Mistaken Identity

“Today I woke up with pangs of clawing hunger. Not that I had forgotten any of the mundane endeavours that insist on making a social animal of you; but somehow something seemed amiss. I looked around the disheveled room, happy in it’s fragments of disorderliness, when a thought struck me. Bravo! There it was. Within it’s chaotic detail I could see reflected a part of me that simply wasn’t there. No sooner had this flaming red torch lit my mind, a sudden sadness (you know the kind I had become unaccustomed to) hit me. The cunning missile had found it’s mark and the entire morning found me strangely pensive.

By evening I had managed to convince myself about the precocious nature of such emotions, and having rid myself of their clinging presence, I sat in front of the Telly trying to gain some amusement out of it. Finally not reaching anywhere, I decided to switch the damn thing off.

A flood of emotions began to drown me and I lay immobile within its currents. Traces of my childhood forced themselves on amnesiac brain cells, hungering recall. Closing my eyes I noticed Papa playing with me and brother in the garden. Mama is nowhere in sight. Suddenly my mind recollected that Mama had never been there.

The smell of the newly blossomed roses makes me happy and I forget about Mama’s absence. I breathe the pinkness of the flowers, while Papa warns me to be careful about the thorns. Papa.

I had always loved the feel of Papa’s white scraggy beard against my soft tiny hands. Coming to think of it, contradictions always challenged my otherwise ordinary existence. For instance, when Jingu our tomcat disappeared into nowhere, I felt relieved instead of sad. Maybe it had not taken too kindly to staying within the safe confines of our home.

And how about the time when my class buddies were trying their best to impress the new maths teacher, Mrs. Khubchandani? I was laughing my little gut out, for having failed in her test paper. Maybe if I had not been…

Growing up to be a pig-headed, thick-skinned, myopic-visioned individual is a commendable task, but did I ever thump my back for it? I was too busy being all that, for that. I had skillfully picked up the art of never ever hearing, but forever wanting to be heard.

Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. The fluttering bird found a nest in my spirit and began teaching me to fly. Of course the student it chose was a tough cookie, and it almost gave up.

Marriage.

It made me cry, made me laugh. I cuddled it and played WWF within its circled ring, under harsh arc lights. It also reminded me at times of an elusive butterfly.

The game finally ended. There were no winners, no losers.

Looking at it from a distance, I think I punched myself out of the ring. No regrets about that. Just that, growing up is extremely painful.

Wish I could remain a child forever. Dad. He would keep warning me about the thorns, in the roses I held close to my heart, but as usual I had not heard him.

I am peaceful as I lie on my huge bed. Memories. They are fine as long as they do not thirst for your blood. Just like those goddamn mosquitoes who would, during our nights of togetherness and separateness.

Hey, by the way did I tell you that I have joined swimming classes? Maybe now I have less chances of drowning.

Jokes apart, let me tell you, you have been special. Even though you decided to drown alone.

No time for byes. Write back.”

It had been a tiring day. She clicked on the sign-in box. Has he replied, she wondered absently-mindedly?

The Inbox showed seven new messages. Junk. Too much of it around. A particular mail caught her attention. She opened it.

“Sorry, you have got the wrong person. This is Siddharth M. Have a confession to make. For the first time in my life I wish I was Siddharth N. instead …”