Tribute to the Professor

He struggled to sit down, and with a groan of pain, managed to finally do so, his slumped shoulders, shrunken with age and resignation, settling into the back cushion of the couch. He stretched out his aching long legs, indicative of the tall, broad-set man he once used to be. A man of the frontier, defeated by more than half a century of betrayal and shattered feelings, but too proud, like his ancestors, to admit it, he loved to reminisce about the brighter days. His still-twinkly eyes lit up with memories of the formidable Professor the world once knew, of the brother who swung a bat or two alongside his brothers in defense of honor, of the son who defied his family of businessmen and brought forth knowledge, protection and love to hundreds of students. As quickly as they lit up, however, his eyes would lower in the heaviness of debt he felt he owed the world with the slightest mention of his son. And then the sunken man was quiet, seeking temporary relief in the comfort of the couch, repenting silently on his own.

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Ram pulled up his rickety scooter alongside the comparatively enormous Tata Safari and I got off. I loved the bustling market area of the Cantt. As I took in the familiar cosmetic shops, chaatwalas and the oddly placed Levis showroom, I followed my wobbly nanaji through the narrow streets he knew blindfolded to the small photo studio where we had been earlier in the day to get a passport photo of me done. He walked in and was attended to without having said a word. I mistook it for the lovable small-town hospitality I adored. He received the tiny envelope from the owner and handed it to me without a second glance. I looked at the neat hand-writing on the envelope. "Professor Bhatia", it read. I smiled. Decades later, this humble old man was still the grand Professor to the Cantt.

Fan Fiction

As I trot unsteadily alongside the very familiar brown pants here, I can't help but wonder how it is that we manage to consistently and periodically get ourselves trapped in insane situations such as these. If it weren't for the Captain's leaky backpack again, I might have been distracted by that alley cat whose flashing tail has been appearing and disappearing on us since the second we got off the docks and entered this musty Arabian market on another wild-goose-chase. But instead, I find myself pondering the meaningless tiresome escapades that my human never ceases to dig his nose into. Sigh. Mark my words, I will be found at the end of teh day rescuing him yet again from the dungeons of whichever diabolical villain Tintin has been chasing this time. As for now, thank dog for heavenly drops of this Haddock whiskey.

The Crossing

Standing at the border, I glance back at all there was, and forward at all there would be. And I find myself at the stage at which I am ready to step over the line. But not alone; not this time. I couldn’t imagine the future without the one thing that got me where I stand today. 

This is no drug, though I am thoroughly addicted. It does not destroy me – rather, it redefines me. It breaks me down into my essence, my very atom, and rebuilds me up as a part of a woven matrix of two entangled journeys. It reinvents me as a part of a new combined entity rather than an individual. 

And what use is a new rediscovered happier life if it cannot be led? When every morsel of experience I uncover is further evidence of my incompletion without the missing part of me? Our paths did not cross; they united into one. And now I am forced to stand at this crossroads and wait to continue down this conjoined journey.

Lend me a hand, for I am crippled into dependence that I couldn’t live without anymore.