Connaught Place And Murakami

Books have fascinated him, he always wondered, something which you think cannot happen may happen in the world of books, and the way you want. In his childhood, he used to sleep on the lap of his grandmother listening to fairy tales; in his teens, he avoided outdoor activities and befriended with Malgudi instead. He laughed at Khushwant’s fart jokes, his favorite and humorous short story, till date remains, ‘the bottom pincher’. It flabbergasted him, how can a person so confidently and daringly write fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and do impeccable translations. To him, his books were the world – its underworld or over world didn’t excite him much.

He is Ishaan, an avid and assiduous reader. He comes from the heart of India, the populated and messy political epicenter, Delhi. 24 years old Ishaan did his graduation in journalism from Delhi University and after completing his graduation he’s working as a content writer with a Digital Marketing firm.

Ishaan, after work, loves to explore Delhi; it’s his favorite time – to observe, to smell, to breathe its polluted air, and to consume Delhi. He can be found maundering in the lanes of Jor Bagh, cutting through the crowds in Connaught Place to visit G-57 (where he buys the best of second hand books at cheap prices from Jain Uncle), and rummaging over the paintings in the National Gallery of Modern Art. What a fancy boy, right?

Unlike his colleagues, Ishaan believes after office as well that it’s your day which is still left to be lived the way you want to. Saturday’s and Sunday’s don’t have a duopoly for fun and meeting friends. It just takes a push. So he makes it a point to go out every day.

It’s 24th of March 2018 and he’s excited to visit a feminist bookstore in South Delhi who is giving handsome discounts on latest feminist literature books. Ishaan calls Uber to visit the bookstore. Travelling from West Delhi, Ishaan is stuck in a messy traffic, getting irritated as it’s 7:30 already and the bookstore will shut by 8 PM, he requests the cabbie to cancel the ride at nearby metro station and boards a metro to Rajiv Chowk.

It’s not the first time that he randomly decides to visit anywhere or to change his plans in an instant. It’s because of this nature he doesn’t really go out with a lot of friends, as he knows he’s even a misfit in the world of his own creation.

After getting down at Metro Gate Exit 7 and having a fag before the Fab India Outlet, he is making his way to his favourite spot, G-57, Jain Uncle to browse through some books. He has got a collection of amazing books yet he buys 4-5 almost every alternate day. It’s just an insatiable need for him to be surrounded by books when he sleeps. “Till now, only two sidewalls are covered with books.” – this is how he justifies to his folks when questioned.

As he’s browsing through a few books, a guy comes and stands very near to him and asks Jain Uncle for books by Murakami. While Jain Uncle was busy helping others, he offered to help this guy and points him to the book at the bottom of the pile, “That there, third from the bottom, it’s by Murakami.”

Ishaan got irritated when he learned that the guy in yellow T doesn’t know that ‘Kafka on the Shore’ isn’t written by Franz Kafka himself. But the guy was a conversationalist; he kept on asking questions exhibiting signs of genuine inquiry. And, Ishaan felt his duty as a reader to help him. Weird.

The guy in yellow T asked Ishaan, “How’s this book?” quickly adding a supplementary but more significant question, “Or for that matter how’s Murakami?”

“Murakami is someone who uses several planes of thoughts as his literary tools, you’ll never find a linear writing in his work, it’s very clear that the guy is exploring what goes on in his mind and is trying to translate all of it, as it is. Most people don’t like Murakami for that reasons because they can’t relate themselves to that depth of mind. Very experimental and constant at the same time. You can see that a lesbian theme is constantly found in his works, I feel like he writes a lot in feminine ego. Further, cats. They are always there. And, if you’ll read the book you’re holding in your hand, Kafka, it’s a testimony of his experimentation with writing.”

Ishaan replied without trying to take a feedback from the listener. He wasn’t even bothered if the guy understood a better part of his explanation, it was more of an expert panelist’ opinion who is never questioned by the audience.

The guy in yellow T, we don’t know his name as he neither he bothered to introduce himself nor Ishaan asked, wanted to see and know about the five books Ishaan was buying.

A fine balance by Rohinton Mistry, Open Secrets by Alice Munroe, Imaginary Homelands and Shame by Salman Rushdie, and In other words by Jhumpa Lahiri.

The guy in yellow T gasped. Not because he was not much of a reader, to him these were a little ‘too much to read’. He knows only Salman Rushdie out of the four authors whose books Ishaan is holding and he knows him as an author of Midnight’s Children only, which Ishaan reminded him after being prompted, he doesn’t know if any of these authors exist. It doesn’t excite him, the idea that one author can write more books.

Ishaan is thinking, “How come he is interested in reading works by Murakami?” He clearly doubts that he will ever understand its content. The guy in yellow T’s questions again obstructed Ishaan’s train of thoughts.

“So, Salman Rushdie is your favourite author?” No came the instant reply by Ishaan, “It’s Oliver Sacks.” The guy has no idea which got communicated by his pout and “Hmm…” post-hearing Oliver Sacks.

Ishaan produced a 2000 bill, paid Jain Uncle, and is now making a move.

“Hey! Wait” came a voice, “let me pay him…”

“What now?” Ishaan is thinking bemused at his demand.

“So, what do you do?”

I’m a content writer.

“Ah… fancy job, that’s why you read lot!”

Nope. I know many content writers who don’t even read.

“Okay. I’m Prabal,” finally the guy in yellow T is no more a guy in yellow T, he has a name.

Ishaan. Followed by a firm handshake with lips curving to convey pleasantness.

“I’m a business analyst with a consulting firm. And, I’m preparing for CAT, so I come to CP on weekends.”

Hmm…

This usual course of introduction was followed by a chain of conversations, one linked to a silly point raised in the previous one. It’s about books, politics, office politics, colleges, demanding parents, engineering sucks, and millennial’s problems etc.

Little did both of them know that they had taken complete two rounds of Connaught Place’s inner circle. When Ishaan asked him that they can sit somewhere and talk comfortably, Prabal told him that he might take his leave for he has got to revise what has been taught today to appear the test day after in his CAT institute.

Farewell at exit Gate no. 7.

None of them asked to exchange numbers. Both of them just smiled and after a firm handshake could only advance to an awkward hug.

Ishaan was to stay back and Prabal left. Ishaan couldn’t figure out why he stayed to see him going downstairs to take the metro. And, Prabal couldn’t decipher his slow movements, unlike his nature.

****

Ishaan’s diary entry – 24th March 2018

Dearest Diary,

It was a regular day in office. Nothing exciting. Remember, I told you that I’ll be going to the book fair at the feminist store; I couldn’t go there. There’s a huge traffic jam when I left so I decided to buy books from Jain Uncle instead.

There, at CP, I met this guy, Prabal. He’s normal kind of guy, nothing fancy except the way he talks. It’s like he is involved in the discussion, or maybe that because he becomes the center of conversation – a point you cannot avoid looking at, you’re bound to listen to him and talk to him.

He’s 6, tall and handsome. We talked for almost an hour; I helped him buy a few books at Jain Uncle. I don’t know what happened he just shouted when I started to leave and said that he’s catching up after paying for the books. I told you, right? Something very arresting about him, I had to give in!

After that, I didn’t realise how the time passed. Suddenly, there’s something rejoicing about the evening, the tree in front of Fab India seemed less dull, and for the first time, I didn’t mind the crowded scene at CP.

He was not the kind of person I like but I was way more drawn to him. When I bade him farewell outside metro something in me was lost but there’s something beautiful about this letting go as well. We didn’t exchange our numbers. All I could do was to watch him leave.

I have always been curious that does it happen to people that when they strongly desire something it comes back to them with a force which we cannot handle.

And, if we can, we make a fortune; if we cannot then we lose the only chance!

I always used to rummage on this thought but never experienced it.

And, I could’ve never if Prabal wouldn’t have tapped my shoulder from behind.

Yes, Prabal came back. And, the moment I saw him, my half-burnt clove dropped, and I just kept staring at him. Nothing in the world was moving, no voices, no noise, no ‘Excuse me, can I talk to you for 2 minutes?’ no ‘Ik cup chai, subah se kuch khaya nahi bhaiya’, no announcements, no one asking directions for N block; just plain ear deafening silence.

At that moment, all I could see was Prabal; tall and handsome, 6 feet tall, dusky with salt-pepper hair and with rose-petal like lips.

It was momentary or a universal force which I talked about, something beyond my control, I jumped to lock my mouth with his.

I know there were people around, I didn’t know if he would have allowed me to do it – he might have slapped me as well, there might have been cops – as usual, there might have been someone whom I know; but there’s no one for me at that time except him.

And, I kissed him, it was as if each cell in my body was celebrating that union, each organ of my body offering itself to Prabal and when his tongue explored my mouth, I got the answer – he wants it as badly as I want it!

We kissed for eternity.

I don’t know if that could’ve ever been possible.

But in Murakami’s world, imagination is reality.