It Is Not Late i
Publishing-in-support-of, EDUCREATION PUBLISHING RZ 94, Sector - 6, Dwarka, New Delhi - 110075 Shubham Vihar, Mangla, Bilaspur, Chhattisgarh - 495001 Website: www.educreation.in Copyright, Author All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, optical, chemical, manual, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent of its writer. ISBN: 978-1-61813-323-6 Price: ` 334.00 The opinions/ contents expressed in this book are solely of the author and do not represent the opinions/ standings/ thoughts of Educreation. Printed in India ii
It Is Not Late A Novel By Professor Gold EDUCREATION PUBLISHING (Since 2011) www.educreation.in iii
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It is for those who feel proud to walk beside their Partner* *And for those who don t. v
If you watch close, History does nothing but repeat itself. What we call chaos is just patterns we haven t recognized. What we call random is just patterns we can t decipher. What we can t understand, we call non-sense. What we can t read, we call gibberish. Chuck Palahniuk, Survivor. vi
It Is Not Late Chapter 01 P Life and Times of the Special-Me When you want to be special for more than one person, it s a curse: it can leave you none s special. It is the story of how I became none s special. I, the special edition, came into being, when my Dad decided to remarry. The first wife of my Dad died out of a small 30 gram tumour inside her brain. The 30gram let my 30-year-old Dad be alone for ten years. He led a lifeless life for a decade. Exactly, on his fortieth birthday, he encountered another death: this time, his best friend died. My Dad attended the funeral procession, also a condolence meeting. He witnessed hundreds of people being sad. All the family members of the deceased slightly-swollen wife, slightlygrown son, slightly-matured daughter and fully-unsatisfi ed concubine were squatting and crying over the corpse. My Dad thought of just one question: who will squat and cry for me, over my dead body? The next Saturday, my Dad found a seventeen-year-old girl, who would squat and cry over his dead body. Exactly. She is my mom. This is how my life started. After being with my parents for more than twenty years, I realised just one fact: they both are not special to each other, at all. Their marriage life is such a failure. 1
Professor Gold Yet, I am special for both of them. What made me special was a News column in a Newspaper. I was hardly fourteen years old. My name was almost in all the regional papers. I was the First. The News column had a long title: The fi rst child in the State, to get cured from Autism Spectrum Disorder. Doctors gave so many other names for the disease, but I can recollect only this, now. It is the first ever encounter with a patient like him, A doctor told Dad. From that day, I never became first in anything, till now. I never cared too. I feel embarrassed only when others treat me as a Special Child. When others know your weakness, they will have a look in their face. A terrible look. The only thing I am always scared of. Friend, please never have the look in your face. Dad and Mom never had the look, for any of my mischief. I did: drooling, biting others, crayoning the walls, using filthy words, walking alone in streets naked, dialling someone s number and laughing as soon they pick the call. I did all these things. But I stopped, even before I became fourteen. People used to call me as weird, abnormal and troublesome. They are stupids, they are biased and they are right. But I became quite normal, proving them wrong. When I was able to write, Dad never asked me to speak, instead he used to write and demanded me to always write back. My room was filled with sticky notes, in different colours for different emotions. In course of time, I started behaving like others and started being okay but never stopped writing. Maybe writing made me normal. Who knows? Thanks, to Indian education system. It never demands a student to speak. All my board exams had theories. Even in 2
It Is Not Late the name of Practical, I was asked to write the parts of flowers, before dissecting. I was asked to write the Palindrome Programme, before running it in Computer screen. Language seemed a piece of cake for me, just because of the writing drills given by dad. Writing is a therapy and I am the testimony. I stammer, when I force myself to speak. I stammer, when you force me to speak. I stammer, even when I try hard to speak. I stammer, when I have nothing to speak. Stammering is the only fossil left in my body, as a leftover of the disease. But I never stammered, speaking with my Dad. I never speak with anyone else, unless I have something to speak. Is it weird? Is it abnormal? Is it troublesome? Now, I have something to speak with you. And, I trust you. That s why I decided to tell you my story. Of course, a love story. It s not a cooked up story and you can be sure of that. It is for you. It may make you hate me. It may make you hate Love itself. But please be patient and just listen. Now, you are the only one I have. I beg you, my friend, never consider me as a Special Child. I don t want you to know where I live. Because, I can never face those who know me completely. After listening to my story, you will know me completely. Please don t try to follow me, my friend. I am an Indian. I live somewhere in India. You know my place very well. You will find me, if I give one minute detail about my place. So, I am not going to. Please forgive me for that. I don t want you to follow me. I can tell only that my city can be the noisiest city of India. A voiceless person from the noisiest city. Here is my story. A special boy, telling a more special story. But... again I tell you, Please... Never have the look in your face. The Terrible Look. 3
Professor Gold My Dad is a librarian. But he never wants to be introduced this way. He is an Atheist and can deconstruct each and every superstition practised in any religion. He hates Mom. I could tell that through his expressions and conversations with her. Mom, in the other hand, prays every street God, shrine God, even pseudo Gods. She often says, The divine Above- Head saves three of us and provides us with abundance of everything. What is Above-Head for Mom is Below-Feet for Dad, somewhere in the middle for me. I completed Under Graduation in a college which is well-known for the department of English Language and Literature. Dad asked me to pursue MA in the same institution. He claimed that it is better than any other college in our vicinity. Being the son of a librarian has its own perks: parents surely know what is better for us. They really do. It was the first day of the third semester and I had one more year to complete Post Graduation. I was there with my bike, at a Petrol Bunk, in a queue to fill in the tank. It was a busy morning. Honking sounds of angry vehicles. Hilarious screams of sleepless passengers. Horrible shouts of irritated traffic policemen. I had a talisman tied by Mom around my wrist. For every new beginning she ties a talisman, in different colours. Blue is her favourite, as her favourite god is Lord Rama. I know that she is not the only person to have favourites, among gods. I had been asking for a particular bike from Dad for more than six months. KTM Duke. But Dad kept on showing the list of accidents in the city. He hates Duke in particular, having no specific reason. Being the son of a Librarian has its own drawbacks: parents think that they surely know what is better for us. They really don t. Dad bought me Pulsar 150, finally. I was somewhat 4
It Is Not Late satisfied. With that Pulsar, I pulsated to the Petrol Bunk, where I was moving forward in the queue, opposite to a bus stop. I still craved for the Duke. I was wearing a saffron-coloured shirt, over a sandalcoloured Denim trousers. It matched well, or so I thought. Obviously, the blue talisman didn t go with the other colours over me. I was one of those guys who take bags to college. A black American Tourister. All good things happen, whenever I have it with me. A good thing was waiting across the road, I never knew. The look I had been talking about. The terrible look. People had that look in their face, looking at a girl. Thank Gosh! They were not looking at me. The girl was wearing green-salwar Kameez. Maybe, her salwar kameez was torn. I thought. Closing the lid of my bike s petrol tank, I looked at her. It was heaven. Heaven across the road. Chocolate-dipped, bee-like eyes. Perfectly trimmed eye-brows. Wheatish-yellow complexion. Well-glossed lips. Ears plugged with white coloured earphone. And a Greencolour Salwar Kameez covered her. I am not a Monk and she is not a Mermaid. Yet I couldn t notice anything other than that. I knew at that moment itself, she is the one. I felt like I won all the heavy weight championships. I felt like I have never lost anything in my life. I have never felt anything like that before. I knew, she is the one. Thank Gosh! She was standing with one of my neighbours, named Catty. My friends know Catty, by name and by size. They once told that Catty has pointed breasts. I was not in a mood to check whether it is pointy or blunt, as I couldn t take my eyes away from my Greeny. Others in the bus stop grinned at my Greeny, laughed at and talked about her, having the terrible look in their face. 5
Professor Gold Greeny was less cared or bothered about them. Maybe, she got used to it. Does she have any disease like I have? Why others have the terrible look in their face? I couldn t spot anything negative on her. Salwar Kameez was not torn, too. Then why? Greeny is an epitome of Beauty. Everyone in the bus stop spoke about and laughed at her, for a few minutes. Then, the boys in the bus stop started checking out the pointy thing hanging stiffly in Catty s façade. The girls in the bus stop were doing their eternal duty of adjusting their dress. In a few more seconds, sorrows and pressures of those boys and girls took over them effortlessly. How long they can laugh at Greeny s sorrow? How long they can check out Catty s pointer? They have their own sorrows to suffer. Life tears down everyone, irrespectively. But why did everyone look at Greeny, like that? I had to go to college, but I followed what my heart said. Follow the bus. I followed her College Bus. It took me to the outskirts of the city and left me oblivious to others. I could see Catty, getting down from the bus, in front of their college gate. I checked for the name Catty, my neighbour, in my Phone s Contact List. I dialled. Catty s phone rang so aloud that it was audible for me. She hastily searched for the phone inside her bag and picked it at once. What a surprise, Man. First time ever you re calling me. Isn t? Oh Catty, do you have my number? You too never called me. I told, wanting not the pleasantries. Man, you are the only one who calls me Catty. My name is Catherine. You don t like me calling that way? Not like that. You are always special. Call me whatever you want. Was Catty fl irting with me? No way. We both used to play together when we were kids. Catty knows 6
It Is Not Late me well. Once I was eleven and Catty was much younger, I poured a bottle of urine all over her body. She cried and complained it to my Mom, while I was refilling the bottle. Catty might have forgot the incident. Hmm by the way, how is Mom? Does she still remember the urine bath? Mom is okay as always. But I am not. I bit my tongue. What? What happened to you? While speaking with Catty over phone, I was looking for my Greeny. But she was missing. I wanna speak with you about her. I was biting my nails. Who is that her? The one who was with you in the bus stop. The Green one. Who is she? Catty turned her expressions and went grave. Girls hate speaking positively about other girls with a boy. Catty started talking about my Greeny. Her name, her native, her relationship with Catty. I listened to every syllable peacefully. Man. She started coming to college very recently. Her past is so cruel. But she is so innocent. Why are you asking? Does anyone love her? She finished her long lecture on my Greeny. Why is Catty asking so many questions? I must have poured urine inside her mouth. Yeah. One friend, loves her. Just update, any information, about her. I spoke like a student during Parents Meeting: Bits and Pieces. Will call you back. See-ya. I cut the call and went back home, thinking of My Greeny. What happened to my Greeny? What s her past? Why did everyone look at her in that way? How could Greeny manage to be so cool, when others looked at her in that way? She was a mystery. I love the mystery. I could empathise with her, because I usually get the terrible look, whenever I speak with someone. All those 7
Professor Gold who stammer get that look. Life tore down both of our lives: The Mystery Girl s and Mine. I didn t get a Duke, though I craved for it; but I got my Duchess, unexpectedly. Love happens, in unexpected moments. Marriage can be arranged, but love can never be. I wanted to know more about my Greeny. That day, I missed the toughest class, Aptitude Analysis, a Non-Major Elective, offered by the Department of Mathematics. They taught Pie-diagram and some shapes. My friends told. I was not in a mood to learn about circle or square. I missed what was actually taught; but I found what was truly mine. If my life is portrayed in a Pie diagram, the majority of it will be Green in colour. Oh my Gosh! I forgot to tell you. Green-coloured dresswearing girl is Abi. Green filled my life. Green is Abi. Abi, the one who suffers inside. For what reason, I had no answer. Life tears down everyone, but it shows the way for the tailor shop too. I found my tailor. Her name is Angelin Abitha, a god-fearing Christian, voracious reader, perfect match. I know for sure that she is the one who would squat and cry over my dead body. My Duchess. My Tailor. My Above-head. Everyone calls her as Angel. I am the only one who calls her as Abi. Just to make it less-christian. For which, she once said, No one calls me by this name, you are the only one. You are different and you re Special. When you want to be special for more than one person, it s a curse: it can leave you none s special. W 8
It Is Not Late Chapter 02 P Second Plot Once, at least once, everyone comes to realise the fact that Life is just a task of fi nding the meaning of metaphors one comes across. Everything has a meaning. But, knowing the meaning takes Time. Taking time is what exactly Zarath does Zarath is a person that everyone wants to know about. But from where he has come? Not so long before, one Ashok Leyland truck reaches a darkness-blanketed Bihar National Highway. It carries a fifty ton e-wastage, to be dumped in the underdeveloped states of India. The truck driver drives alone, as he prefers to be. Every lorry driver loves to cross a particular place, called Second Plot, which is located at the Bihar Highway. The area is well-known among lorry drivers of all states, but locals never know. The driver spots a torch light, lit and waved toward the truck, twenty-feet away from the Highway. The driver is not dumb enough to move away from the spot, without understanding the signal. He knows it: maybe, he has been waiting for the signal. Second Plot is known only for this signal. His hefty shoulder assures his muscular body. The truck is stopped abruptly. Half-sleeved khaki shirt spreads over his Viking Brand vest. 9
Professor Gold Before removing his pants, the driver takes a lungi, which has been kept under the seat. The lungi s condition shows that it has been used many times, but not washed. A Gold Flake Cigarette is lit and the other lights are put off, as he gets down, to speak in Hindi with an unacceptable accent. The way the driver speaks vouches that it is not his first time to be there, at the Second Plot. He walks into the darkness, taking deeper puffs of Gold Flake, adjusting his lungi. As he has expected, a woman in saree, with two young girls, is waiting for him, having given the signal with the torch light. As if choosing a dress in a showroom, the driver checks out both the girls standing beside the woman. One is tall and the other one is short. The woman is standing between them. Just four of them are standing. No talking at all. Not-so-over-weighted, not-so-puny, not-so-plump: the features of the shortie attract the driver more. The scrutinizing eyes of the elderly woman figure out whom the driver is interested in. She signals the shortie to take over him, in a not-so-casual, not-so-jovial and not-so-threatening way. Like a sales executive asks customers to use Trial Room, the aged woman shows his way with a grin. The grin demands three hundred rupees. He obliges and the money, given. It is a rumour that the woman in saree is the mother of those two school girls and she has recently lost her husband in an accident. No one knows whether it is true or not. But this news makes their business a profitable one. The driver thinks, mostly, rumours create markets. The swollen market costs him three hundred rupees. He wraps the shortie with his arms and takes her to the place, which has been shown. It is a dilapidated hotel, where tables and a few utensils are still there. A long wooden table is used for this Business, for which Body is the only investment. Only now, the driver has realised that he hasn t taken what he should have taken. He has left it in the truck itself. 10
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