“Dear Applicant,

After carefully reviewing your manuscript, the Indiana University must
regretfully inform you that you will not be offered a position in our Master of Fine Arts program this year.

The 2007 application pool was extremely competitive. We received an overwhelming number of qualified applicants and, unfortunately, can make offers to only a handful.

We appreciate your interest in our program and wish you the best of luck with your writing.”

Sincerely,

Mavis Riley
Director
Programs in Creative Writing and Translation

    Avinash holds the letter in his hands and presses it against his forehead. A silent tear of utter disappointment makes its way from over his left cheek to the corner of his lips. The right eye, pregnant with water holds its ground for a second, before he blinks and the other corner of his lips tastes the salty liquid too. Each word in the letter rips his world of fiction, word by word. The letter with its seemingly expensive yellow colored paper and hollow, dry words neatly typed in Verdana font sits in his hands before he places it back in its envelop. He had diligently, with a naïve hope, sent out applications. He was at home when he’d signed the courier guy’s record sheet and received the letter. As always he’d said a quick prayer, more out of habit, as a gimmick to appease God, too eager to read the contents, than to truly surrender. He thought expecting God to help us is like waiting for alms.

    The words in the letter like out of a doctor’s mouth to an unfortunate patient’s relatives after his death, say those dreaded words, “I am sorry.” The words that are small to the doctor, but are derailing to those he says them to. Avinash picks up Jhumpa Lahiri’s, “Interpreter of Maladies” from his book rack and reads her bio –

Jhumpa Lahiri is an American author of Indian descent. She did her M.A. in Creative Writing from Boston University.

Interpreter of Maladies, her debut short story collection, won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2000 and her first novel, “The Namesake” is now a popular movie of the same name.       

    Avinash looks at the author’s picture and the reads her bio again. He shakes his head, looks away and shuts the book. “It’s not fair,” he says to himself and then adds, “Well, life’s not fair.”                  

                                          *             *            *

    He is at work when his cell vibrates. At least somebody misses him, he thinks to himself. It’s a promotional offer from Dominoes pizza; buy 1 get 1 free it said. It buzzes again.
            
“I don’t know how to say what I am about to…I think we should not see each other any more. I don’t live a fairytale life and I can’t pursue more adventures. I am sorry, but I can’t take more of your insecurities and problems. All we do is fight and have sex and then fight some more. You will say sorry, I will say sorry, but then we will go right back to how we are. I can’t change you and you can’t change me. I am not going to tell you, it’s not you; it’s me, because it’s the both of us. We both have our own battles. I am sorry for doing it this way, but you know how I am. It was nice till it lasted. You please take care. Bye. ”

    The message stares at him through the bright and wide cell phone screen, the words black and white, like everything in his life. He wants to call her; his ego says no. He is not weak. He goes to the washroom and tries to hold the surge back. He covers his mouth so that others don’t hear him. Each memory of hers breaks him down like an egg shell. He wants to tell her that Indiana University has rejected his application as well, she would listen to him, but he doesn’t.

    He scrolls through the contact list on his phone for at least one person to talk to; someone whom he can tell that he is trying hard and it is just bad luck, that one of the universities will accept him soon; someone whom he can tell about his passion for becoming a writer, his passion for writing stories; she is the only one. He splashes water on his face, but newer, deeper tides of emotion wash over it, like the varying sand near the coast. Watery mucous drips out of his nose. He blows it in the washbasin. He looks at his face – his eyes smeared with red nerves like a map with danger signs. He holds on to the basin with one hand, his other hand holds his face tight from contorting again. He wipes his face with the back of his hands. He thinks he is done, but slumps to the floor. Both his hands hold his quivering face.                     

                                      *            *            *

    “The payment of Rs.50,000 on your Yes Bank Credit Card No. 6******8000 is due on 10-April-2007. If not paid on time, penalty applies.

Regards,

Sheena Varma,

Manager Customer Accounts,

Yes Bank”

    He reads through the online credit card statement for the third time. The money was meant for his course. He’d planned to take a loan to pay the rest of the fees. But his grandpa passed away, a month after his grandma had expired. He paid for every one’s plane tickets. Mom, dad, himself and his brother.

“Please come to Delhi urgently. Grandpa is serious,” the telegram had said.  

    His mom said she is not taking a risk like last time. She had taken grandma’s illness lightly, and couldn’t see her alive. His dad paid for the trip last time. Avinash had to pay for this one. His mom wanted to see her father immediately and didn’t want to take a train. When they reached Delhi, everything was over. His grandpa had breathed his last. Avinash’s mother was not his mother in that moment of madness. She was her father’s little girl who didn’t let go of his legs and cling on to them ferociously. They had to literally pull her out of the room to allow the hospital to go on with the formalities.

                             *                 *                 *

    Avinash hasn’t paid his credit card bills for over five months now. His appraisal is due at the end of this month. He plans to pay off a chunk of the bill amount after his raise. His superior calls him in his cabin to give him his appraisal.

“I personally like you Avinash. You are good employee. But unfortunately, the company feels that your performance is not satisfactory,” the superior says. He purses his lips and stretches them often. 

“Your one year probation period has expired and we won’t require your services anymore. Thanks for being a part of our organization. I wish you luck in all your future endeavors.” The superior gets up and extends Avinash’s final cheque with one hand and stretches the other hand for a shake. Avinash keeps sitting. He stares at the table and then at his superior. He crosses his arms across his chest, clears his throat to say something, but then gets up and leaves the cabin. He feels like he is drowning into the deep, dark crevices of an ocean with no one to listen to his cries for help.  

“Avinash your settlement cheque…” The superior calls after him, but Avinash keeps walking without glancing back, his hands pressed hard against his ears.      

    He walks to the parking lot to pull out his second-hand forest-green color ford out of his spot. He smiles and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. He sees a pile of unopened letters on the dash-board. He promises himself to go through them soon. He backs his car, when another vehicle comes screeching and bangs hard into his ford from behind. Avinash’s head jerks off the steering wheel. A gash on his left eyebrow stings. The driver comes and apologizes. He blames his loose brakes for the mishap. Avinash backs his car and drives off. He will call the insurance office from home. He stops near a stretch of green overlooking a stream of sparkling water. He grabs the bunch of letters that hadn’t been unattended to for a while. The first one said,  

    “Sir, your car insurance premium is pending. If you don’t pay your dues by 15-March-2007, your insurance will expire.

Regards,

Shivsundar Das,

Manager Customer Relations

Met Insurance”

He mulls over the word regards for a while and thinks what it really means.

“I am going to rape you,

Regards,

Rapist”

He looks at his watch. The date column reads 20-03-07. 

    He looks at the disfigured rear of his car and looks at the flowing stream again. A group of urchins splash water on each other. An old man plays football with his grandson. At his feet, a cockroach wriggles on its back. It struggles to get back on its feet. Its long, thorny legs flail wildly in the air. Avinash turns it over with his feet. He reads Neha’s message. He types a few words from a Hindi ghazal sung by Jagjit Singh.

Khud ko main baat na daanlu kahin daaman…daaman,

Kardiya tune ne agar mere havaale mujhko

I hope I don’t cut myself into a million pieces if you hand me over to myself.

    He deletes the message and her number, so that he doesn’t weaken and send it to her. He knows her number by heart. He looks at the other unopened envelopes: electricity, water and a few others.    

                                      *        *        *

He passes a cinema hall on his way home. He stops.

    “Housefull,” a huge metal board reads. It stands next to the ticket counter. Across the sky, the sun sets, leaving an array of complicate colors across the sky - blue, purple, orange, white, pink, red and yellow merge with each other – like they have been carelessly poured together in the same palette and stirred with a single brush.

    Avinash walks to his car. He sees an eager boy with eyes as bright with hope as his once were, busily polishing a tall man’s shoes. The boy wears no shirt. His face is smeared black with polish, yet his eyes are white – pure and honest. The boy spits on the shoes first, then rubs a bit of polish and then shines it vigorously with a dirty piece of cloth. He helps the man put his shoes back and waits expectantly for his two rupees. The man searches his pockets for a good minute and comes up with a rupee and fifty paise. He places the coins in the boy’s little hands with a sheepish smile, and assures him that he would pay the remaining fifty paise later. The boy nods his head understandingly. The boy puts the coins in a wooden box and quickly launches into his sales pitch. “Best polish in town, try and see for yourself. Satisfaction guaranteed,” he repeats over and over again with enthusiasm and confidence.

Avinash reaches for his pockets and finds a fifty rupee note.  He gives the money to the boy, but he refuses to accept.

“I am not a beggar sir,” he says. Avinash takes his leather shoes and places it next to his box. After he finishes, Avinash puts them back on.

“I don’t have any change right now,” Avinash says.

“It’s ok sir. You can give it to me later,” the boy replies.

“No. You hold on this money. I will get some change and collect the note later.” 

                                      *                 *                 *

Avinash parks his car below his apartment and walks towards the lift. A notice written on a piece of cardboard piece hung on the lift. An inkless sketch pen scribbled across a wobbly surface. It read

“Lift out of order.”

    Avinash takes the stairs. On the 6th floor, a floor below his, a framed poster hangs outside Mr. Sharma’s flat, right above his door. He’d seen Mr. Sharma nailing the poster in its place with the help of his son a year back. It is pale and its edges have concentric yellow lines, but the painting is still clear. 

    Enormous mountains on one side and all-encompassing Ocean on the other. Flourishing green trees on one side, and barren expanse of land on the other -  

    It says, “Life is Beautiful” in a golden cursive font. He stands there looking at the painting for a few moments, and catches his breath. His heart relentlessly knocks at the walls of his chest. He thinks of the time when Neha had said, “My life is beautiful because you came into it.” He moves on.

    The moment he enters, his mom says, “son, there is no electricity since morning. I think the mad people have cut it. Please do something about it, but before that, here, have some tea.” Avinash takes the cup of tea and goes over to his balcony. He looks at the last remnants of the fading light. It won’t be long before night masks the sky with a black blanket and decorates it with an enormous white stone and a tide of celestial bodies. The radio in the hall plays a haunting track by Oasis. The guitar and drums play in the background, while the lead singer Liam Gallagher sings in a slightly nasal voice.

I can go where I wanna go
Be who I wanna be now
I can sleep under water
Never worried what I'm gonna dream now
Yeah I've been hung in a bad place
Had no sun over my face
Yeah I've been hung in a bad place
For too long, for too long, for too long, for too long

    His mom calls him again, “Avinash get some grocery items. The list is on the table. Also get your father his medicines. You can finish your tea and then go.”

    Avinash keeps his cup down and shuts his ears. His eyes are open. He leans forward and gravity does the rest. His left hand is half bent, his elbows point downwards. His right hand is at a ninety degree angle, parallel to his head. His legs are bent at the knee and his face lies sideways.

As if he is ready to run.