He.

He walks into his room, and smokes his last cigarette.
And sometimes he refuses to tolerate secondhand smoke, and loathes every evil smoker in the college.
He drinks daily for a couple of weeks, over constant hangovers to the point where he's impervious to hangovers, like a Superman impervious to bullets, while sometimes he becomes the guy who, out of a scrupulous conscience, keeps telling the world that drinking is too unethical, and one should abstain.

He's the guy who thinks he was born for girls, he looks into the mirror combing his hair and thinks that "Bachna e haseeno " is the song for him, and that he stands a terribly good chance in his college since he's way much cool than his batchmates, so he interacts, sometimes to know how equally terrible the girls are, and sometimes not.
The other times he's the guy who thinks girls in his college are too ugly to look at, and too dumb to talk to, and that he can't care less about his image among them.

At times, very rarely, but certainly, he's the ultimate loser of his batch, he is laughed at and joked about, both overtly and covertly, and he knows what people think about him. So he withdraws, and so he has no friends. Only the kind-hearted talk to him with apparent respect, but he senses it's mere pity and nothing else.
Yet, he's never lonely, only alone.
Yet, there are moments when he's the happiest and the most beautiful man on earth.
And sometimes he's the ultimate hero, the face that you all know, recognize, like and respect. He's a good man, people say. But deep inside he's only an ordinary guy with an extraordinary image. There are times when he's not alone, but very lonely, times when his self-conceit is shattered, times when he is taken for granted, and times when he feels like he's good for nothing.

He's the loser within every hero.
He's the hero within every loser.

He's sometimes the guy who's least interested in politics, either because he thinks the whole game is totally worthless, or because he's too busy and content in his own world. So he yawns during the elections, becomes the public, the janta, and is coaxed into voting for someone or the other.(because rarely does he think about who's deserving and who's not, rarely he cares.)
Otherwise, he's the guy who enters politics to see what it feels like. Sometimes he discovers and unleashes the neta within, and the desire for power makes him do things he sometimes doesn't want to, so he masks his contempt and smiles at everyone. He jumps into the morass, and perfectly plays the dirty game.
At other times, when he loses his nerve, when he suddenly discerns he's become somebody he's not, he either becomes impassive, or withdraws when he begins to believe he must stay out of it, or else he'll lose his mind.

He's the person who believes academics is the only thing worth excelling in, that he must not lose the purpose of coming to college, and that he must not stray off the right track that he's constantly reminded of by his parents, so he unfailingly and regularly studies, and tries to maintain a decent pointer. Seldom he's genuinely and passionately interested in designing circuits or thinking up algorithms.
Otherwise he's the guy who knows he can never be an engineer, that there just isn't a technical side to him, so he pursues his interests, plays his guitar, reads books, or is hugely into sports. He wants a decent pointer too, but such is his utter lack of interest, that he only studies to pass.

A part of him believes that friendship is the real deal in life, and his priority is the people he loves, and the people who love him.
Another part of him is annoyed by emotions, and thinks sentimentality is counter-productive and kaminapanti isn't morally offensive, so he does what he wants to. Often the two parts are engaged in a constant battle, and usually, they coexist inside him.

He's most often the guy who believes there's something different about him that nobody else has, who dreams of fame and success he presumes he deserves, of atleast a decent placement, and there are times when he's utterly hopeless about his future, and thinks he's living a screwed up life. Despair sends him down deep into a sea of thoughts, until he emerges a confident and self-respecting man once again.

He's worried, he's relaxed.
Envious, proud. Observant, ignorant. Boasting, humble. Religious, rational. Conceited, modest. Simple, sophisticated. Confused, certain.
Realist. Escapist.
Good, evil.

Within him lies a sea of secrets, emotions, memories, desires, questions, confusions, and his own theories on life, love, friendship and sex.
See him, and you will know how awe-inspiring he is.
Ask him, and he always has a unique story to tell.

He's a man in the making.

He's somewhere in you, and you are somewhere in him.

Chocolates and Cigarettes

(This story isn't just for tender-hearted sentimentalists, as it might appear to some after reading a part.
It's for anyone who believes in friendship.
It's for anyone who cares to read it.)
________________________________________________


The teacher turned towards the blackboard, and then suddenly swivelled back to face the class.

History had just fired the imagination.

This time, the teacher had a doubt.

“Suppose the British or the Americans are ruling us today, and the Swadeshi is revived, would you be ready to use everything Indian and boycott every imported brand.?”

Yes, he thought.

"Yes, everything except First World porn ! ", he uttered, only within earshot of his partners.

A corner of the classroom giggled.
The amusement dispersed through the class. Like ink in water.

Atleast every boy agreed.
(Maybe some girls agreed too.)

That was his first day at school, the day he had come late and taken the only empty bench at the back, beside Aaryan. It was the day they, he and Aaryan, had instantly jelled with each other, the day he had told him, somewhere in a conversation about food, that he loved chocolates. “So girlish !”, Aaryan had remarked. What had ensued was a heated argument between the both, and he’d manoeuvred the discussion, and had ultimately convinced him about the absurdity of his remark.

“The world can’t decide how a man ought to be. Only the man can”, he had concluded, theatrically.

On that very first day, friendship had grown between the two like a flower that almost suddenly bursts into bloom, and smiles back at the sun.
Human Nature at its best.


It was also the day they both would reminisce, years later, first with utter fondness, and then with utter despair.

____________________________________

He and Aaryan became, only to put it very simply, best friends.

The kind of friends who borrow things without asking.
Who share secrets, without saying, “Don’t tell anyone”.
Who gossip about the other guys, without a lick of shame.
Who don’t say hollow things to each other.
Who become each other’s psychologists.

The kind of friends who deeply, secretly, cherish the friendship.

Who become a part of the heart and the soul. Never to be forgotten.

They say sometimes all you need in life is a background music. So that you could listen to that music when all the sounds died.

Their friendship, became that music.

____________________________________

Also on that very first day, Aaryan had told him what he loved. Cigarettes.

He’d been a bit shocked, but had suddenly confessed that he wanted to try.
“Only try”, he had said. “I don’t want my life to go up in smoke”.

This time they didn’t have an argument.

And the next day they had gone, after school, and he had had his first fag.
His first ‘headrush’.
Aaryan had been amazed, to see him smoking like a smoker, only after he had momentarily choked at the first attempt. It was then that Aaryan had enlightened him on the history of smoking, told him that smoking had started as a religious practice, by many civilisations who believed the tobacco smoke was capable of taking one’s thoughts to heaven.

“The hell with statutory warnings ”, Aaryan had said. “I’ll smoke my way to heaven ! ”.

The day after, they had gone again. And since then, there hadn’t been a day they hadn’t smoked.

Not one that they could remember.

____________________________________

One day when Aaryan had come to his house, he had seen him loll on a lounge, with eyes closed, wearing his earphones, and lazily chewing something.

Like a man who couldn’t care less about life.

Aaryan had gone up to him, swiftly and carefully, and punched him lightly in the stomach.

“What’s up, Daydreamer ! ”, he had said, to a startled face, which had the expression of a saint whose meditation had just been interrupted.

Aaryan had learned that day, though he had already guessed, that it was his peculiar way of relishing the savour of chocolate, with good music and a reclined pose.

“I read chocolate has the mood-enhancing chemicals found in marijuana ! ”, he had said. That day he had discerned, that Aaryan had never known the taste of a real chocolate, and he had told him that he knew he must have only had Dairy Milk in his life, and had made him try more exotic chocolates. And that day Aaryan had developed a taste, and had eventually grown fond of chocolates as much as his friend.

____________________________________

And so, over the three years during which they finished school, friendship developed between the two like a third person.

Someone extraordinary.
The Friendship Man.

HE (the Friendship Man) was someone who kept them together, or rather, who made them want to be together.

Because only the choices were different.
He. Aaryan.
Hill-stations. Beaches.
Keyboard. Guitar.
Romanticism. Rebellion.

HE had the bones of trust.
The flesh of intimacy.
And the soul of love and friendship.

Time nourished HIM, so that HE could survive.
But HE grew on two things.

Chocolates and cigarettes.

____________________________________

Yet, there was nothing in their lives that you could tell from, or no signs that you could read and say, that there would come a time, when suddenly, there would be nothing there to say......

____________________________________

School finally got over, like a long but interesting chapter, and life turned to a new page. He, Aaryan, and even their other friends, scored ranks of almost an equal level of decency, but went to different colleges.

As though the hand of fate had played an unfair part, picked each one and thrown him to a different corner of the country, only to scatter what was once a group.

So nostalgia was felt for the first time in life, with a sad tinge of homesickness, but now the air was fraught with enthusiasm, suffused with a sense of independence and freedom, and hostel life was embraced, as it revealed itself to be, to quote Aaryan, “totally rocking”.

“The way you can smoke, drink, dance, study, not study, and enjoy anytime, or all the time”, to quote him. “And the way your friends can’t go to pee alone, after a late-night horror movie.!”

They discussed about their colleges over phone, about ragging, about how cigarette stubs lay scattered in seniors’ rooms, like killed insects’ carcasses, about daaru parties that sometimes culminated into ugly vomit competitions, and about how they were virtually(and sadly) no girls.

They told each other about how they had finally started drinking, after getting over all the scruples that kept popping in the head whenever they tried. And they both agreed, that the right way was to drink till you were completely high, and stoned out.

“There’s no point in drinking only till you’re tipsy, and then not going ahead.” , he had said.

“Yeah, agreed”, Aaryan had said. “It’s like sex without an orgasm !”.

____________________________________

Somewhere along, things didn’t remain the same.

The change in Aaryan’s attitude had been inconspicuous till now, but it soon started to surface, gradually, and insidiously. He could notice it in Aaryan, from the way he talked, from the way he only discussed about himself and then insisted on hanging up.

The way Aaryan now seemed to be a different personality, suddenly egotistic and self-conceited. A spark of narcissism. Aaryan started avoiding calls, and never calling back or replying to his messages. Sometimes he would respond, and then would just say he had been busy, and that there were ‘other things in life’. Yet, he would be faced by a barrage of questions by his friend, to tell him whether something was wrong, to explain what had happened.

Sometimes they would argue, and sometimes Aaryan would just say sorry, like people say ‘ok’ or ‘bye’, making sorry sound like a monosyllabic word, like ‘yes’ or ‘no’, without the faintest semblance of guilt, or any other expression.

It’s true.
People change.
Unarguably. Unexplainably.
And apparently, unreasonably.
And suddenly you don’t know them, or understand them.

____________________________________

First year got over, things were packed, and hostel rooms vacated, like prisoners out on a two month leave, to get back to their home-sweet-homes, where families earnestly waited for them.

By reading Aaryan’s online status, he got to know he was back home too. They hadn’t talked for months. Sentimentality had entered their friendship, to salvage what was left, to somehow revive it, but in vain, until Aaryan had said that he was “sick of it”. And since then, he had never called back Aaryan.

Back home, he decides, to try for the last time to talk to him, ignoring how wide the chasm between them had grown.

He takes the stairs, gets to his flat, and rings the doorbell.
Aaryan opens the door , sees him, and almost instinctively says, “Oh fuck.”, and slams the door.
“Open the door, Aaryan !. I thought we’d be in touch. !!” , he says.
“What’s the fucking point !”, Aaryan shouts back.

Yes, after all, what’s the fucking point.

And so, he goes back, never to return. But he leaves something behind, on the stairs that take one to the next floor.
A chocolate and a cigarette, that he had brought with himself.

Aaryan comes out after a while, when he’s sure he has left, and sees them. Kept on the stairs, they look quite odd to him.

A Bournville. A Classic.

As though there was some odd, funny conventional way to consume them both together.
Take a bite, and then have a puff.

And that day, someone dies.

The Friendship Man.
Emaciated by the wait.
Chocolates-and-cigarettes-starved.
Slowly.
Silently.
Stifled to death, by Human Nature itself.

____________________________________

There are times when you wish you had a true friend. And so, sometime later, Aaryan did realize the preposterousness of what he had done, he suddenly felt the full sting of the guilt. But he never contacted him.

Perhaps sometimes it is really too late.
He always thought someday he will make up to his friend, gather the courage to talk to him.

Yes ofcourse, life goes on.

And as time passed, feelings got lost somewhere deep inside the crevices of the heart.
Like small things in big storerooms, never to be found, consumed by dust and darkness.
Like unread books, they gather dust, and they camouflage with the shelves, as though not wanting to be read.

Since they both knew they inordinately indulged in chocolate-eating and smoking, they had both once thought they would die of either diabetes or cancer.
Now they would never know, what the other died of.

The chocolate and the cigarette are still there with Aaryan. Kept safely.
The diabetes in a slab.
The cancer in a roll.

The relics of Friendship Man.

____________________________________

Two friends.
Two things they couldn’t live without. Chocolates and cigarettes.

Only two things. And ofcourse, each other.

They really would have given up everything for their country, like nationalists. Everything except First World porn.
That was how much they were smitten with the foreign babes.

Do they miss each other?
The only thing worth saying is that the memory remains, vivid and alive.

Like a scar on the face.

Though, in the mind, it gets pushed back along the stack, slowly.
But sometimes they remember each other, sometimes the ghost of Friendship Man comes to visit them, to conjure up the past, and take them back in time, and then to desert them there, leaving them everytime with a different proportion of feelings.
Sometimes happiness with a tinge of sadness. Sometimes sadness with a tinge of happiness.

Happiness, that it happened, that a friendship existed, free of reason.
Sadness, that it didn’t last, because things were only thought and never done, feelings only felt and never expressed, and that someone was loved but never told he was loved.

Love.
The only thing worth living for.

___________________________________________

(The End)