Eng104 Personal Essay_ishaan Arora.docx

Ishaan Arora Prof Anirban Ghosh ENG104: Academic Writing 11th February, 2019

Of Moments or Frames; Of Composition; A Monochrome Bouquet

The bouquet of flowers had as if withered altogether in an instant. Maniacal laughter resounded in the distance as I held that grey bouquet in my hand (for one, you had to have been there to believe it). She’d been standing gawking… wait, had it been so? To keep things moving along at a steady pace and in order to avoid further digression, let’s just say she’d stood gawking right at me and almost as shell-shocked. Shattered, humiliated, and hung out to dry, I’d gathered myself across from the florist’s, where those once white lilies had been bought merely a quarter of an hour earlier. As an auto-rickshaw entered my field of vision, my feet slowly yet surely started moving towards the transport and boarded it with a sense of purpose which seemingly only they’d been privy to; and took me along for the ride. The busy marketplace drifted away into the distance with the howling cacophony of the vehicle’s engine drowning out any sound emanating from those wretched grounds. The cold backdraft blowing in from the sides; colder than the nature of cruelty I’d been subjected to by the towering monstrosity of the man who’d been revelling in hilarity at my expense (and again not to stray, we’ll get back to him later), kept me awake, though not fully aware of what I’d been experiencing.

Aakanksha and I had known each other for three years prior to the incident. We’d met at a spelling bee of all places and that too one, at a school out in the middle of nowhere. Having hit it off from the get-go, our respective digits found new homes in each other’s contact lists as the hours at this school, situated near long abandoned mines, came to a close. Talking for hours at a time and at length, about nothing and everything, all at once had come as naturally to us as breathing. Incessantly in each other’s ear. The marketplace (another abandoned mine, as I would later come to realise) had been where she’d taught me to soar in smoke and drink. It’d been where, over the course of a sunny afternoon, on a bench kept inside a small park in the centre of this (now, overly referenced) marketplace she’d taken me by surprise and made me succumb to pleasures, the likes of which I’d only been a recipient of, once before. A year it was, that is, if I remember correctly. A year older. I’d been of the age of thirteen and her… well, you get the point. Engaging in unrestricted debauchery or partaking in the consumption of the fruits of life, call it what you will. I know we rationalised it any way we deemed fit and speaking for the both of us, those had been great, carefree times rest assuredly. Though, despite everything that’d been going right, the cracks were going to arise. The bouquet was as though starting to loom (still far off into the future) over me.

Unfortunately, an arrangement had to be put in place, she’d told me. Unchartered waters were dangerous, she’d informed me. After all, the lamb would be happy to do as his shepherd commanded and the shepherd would do as she pleased. While seated on the same bench, as the tangy, flavourful scent of freshly made Shwarmas made its way from the shop to my nostrils; causing my stomach to grumble, I waited in silence for judgement to be brought down. The craving in my mind for both, the dish and what the arrangement had in store (barring, of course

the consequences) had been the same. It were as if I’d inadvertently donned on blinkers for the sizzling meat; her soft flesh. As the terms delineated, to the best of my recollection, our problems would still be each other’s. Our minds, bodies and company too. And yet, we were never supposed to develop any feelings, other than those of camaraderie and platonic affection, towards one another. Under no circumstances was this diktat to be disobeyed by either. Lust had then been calling the shots. Naturally, I agreed. Neither had I the slightest intention of losing a friend, nor had I wanted to break the pact (selfish wanton would be to blame), at least earlier on. Birthdays, celebrations and most days across a period of two years alike, spent smoking green, breezed past us without a hitch (though, upon closer inspection, I now feel that a rift might have made itself known to my oblivious self). Our common interests, which included many more than I’d have you believe, kept us occupied.

January sunlight bathing her pale, supple skin as each of us takes turns to photograph the (senseless) runners (we thought) on Amrita Shergill Marg, in the best possible light. My memory informs me that, the above was one of the happiest ones. Memories, that is. Our stomachs hurting beyond the realm of plausibility, as a cause of the unrequited antics the two of us had been engaged in; the children. I know this to be true yet I can’t actually recall it ever happening. All that I can actually picture, is that perfectly cemented cold, grey road. Grey as the bouquet which lay abandoned on the ground, in the marketplace.

Abhijeet, who for some a hunk and others, an ape had been a charming individual overall. Though a tad bit elitist, he’d been an acquaintance of mine and eventually a friend (and later he’d come to be so, only on that occasion, to my dismay). Photography and moments (photographs)

brought us together all the while bringing me closer to his wide array of glimmering, sleek lenses. Hours spent fiddling with those; making trouble. Capturing sights. Growing comfortable; familiar. The school’s backstage had been our playground. Exposure, white balance, contrast: learning to wield the dials with an unparalleled mastery (at least upon comparison to my earlier self). I thought I’d mentioned we were schoolmates. What can I say, it’s as if an ever-present filter clouds my judgement.

As these years crept and kept closing in on the incident, the three of us through some malicious scheme of the universe, became mutually acquainted. Over the course of the last year leading up to the aforementioned (tiringly so) incident (talk about beating a dead horse), I’d grown more and more attached to her. Could it be that any and all observations on my side, of Abhijeet and her getting closer had been blocked later on, or had I even registered them in the first place? Alas I digress, once again. That’s not important. One fine day when I couldn’t take it anymore I asked Abhijeet whether she’d be more open to my finally asking her, asking her for commitment. Abhijeet, to my surprise, had laid down information which, stylistically (in accordance with my sensibilities at that time) resembled a path. A forest path covered by canopies. A path to realising my wildest fantasies. He’d even informed me that she’d be taking Tesoro (Aakanksha’s Labrador) to the dog spa on Valentine’s Day. What a horrendous concept for a day of celebration. So I headed down to that dreaded market on that ill-fated day well before time. Bought the biggest bouquet of white lilies money could buy (well, the money I had on me could buy, anyways). I spent over two hours patiently waiting in her wake, and when she did arrive I lunged into action. I approached her with the calmness of a pelican looking for its prey in the water. Producing the flowers from behind my back I remember having said the following: “From

the moment I met you at that spelling bee all those years ago, I have cherished you. And I can’t stand being away from you. No matter what I’m going through somehow… somehow thinking of you made it all better. So, would you do me this favour and make it like this for as long as I can foresee? I have loved you, still do and always will.” She froze and before she could gather herself and start to speak, I turned my head to face the direction from which loud cackling could be heard only to see Abhijeet, who responded, “I got you so bad. How could you have not seen this coming? She’s with me, you fucking idiot!” No, no. Sorry, I apologise. It has to be slightly tweaked to be true to life. It went exactly like what I have stated above except for the second sentence in Abhijeet’s response. Unconscious addition. Conscious retraction. The only words that entered my mind at that time had been No. No. No, no, no… And the rest are but frames for you to conjure up.