I Am Life , livre ebook

Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd. - Shraddha Soni

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75 pages

English

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'You are from India-the land of three hundred and thirty million Gods, and you say you don't believe in even one of them? I think it's time to go home, Sid.'Andrea's words have been echoing in my head since last night when she poured another round of scotch. I entered God in the Google search bar and of all the places, it directed me to India-a place where I had buried my childhood dream eleven years ago, and moved to New York. I waived God away when I got to New York, and, to be honest, I didn't need Him either. Until now... Life's always been a bitch but this time it's gone too far. I want my money and my company back, and I will find God one way or the other to get my answers. I've boarded the flight. Hop on...and yes...carry some scotch along. See you on the other side. Cheers, Sid-Siddharth Khanna

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Publié par	Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd.
Date de parution	10 décembre 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9788184005097
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0420€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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I AM LIFE

SHRADDHA SONI
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Life’s a Bitch
Back to the Beginning
The Happy Yogi . . . Indeed
The Business of Bhagwan
The Muktidham Ashram
Arjuna and the Blue God
My Battle Continues
The End
The New Beginning
The Adventure Begins
My Field
The Kingdom of Illusions
I Am the Clay in My Hands
I Am
Life
A Note from the Author
A Note about the Author
Follow Penguin
Copyright
LIFE’S A BITCH
THERE’S TRAFFIC. OF COURSE THERE’S TRAFFIC. THIS IS Manhattan—where there's always traffic. Adele's crooning through the radio, singing about ‘breaking free’. Sitting on my left, Andrea is driving her ‘brand new’ hatchback that she’s bought from a used car dealer. She says she trusts him because he’s been getting his hair cut by her since forever. Trust Andrea to strike a dodgy deal like this. She’s actually the third, or I suspect fourth, owner and if she holds on to this car for some more time, she can sell it at vintage value. Trying to weave her way through the sea of cars, she curses the rain and the cabbies. Her wrists are tattooed; the left one says ‘JesuSalvatorMesu’. A simply written Latin phrase inked when she was dreaming babies with her cute Argentinean model-turned-pastor boyfriend. The one on her right wrist is more recent—a beautiful colour image of Kali. Why? Because she needed strength to get over the pastor. As her hands swirl over each other, turning the steering wheel, it looks like Jesus and Kali are battling to get me through the traffic. Or perhaps they're just dancing.
Please goddamit, let me just make the flight, I pray to God knows who. Then there’s a loud bang, screeching brakes and I’m jolted! My vision blurs and for a moment I see stars. Wait. It is more like Gods swirling around me. Is this an epiphany? Have I found God already, I think, but that's me having a rare flash of optimism. The celestial figures begin to blur and I taste blood. Andrea has hit the brakes so hard that I’ve hit my head on the outstretched arms of her Jesus bobblehead on the dashboard.
I turn the rear-view mirror towards me and find a streak of blood across my forehead, like vermilion on some crazed ascetic on the banks of the Ganga. My vision keeps blurring, I roll the window down for some fresh air - my head is killing me. It is throbbing louder than the drummer on the radio, which I switch off angrily. ‘Oh please heal properly,’ I mutter. I know that’s a vain thought and at this point I reckon I should be a bit more worried about whether the damage to my head is dangerous rather than ugly, but I can’t be bothered. Life’s always been a bitch to me: this is just another accident in the long list of disasters she has sent my way. My head begins to throb a little harder and I feel myself blacking out slowly.
There is a soft rush of air from the window, and then a hand touches my forehead, giving me goosebumps. The palm is cool as it wipes off the warm blood. There is a woman looking in, and she whispers gently, ‘You don’t have to go anywhere to heal, Siddharth.’ I close my eyes tight and think I may be losing my mind. The words have a distinct echo to them, and I am mesmerised by her tone, which is both empathetic and stern. When I look up again there is no woman, the air is still and Andrea is still cursing loudly and re-adjusting the rear-view mirror. I touch my forehead but there is no blood. Andrea hasn’t noticed a thing. I really have lost the plot. Just let me make the goddamned flight.

Last night was awful. I was at a bar, drinking, still thinking about Rhea’s mail when I called Andrea. I had actually spent the last few days in that state. Basically in a complete mess, so yes, I called Andrea. It’s what I always do when I’m drunk and lonely, but no . . . wait, don’t get me wrong, it isn’t like that. We’re as platonic a pair as Ross and Phoebe and besides, she’s not my type. Actually, I no longer know what my type is or maybe I never had an idea, but let’s get back to Andrea. She’s single (these days) and searching for that ‘one true love’. I’m sick of telling her that true love doesn’t exist. Not for mere mortals like us at least. And it’s such a waste of time anyway.
Andrea is great to have around. You know how friends start dating people and then they never have time for you any longer? Not Andrea—I mean guys come and go but they’re always secondary to her friends, and frankly I like it that way. I met her during college, when she was dating my best friend Keith. Did I mention Keith yet? He’s great. He’s a handsome ail-American white boy who loves women, fine wine, and college humour. He’s the sort of guy who gets invited to a lot of parties (like me), always takes home a pretty girl at the end of it (somewhat like me), and smartly, never married (unlike me). Women love him, but they don’t like him. You know what I mean? Beautiful girls at parties will caress his arm, make him a drink, hand him their phone number, but as soon as they find out (usually the next morning) that he isn’t going to father their babies, they’d rather not see his chiselled jawline and blue eyes ever again. I’m a lot more subtle about the women I take home. Well not home . . . but home, hotel—what’s the difference? I have a few regular girls, on the side. They’re beautiful, all of them. Some are married (to boring men) and looking for exhilaration, while the others are single and like the thrill of unbuckling a married man. Why do I do it? Because I have needs. Just like I need food, I need sex. But basically it’s the chase we men love. Since Rhea’s mail came, I haven’t seen any of the girls and it’s because I’m scared they’ll think ‘serves the bastard right’. I’ve never wanted them to know I was in a loveless’ marriage, but I guess they knew. I mean, why would I be going to them if I weren’t? And besides, I have an image to guard in the business circle. I don’t particularly want to be seen as some . . . some womaniser. I don’t trade deals with miniskirts and in my opinion I’m not a womaniser. I don’t chase them or hassle them, I charm and win them. I just do the ‘willing’ ones; I’d never take advantage of a drunk woman. I treat them well, don’t drop names, exit (if they get involved) and can safely say not a single girl I’ve slept with would ever feel that I’ve misled her.
Anyway, I’m always lonely these days and Andrea is usually free and a lot of fun, which is why I went to her place after the bar. I needed a break from the ordeal and Keith gets too serious under pressure. There is no pressure when it comes to Andrea. We’ve been friends since she and Keith broke up.
It was awkward for a while, but then things slid into a comfortable space and I’ve balanced my friendship with both of them ever since. Andrea is always excitable and it rubs off on me as well. That’s probably why I think I’m on this ‘spiritual journey’ as she calls it. For me however, it’s just another trip.
Andrea is a tall, feisty, red-headed Texan, with more ink on her body than at a tattoo convention. She’s a spiritual junkie. Every year she has a new God. And why not . . .’ she says, ‘when there are so many to choose from.’ I don’t believe in a God, and she can't have her fill of them. She has a Buddhist mandala tattooed on her back and six new books on Scientology at her bedside table. I can’t keep up. Perhaps it’s unfair and extreme to say I don’t believe in God, but I have no developed idea of God and spirituality. My parents are religious, but when I moved to America I left that behind with all the other Indian quirks that might make me seem too ‘exotic’. Andrea though, is more exotic than a Bhutanese monastery.
Andrea and I started with scotch at her place last night. And I have a vague recollection of ending it with Sambuca but I really can’t be sure; we even popped champagne at some point to celebrate something. I was smashed by the end. Andrea’s apartment is as messy as I imagine the inside of her head to be, and is full of knick-knacks from India, which make me feel strangely comfortable. The elephant block print bedspread, the blue pottery mugs, the Krishna poster and the ever-burning incense—all remind me of home. In India, I had found those things tacky, but here I quickly learnt about ‘kitsch’. As I walked into Andrea’s apartment (she gave me a key a couple of years ago) I almost tripped over her cat—a ginger, like her. Weaving my way through her battalion of old furniture, luggage in hand, I found her sitting on her bed wearing a silk turquoise scarf on her head and reading a book on organic fruits. She’s such a caricature this girl, she makes me laugh all the time. But not this time.
‘Sid!’ she yelled out almost too joyfully, jumping off the bed and running towards me.
‘Don’t,’ I said when she came up to hug me. ‘I need a drink. Not a hug.’
She got me the scotch (I’m glad I keep her bar stocked with the good stuff too) and we sat on the mattress in her living room (it doubles up as a sofa and a guest bed).
Andrea took a sip and waited patiently for me to start. When I didn’t, she broke the silence. ‘What’s up, Sid, where have you been?’
‘You wanna know where I have been?’ I said as I opened the mail from my wife and flung the phone to her. 'Here ... read.’
She read the mail and then looked up at me. ‘Sid, there is a way out of everything.’ she said.
I didn’t say anything and sipped my drink instead.
‘Did you go to a lawyer?’
‘Obviously, Andrea, in the last two weeks Keith and I have been to the best lawyers in town and none of them want to get into this murky situation. They see this as a lost case and have advised me to go for an out-of-court settlement. Settlement? What for? Something that belongs to me?’
‘I need a place, Andrea. I’m out of the house. I’ve packed and moved most of my stuff to Keith’s garage but I’m not living with him and that girlfriend of his. Andrea I need help. You know a lot of people. Find me a place to live. In this state of frustration I may not c