When I Die

Will You? The Great Mango Tree

My life is a comb, a toothbrush, a pair of jeans and a collared shirt. My life's as simple as simple can be. No complications, no worries, no mind games--no "Talented Mr. Ripley" masquerades. I'm basically a happy kinda guy, really. I laugh at things. Sometimes it's a problem, because I laugh at the wrong things, but mostly it's all right.

I have a bigger forehead than I like (makes me look like an alien in disguise), okay. I've got the wrong shade of brown in my hair, okay. I'm what you'd call average height, medium build, okay. Those are not my problems, never have been. I'm as comfortable with my body as comfortable can be.

I'm not comfortable in my skin, but that's beside the point.

I like going places. I like looking at things--not just beautiful things, any thing, really. As long as it's done with care and honesty, everything is good for me. A broken sculpture is better than a naked Victoria Silvstedt pic--and I won't try to make you believe I'm saying the truth because such a thing coming from the mouth of a 20 year old guy cannot be believed anyway.

I've got one pair of boots and couple of pairs of loafers. Those are enough for the walking I do.

I've got fingers that'll probably be arthritic when I'm old, yes. They ache very often even now, yes.

I've got a runny nose all year long, yes. I sneeze a lot, yes. It's an allergy. I'm half American, you see; my genes are wired for a cleaner atmosphere than good old India.

But those things are okay when you consider that it could've been worse. I could've been blind/hearing disabled. Those would suck. Real bad. So I'm basically happy with my whole being.

My brain's a mess but that's beside the point.

I don't have a lot of money. I don't have a lot of things I want--some synthesizers, peaceful time alone when I can compose music/write without any disturbances. But that's okay too... at least I have a roof over my head.

I walk slow; I don't see any reason why I should walk fast. Eventually I'll get where I want to go anyway. I'm still punctual enough for everything, so that's okay.

I've never been on television and I don't want to be. This is a strange opinion especially when you consider that everyone else does want to be on TV. So I guess I'm different anyway. But that's okay. At least we have a TV.

My family's breaking apart; Dad's left and they're gonna get divorced. But that's okay too. At least I've had a family. I could've been in an orphanage all my life.

I'm funny sometimes. Thing is I don't know when I'm funny and when I'm not. I speak too much. But I speak very slow, as if I'm sleeptalking. I don't see any reason why I should speak fast--everyone else might know the reason. They speak like the world's going to end in the next millisecond.

But that's okay. I could've been mentally retarded or tongueless.

I waste a lot of time thinking. I've got a few nice friends. Got a lot of people who call me "friend" and I don't.

But that's okay. I could've been stranded on an island with armadillos all around.

I'm from India, which is frankly boring sometimes. But it's okay. I could've been sucking up to Saddam Hussain or sweating blood in a field in Africa

I sing. I sing well. And I'm as happy as happy can be for that.

I play a few instruments.

I write--though my writing sucks a mammoth's ass. I'm a sucky writer with a very limited vocabulary, a confused way of putting things, a very twisted mind that somehow cannot put half the things that stir in there on paper, and the kind of "I am the Alpha and Omega" attitude that is the hallmark of a bad writer. But that's okay. I could've been illiterate.

I'm a good guy, basically. If somebody's shitting around with you, I'll try to make him stop. If a big kid's bullying you, I'll try to talk him out of it. I might not succeed, but that's okay. At least you'll have enough time to turn face and run. I'll want something from you if I end up with a black eye, though. Obviously, I'll want some painkiller and some ice.

I don't have a car. And I don't see one in the foreseeable future. As far as I can see, as long as my legs can support me fine, I don't need one.

I don't have a big house either. But at least we (me and my mom and till recently, my dad) can move in the house without bumping our asses every now and then.

I think studying sucks a major Lama's ass.

But the studying's okay too. I could've been polishing shoes for a living.

I like puzzles. I like solving them. I like someone who can solve a puzzle. I like someone who gives up on a puzzle too. I like someone who's attempted the puzzle.

I can love. I can love obsessively.

That I haven't felt like loving anyone in a long time is beside the point.

I know how not to freak people out.

I know when to make an exit. When to bow down and walk out before I get kicked out.

I can't really promise you a hell of a good time. Can't promise you extravagance.

But I do know how to have an okay time. How to spend a couple of hours without boring the hell out of everybody. I can promise you extravagant flattery. One thing I have a lot of is words.

I can have clean fun and make sure you're having the same with me.

Now, knowing the above, will you be my friend?

<>

Don't ask why I wrote what I wrote above. It started of as a fiction piece, actually, about a serial killer (no less!). And became way too autobiographical to be called fiction. Um, don't make any psychological predictions and connections and stuff... I'm not gonna kill anyone. Except myself, maybe.

All I know is that the above helped pass time. Writing does that. Helps you pass the time. Like singing and composing. I guess all art is basically there for the same reason: passing time. And getting happy along the way.

Vanashree asked me why the heck didn't I have a valentine on that sucky Feb 14th. I told her I was gay. I don't want to tell everyone my boring story over and over again. If someone else wants to clear her doubts, he/she is welcome. I'm not. I don't think she bought it anyway. I've never been a good liar. I don't care both ways. How's that, amigos? I don't care about anyone anymore. I've become a proverbial numb Jack. And there ain't no friggin' Viagra invented for a numb mind, is there?

Spent the night yapping and talking a lot of nonsense with Rishi and Mike who were both just about as drunk as death. Sometimes I wish I was a drinking guy. That I was a smoker. I was a junkie. I don't know why I hold back. Something just clicks off when I think about those things. That's all.

We three were supposed to compose a song. Rishi was supposed to play tabla and Mike was gonna make a field trip with his Amp and TH-Pro. I was gonna mix it, as usual. Wish I had a synthesizer to play live. But what happened was those two idiots slept midway through the patchwork. They're gonna wake up with major hangovers. I left Rishi's house and came back to my old rusty one. Mom was asleep. Thank Gods and Praise Devils for that.

The exam results are out. I didn't flunk. That's okay. If I had I'd've found a reason to leave everything and get the hell out of this place (though I have no idea how I would've done that) or get the hell out of this world itself.

Mom and Dad are... getting divorced. I don't know what to say and I won't say anything about it right now. I don't think it's sunk in, though. Because I'm not feeling half as bad and crazy as I think I should. Or maybe I'm just not capable of emotion anymore. Maybe I've become one of those dead guys who go through life trying to do nothing but get rich. Maybe I'm one of those stone-faced guys you see in cartoons. Guys who'd kill a man and eat a burger with the same sick grin on their face. Numb Jack. I think I need a re-christening. Not that I ever had a christening. I had a "Barsa", which is the Hindu equivalent of the same, though.

I've found comfort in my music. A lot, in fact. I heard someone say once that life is necessary for art. I think that guy got it upside down. Art is necessary for life.

It gives you a reason to be.

There are a few people I think who care at least a little about me outside the brotherhood. Ash is one. She's a good soul all right. Mike. He's a good guy. Akash. That bloke lives close by and drags me out of house every now and then to go walking. Priyanka. She buggers the hell out of me and I bugger the hell out of her.

But I don't think I'll ever tell them my real shit.

I miss Wally, man. I miss Sonya. I wish one of them were here.

I wish there was someone like these two whom I could be with. Just walking with them or sitting with them under the broken roof of Tau's or maybe on the fence in the park would be enough.

Contact, okay? I need some contact with the good people I know. Physical contact. I need to see a face, okay? See a smile. Need to hear something. Even a cussword. I need to touch someone and know he/she's there.

A joke here or there... one of Wally and my own in jokes, maybe. A little slap on the back or a bonk on the head. That's what I need basically.

One of Sonya's customary hair-ruffles would be welcome as well... though I usually hate it when she does that.

Max's Arnie imitations would be tops though. He got us laughing every single time he did them. "Ayl Be Back" and "Astalaveesta, baybuh" and "If id bweeds, we can kill id" and "Cum wid me if yu wanna liv."

I guess I'll stop talking now. It's getting painful, remembering those things.

Go kiss your love for me, will you? There's a heck of a lot of people who don't have anyone to.
         ---Chimp.

PS: To someone who knows what I'm talking about: sleep well, all right? Don't think a lot about it. Shit happens; you know that, I know that. People chalked this adage a hell of a long time before I was born. And it'll be true till the very end of time. Shit happens and no one can do anything but let it happen and hope it's not all bad. It's terrible, I know. I've hoped for one thing in my whole damned life and I found out that exactly the wrong thing had happened. Amy died. What I felt was anger, yes, but later it went away. You've got to forget, all right? It might seem like a cruel thing to say right now, I certainly felt that way when a few people here said that when Amy died. But you've got to forget. What I think of when I think of Amy now isn't her death or 'why' and 'how' and everything that cannot be answered or redeemed; I think of that day we sat on that bench and the way I thought I was a pretty lucky guy to be talking to this lovely girl and the way I thought about the future: with hope. That's what I remember now. Maybe it is because that's the only way we can move on. When Granny beat me senseless and when all I ever wanted to do was close my eyes and drift away, what I used to think was that sometime in the future today's beatings won't hurt anymore. There'll be beatings then too, I never doubted that even for a second that there wouldn't be any in the future, but I felt I'd deal with them when they came.

I've got a hell of a lot of broken bones. I can never swim; I can't play any game with the kind of rugged determination I want to; I spent a lot of my young years limping and feeling needles stinging my chest when I breathed. I don't think there's anything I owe Fate. I don't think I've got one single reason to thank Fate. If Fate had misery stored for me anyway, the best thing she could've done is gifted me with a brain that didn't think so much. Because a brain like mine is a terribly hard thing to please. I've got a hell of a lot of things I want to do and never will be able to. Half those things I can't because I have no money. The other half I can't because I've got no money. And all that I keep on thinking thanks to my brain is about how there are people out there who can do what I can only dream about and feel jealous. Jealous, okay? No offense to the rich guys out there, but I don't think there's one damn good reason why you're rich and I'm not. Maybe there is a reason, but it won't satisy me anyway, so don't tell me about it. I'm a pathetically stubborn bloke and all that jealousy runs far too deep in my veins to accept your logic.

The best thing God could've done for me was to make me someone with a brain with the power of a rusty hand-crank operated truck. He should've made me a retard. Having the ability to DO something and not being able to use it is a big pissoff, okay? Knowing I've got the music, hearing notes in my head all day long and not being able to put them down simply because I've got no synth (which is because I have no money which is what it always comes down to) screws me around far more than Granny's beatings ever did. Knowing I've got a story in my head but not being able to write it because Mom's sitting in the same room I am and typing anything would make her suspicious (she doesn't even know I've been on W.com for more than a year) and would surely add another interesting episode to my already fucked up life. "You've become an internet junkie," she'll say. "What are you doing on the net, sonny? Watching porn? Yeah. Or having dirty conversations with old menwho're pretending to be women, no? Sonny, there's more to life. What? It is a writing website? Well, do you want to be like your dad? Dad's an evil man, sonny, do you want to be... and blah blah blah"... I don't need another dent in my already torn vest.

I'm veering off topic here. What I want to tell you is that though it's a sad thing, you're not the only one who's had his world turned upside down overnight. Sorry, buddy, but there are loads of others. And I don't even belong in that group. There are people for whom the simple act of breathing itself is torturous. My so called misery is absolutely nothing compared to the shit some people have to go through. I won't take any names here, but there's a female over here in India who's been raped every night for three years by her father. And by 'raped' I mean exactly that. What are my creaky bones compared to her pain? How can anyone rejuvenate a soul that wronged?

I'm veering off topic here, yet again. What I want to tell you is that I've had some shit in my life. Not a lot, but shit's shit.

And I lived. Many times I didn't want to. But I did, all right? I want to tell you one thing: it's all about survival. Nothing else really matters. I've lived without love, without friends, without any peace of mind, without dreams for a long time and even then my life is in no way different from that of every single other person on this planet. My small pain doesn't make me special or even different. I'm still just another nameless face in the group, all right?

What I'm thinking is that there has to be a reason why the packaging department of heaven.com shoved us all down on earth. There has to be a reason for our existence. And maybe if for nothing else, we've got to live for that reason alone. If there is no reason, what's the point in anyone's existence? If there's no reason, then maybe we should all just jump into the ocean. If all we're here for is to live and cry and smile and mate and have babies and die; if there isn't more to life, if our very living is pointless, then we should hang up our coats and our necks.

There's a reason why I didn't send you an email and put all this in a Journal entry instead. I think you know what that reason is.

I'll say it again: sleep well, friend. Sleep well.

<>

Later
Might seem like a sentimental thing to say, but they just cut the big mango tree I spent about one fourth of my childhood life in.

We used to hang around it a lot, that tree. Had our names carved on some of the branches once. Mine was a big thick branch which angled dangerously downwards. Loved to pluck raw mangoes (we call 'em 'kairis'--you know, green colored mangoes that taste a bit sour and yummy) and eat 'em.

They said it was creating a lot of mess on the ground and the birds who lived in it loved shitting on people.

We caught a dead snake at its roots once. Scared the hell out of the girls. It's a long story. Some other time.

I don't know why, but watching them tow that tree away made me think that somehow everything about my childhood is being systematically wiped out.

That maybe everything wants me to forget it.

And let me tell you, brothers and sisters, except for Granny's beatings and my disease (I had a fever almost every other week. Ditto stomachaches. Never had a headache, which is something of a wonder), I've had the kind of childhood most people wish they had. The friends, the days, the adventures (The Great Expedition To Ramji's Orchard To Steal Black Currants), the landscapes, the games, that feeling of owning the world, the jokes, the pranks (The Big Girl's Dorm Fireworks Caper, The Big Painting KC's Face Black With Kohl When He's Sleeping Project), the way everyone gathered around the one who'd bumped his nose and bled and broke his arm, and patted him on the back.

That tree was usually my hideout when we played Hide-n-Seek. I got caught almost every time once they knew about it, but the darn tree was worth it. You see, I get attached to things. Simple things. I get attached very easily. And if you think that's reason numero uno why I haven't made any real friends since school, you're right on spot. Letting go is a tough thing for me. Even though I've said what I said in the Post Script.

I remember I fell down once from that old tree. Broke a tooth. And cried. Not because I fell. It didn't even hurt a lot, except on my head, but because I never found that damn tooth. I cried because I'd just lost five rupees. That's what the tooth-fairy left me everytime I dropped a tooth. (And do you see all those 'money-minded' vibes grooving here? Money was on my mind even then, buddies.)

I remember scaring Ronnie with those spook stories in the night on that tree. Me narrating, Wally and Max providing sound effects. Ronnie had been scared all right. Begged one of us to drop her home. And I must say that that night I was the one who didn't sleep easy. I scared myself out. How freaky is that?

Oh, man. Why do I remember everything? I want to forget, all right? Maybe what's happening now is happening for the best.

I don't want to remember the past. It's too darn good. It's too unsettling. It makes me think about just how bad my life has become now and just how great it was once upon a time.

Can anyone give me a selective memory loss treatment? I'll do anything for you. Really.

RIP, The Great Mango Tree.

---Chimp.

PS: Found this in Amy's journal: To a friend's house, the road is never long.

Love you, Amy.

When You're Surrounded By Guilt And Fears,
A Fallen Angel Can See Your Tears

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"Time had a beginning, and therefore,
logically, it will have an end.
We weren't there when time began.
Nor will we be there to witness its end."
---- Stephen Hawkings

"At a higher altitude, with flag unfurled
We reach the dizzy heights of that dreamed of world..."
---- Pink Floyd, "High Hopes"


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