were they, anyway?

Sans Kaar. How could he value a bond that was being pulled away by men and women wearing masks of fury and disgust? That was burning with humiliation and guilt? That was stretched so thin that not even the dark of the night could hide the tears?

nb: their bruises stayed for a week, toted around with shame. Varun maintains that he did not mind his own, but the face looking at him from across the room hurt him more than any abhorrent words that were spoken that night. Nothing was broken that night. 

consequence /ˈkɒnsɪkw(ə)ns/

Nouna result or effect, typically one that is unwelcome or unpleasant.

Nothing of consequence.

distant /ˈdɪst(ə)nt/Adjectivenot intimate; cool or reserved.

They met only twice after that. One was accidental. They did not mean to, but they both loved the same restaurants in town. They walked in with just a few minutes between them, and as they fell into uneasy chatter within the waiting lounge, the server had arrived, with his offer of a table for two. Forced merriment and acknowledgments of fortuitous timing led to a red-covered table next to a view of Gurgaon traffic. There was no space for elbows, and barely enough for words.

Their eyes did not meet as often and even though the purple blotches had long sidled off Varun's face, Gagan refused to look at it for too long. They had shared a Khao Suey–and for a moment, a laugh–but it went away far too quickly. A distant look slipped onto Gagan's face, even before the heartbeat had had time to recede from Varun's ears. 

The second time, it was a planned event. A structured evening that blew past with religious pomp. The trrrraing-a of the bell as Varun stood at the door, hands deep in his pockets. The blue frame with green lining, ugly ugly colors, that he had come to love so well. The knob turned and there he was again, and this time not dressed for the public eye. Just for Varun, like the good old days. 

However, as he went in, lulled into believing that the past had rung in at the door along with him, he noticed that they were not really alone. In the distant corner of Gagan's drawing room, a girl with folded legs lounged on the sofa. Beautiful. He recognized the shirt, and that is when it struck him. Gagan thanked him for getting the notes that he had forgotten at Varun's place, how he needed them for tomorrow. 

The girl smirked silently. Might not have, Varun knew exactly what emotion he was experiencing. As Gagan introduced his girlfriend, all Varun could do was try to not breathe in the detergent-sunshine-rajnigandha smell that clung to his skin, not look at the shirt that was unbuttoned at the top, exposing a well-remembered chest. Not feel the ocean in his head. He had to sit there and smile, as they all pretended that this was just routine. 

nb: with all the force of a cliche, the dark hair had fallen off his face in a waterfall, Varun says, and his hands had reached, almost, to brush away the errant strands that had masked his eyes. Almost.

never /ˈnɛvə/

AdverbAt no time in the past or future; not ever.

They never did reach their destination. 

unfinished /ʌnˈfɪnɪʃt/ Adjectivenot finished or concluded; incomplete. 

The bed was now usually cold. Varun could not sleep till the sun blinked awake, and then, he would crawl into the covers, pulling them over to block out the light. The piece lounged beside his pillow, on a small wooden desk that housed a jumble of wires, pages and pens, and intermittently, dirty dishes. He called in sick to work for as long as he could, and when it became too much, made an appearance. 

The good thing about co-owning start-ups was that you could give yourself slack–when you needed it. If your partners were responsible enough. And he was the artiste, only the vision was his, really. The great power of keeping everything afloat he did not possess, and neither did he shoulder that great responsibility. 

Days went by, and slowly, week by week, he put his life back together. Piecing it up, like a puzzle. The corners went on first; he called his mother, signed some paperwork, filled in a few tax forms. The edges dwindled along, slow and steady, locking into place at a restricted pace; he went out with people, washed his clothes, smiled. And then. Then the great center! A word here, a touch there, but the piece in the center seemed to have fallen behind the deepest reaches of the bedside table that was really Gagan's story. A dark hole that was a chip against the panorama of the jigsaw. The last piece. 

nb: he never did think up that last line, Varun laments.

By Prerna Prakash