A FEW OLDIES: VOICES RANT ON - Conversation in parts

ONE

“I’ve always wanted a cat called Salvador Dali.”

Pause

“But the problem is I don’t really like cats.  I could get a dog of course.  But a dog called Salvador Dali wouldn’t be quite the same as a cat called Salvador Dali, would it?”

“No, of course not”

“You like Persistence of Memory I suppose?”

“No. Gala actually”

“Oh…..Adams makes a lot of sense”

“I know.”

“We’re all self-replicating algorithms.”

“He said that?”

“No. I said that…makes you feel quite let down, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“The fact that we’re all just self-replicating algos”

“Well, I certainly like to think that we’re a little more than that. In fact, we are.”

“No we aren’t. Cells make more cells like themselves and sometimes some code fragments join together, bugs, and we have evolution.”

“Oh come on, we think, we eat, we grow.”

“We always eat with our mouths- the same monotonous mastication. We grow, yeah, didn’t I say self replicating?”

“But that’s how we eat. That’s…”

“Exactly. We’re algorithms”

“We think!”

“No we don’t.”

“Like duh…we do”

“No we don’t. We’d still be cavemen if we’d thought just a little before inventing the wheel or whatever.”

“You’re crazy.”

“We didn’t think. If we had, we’d have stuck to caves and not made computers that hang and bridges that fall down and planes that crash and economies that are volatile. Look at fish. They haven’t problems. They stuck to being fish. They thought. We’re dumb.”

“You couldn’t live without electricity and flights and stuff. Now you’re being quite hypocritical.”

“Of course I can’t. My ancestors didn’t think. Aren’t you listening?”

You know you’re screwed when she starts making sense.

Damn.

TWO

“I would like to leave off one and pick up another you know.”

“What?”

“Life, of course. What else would it be?”

“Several things. But never mind.”

“Like Langwidere, though it wasn’t a life, of course. But I wonder where she keeps her brain though”

“Like what thing?”

“Langwidere. You weren’t brought up on Oz? You’ve had a terribly deprived childhood.”

“You had worse. You never had cotton candy.”

“That’s different. It was supposed to be unhealthy. It is, in fact. One oughtn’t to have it. Oz is quite another thing.”

“You drink.”

“Yeah”

“It wasn’t a question.”

“Eh?”

“I just proved my point, but never mind.”

“Where was I?”

“Lang something and her brain”

“Yeah…”

“Well?”

“Well nothing. I just wonder that’s all.”

“The point of this conversation being?”

“Langwidere’s brain, of course.”

“Ah…and picking up one and leaving another?”

“Yeah, there is nothing to say about that. I am.

“You are what?”

“Going to be your friendly neighbourhood supermarket cashier henceforth. I’m fully qualified for it.”

And she did. My wife is a chartered financial analyst, among other things, and hence ‘fully qualified’.

THREE  

“No. Not fancy food. I want regular food, you know. I want junk. Fries! And burgers! And coffee in awful dull white cheap porcelain.”

“There’s a McDonald’s down the street to the right. What say?”

“No! I don’t want that. I don’t want conveyor belt food.”

“I thought you liked it. You eat it all the time, liar!”

“I do... Did…. Don’t know….”

“Come on, let’s get you something to eat. I could cook, you know.”

“You’re nice… Why?”

“Aren’t I always?”

“Okay, what do you want?”

“Nothing. I’m simply endowed with a charming personality.”

“Yeah, right, we’re married you know.”

“Doesn’t cut it any more, huh? So, anyway, McDonald’s?”

“Noooo… I want diner food. From diners. No chains.”

“Erm.. It could turn out terrible you know.”

“So much more individual don’t you think? No patty is the same.. the coffee is different each time.. the rolls are whiter some days, softer other days..”

“Yeah, terrible food.”

“Much more character.”

“That’s simply another word for terrible, idiot.”

“You’re obsessed with sameness. Stick in the mud!”

“No.. I just like good reliable food. Idiot.”

“You know I rather think they’ll make us all on conveyor belts soon.”

“Brave New World, eh?”

“Yeah, and they’ll look at us like that you know.”

“Who? Like what?”

“Everyone! Stuff…!”

“Alarmist!”

“Naivete!”

“Ha!”

“Don’t ha me, you! 1984 is happening!”

“Whatever.. so cook, eat out, what?”

“I don’t want to be conveyor belt-ed.”

“And I bloody well want good food. McD it is.”

“You don’t know it, but they’re controlling you.”

“Um.. time for the couch hon?”

“Ha! Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t after you!”

“Kurt Cobain?!! You’re basing your philosophy on him?!”

“Why not? He’s a genius.”

“With a guitar, an idiot otherwise.”

“You don’t own a xylys. It owns you.”

“I think you’re delirious. Could be the hunger, or general insanity. The latter is likelier I imagine.”

“The ad. Of a crappy watch. Didn’t see it?”

“Huh? It OWNS you?”

“Scary though, huh? Who’d want to actually voluntarily buy that watch?!”

“Bondage freaks!”

“Ah! Now it all makes sense. It owns you it seems!”

“Can we continue this pointless conversation in the car? I’m dying!”

“Diner”

“McD”

“Diner”

“McD”

“See! It owns you!”

“Whatever. McD! I’m driving!”

FOUR

“Hey.”

“Um?”

“I said hey!”

“Um-hmm”

“Listen.”

“I am”

“No you’re not. You’re staring at the paper”

“I’m multi-tasking. What is it?”

“I’ve an idea.”

“Uh-oh. That does not bode well for me.”

“It’s nothing crazy.”

“Last time it was flame-throwers! And before that you wanted to sell everything and relocate to some volcano in Iceland. And none of that was crazy, by your standards. Nada. I’m not listening.”

“This is not like that. This is not. Listen. Please. It is really important to me.”

            Pregnant pause. Awkward.

“Er… You think we’re ready for that honey?”

“For what?”

“For… you know..”

“I don’t know. What?”

“Nothing… whatever.”

“Tell me or I’ll pour my coffee in your shorts. You know I will.”

“It was nothing okay? I just thought you wanted to talk about…”

“You’re getting there… come on…”

“Kids… and stuff…”

            And she’s laughing! How on earth did I marry this annoying aggravating crazy woman? How? How did she trick me into it? Why did I not listen to my better sense?

“KIDS!” More laughing.

“KIDS?!!” And there she goes again.

“No no don’t leave honey, I think its sweet that you’re thinking about that and all… you know…” Another explosion of laughter.

“Oh yeah? And that’s your sheer joy at my sweetness?”

“No no no. I just never.. sit down… sit down here. I won’t laugh okay? There, I’ve stopped”

“I can hear giggling, snorting. Hey you aren’t even trying to stop. I’m leaving. Let go of my paper. Damn you woman, don’t tear my shirt. Yaouchh..!”

“Sit sit sit please.”

“Why is it so hilarious for me to ask about this stuff? I mean, I’m just being responsible, thinking ahead and stuff…”

            More explosive laughter.

“I mean just a second ago you were berating my ideas and calling me crazy. Just one of those look-who’s-talking moments for me!”

“You’re equating getting a flame-thrower and moving to a volcano in Iceland, which I’m sure was the one that blew up, with having a kid? You know, I’m not even having this conversation with you. You just talk nonsense. I mean, I’m trying to tell you something important here. I am…”

“Imagine having a daughter like me.”

“Oh.”

“My point exactly.”

            I hate her. I really do.

“So…er…what were you going to tell me?”

“Now you’re all ears eh?”

“I’m leaving okay? Just tell me if you want to.”

“Alright alright. I had this idea.”

“Waiting for it Einstein.”

“Let’s do a genealogical test on us!” Long pause. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Why don’t you say something?”

“What am I supposed to say? Isn’t it expensive? Is it even possible?”

“Of course it is. I read up on it and everything. You know you could be a bit more supportive of me. You always… you never listen. And me, I’m always supportive of all your ideas. I even help you. You never…”

“My ideas relate to equity-linked pension plans and retirement schemes and about how to invest our money. Yours are about flame-throwers and volcanos!”

“Ah poor deluded you! Investment! Stocks! Honey you really need to read more Taleb. You do. Really.”

“Whatever.”

“So what about my idea?”

“What about it? Does it matter what I think? You’ll just do what you think anyway.”

“That’s not true. We’re not living in a volcano in Iceland, are we?”

“Thankfully not.”

“What if we found out that we’re really descendants of …oh.. the Egyptian Pharoahs or.. or.. that I’m actually a Tsarina of Russia or that you’re secretly related to the Mauryas or the Guptas or Queen Victoria? What if I’m the direct female descendant of the Queen of Sheba, huh? How about that? I’m smart enough.”

“Highly unlikely given we’re from the deep south of India”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was born there and I believe, so were you.”

“I’m getting it done. I don’t care how much it costs or anything.”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

“Huh? Really?”

“Really. I mean you could find that you’re one of the illegitimate children of Timur the Lame or Genghis Khan or maybe you’re the secret daughter of Casanova or… oh… how about this – Mussolini? Better still, Hitler? Oh and Stalin?”

“Shut up. I am not!”

“You could be. The chances of you being related to Hitler or Queen of Sheba are about the same I’d say.”

“No they aren’t. I am nothing like Hitler!”

“Ha!”

“You think I could be related to Hitler?”

“Stalin, more likely.”

“Oh.”

            Pause. What on earth? Don’t tell me she’s upset!

“Honey, how does it matter?”

“No… What if I am? What if I am related to Stalin or a mass-murderer or… or… a rapist or some sort of a…”

“So what? Why does it matter where you come from?”

“I could seriously be deranged. You’re always saying I am! Maybe I am. Maybe its genetic.”

“Bullshit. I love you, you silly idiot. Even if you are the direct female descendant of Erzsebet Bathory and you murdered my great-great-great-whatnots. It doesn’t matter.”

“Who’s Er-whoever?”

“Sort of a female equivalent of Vlad Tepes I think. Doesn’t matter… point is. Well, it doesn’t matter because you’re you and you’re great and well, I love you. God! Why do I even have to explain this?”

“Nah… just wanted to hear you sing my praises. Ha-ha!”

“Oh you manipulative, you cunning…”

“So you really thought about kids eh? How about it?”

“No”

“Imagine tiny little kids screaming all day, tearing your newspaper, crapping over the floor, drooling on your shoulder, peeing on you”

“Shut up.”

“Spilling your coffee. Ha! Kids with my genes definitely would.”

“That’s enough!”

“And, oh maybe we’ll have quadruplets or a dozen-uplets. How do you say that? Twelve-uplets? Dodecahexaplets?”

“Enough!”

“Imagine. Twelve. Or just twins. That’ll be bad enough.”

“No”

“Maybe we can get a puppy.”

“Maybe we can”

“Nah.. but nothing beats having a kid.”

“Puppy”

“Kid”

“Puppy”

“Kid, lets make one. Right now!”

“Your wily charms don’t work me. We’re getting a puppy! And I’m leaving. Right now. Let go of me. Yaouch..!”

Next one's a new post, I swear. :)

A FEW OLDIES: THE RUMINATIONS OF SU AND MAU

Mau was sitting very still and looking straight ahead at the white board of her cubicle. Su was watching Mau and oddly enough both of them were thinking the exact same thing, the very same thought. Now what would they say if they knew that?

They were both wondering about Mau’s name. Su was short for Suresh. People nowadays have a propensity to shorten names to single syllables, even ones that are already short and easily pronounceable by the most unwieldy tongue – Suresh. Straight, simple, steady – the very reasons that annoyed Su. He had always felt that his commonplace name, unconsciously and automatically, turned him into a commonplace entity, a nonentity, of course he acknowledged that the thought was indeed ridiculous and was well aware that the rose by any other name etc. Still that offered him no comfort and whenever he introduced himself he felt the need to urge upon his new acquaintances the shortened version – Su. Su was short, novel – Su felt like a more authentic and valid representation of himself.

It is unfair, thought he, that the one thing that remains with you all your life, through thick and thin, prosperity and poverty, illness and health – your name, is something you cannot choose. Possibly, a subtle, ironic joke on every man and woman in this world, hinting slyly that hey hotshots, even your name is not really your own. And most of us miss out on it; the joke is on us, thought Su, sullenly.

But of course this wasn’t the thought Su was sharing with Mau.

They were wondering about Mau’s name, at the exact moment, synchronised and in tandem. Now, Mau, how did she get that name? It is highly unlikely that her parents were exceedingly original and thought up this supremely individualistic, even enviable name for their daughter by themselves. The thought is even ludicrous; Mau was born at least thirty years ago or perhaps earlier, thought Su. Did they even have the Internet here, thirty years ago?  Did she perhaps change her name later on? Su had never thought of officially changing his name. It wouldn’t really make a difference. Once you are named, you are tagged forever, thought Su, miserably. I am Suresh, now, here and forever. I can never be a Mau (it did not disconcert him that Mau, was apparently, a feminine name, that the sole possessor of that name as far as he knew, was a woman. Mau was a very unisexual name, a symbol of all that is different and unique – something Su had, tragically, lost because of his stolid and unimaginative parents.)

Mau, Su had thought before this entire train of philosophising on names, M-A-U.

Mau, thought Mau, M-A-U. Mau was a source of worry and perpetual confusion to Mau. Her parents were either unable or unwilling to give a coherent explanation as to the origins of her name. How were they able to be unconcerned about the terrible baggage they had shoved onto her shoulders the moment she was born, without so much as even considering her opinion, requesting her acquiescence? Of course, Mau knew that she had to be called something. But why Mau? What sort of a name is that?  An annoyed sigh escaped her lips, rather like the hiss of an asp, only much less sinister of course. There were any number of straight, simple, steady names. Any one of them would have sufficed. And yet, here she was, Mau. She felt like an anachronism – something that belonged to some other era, past or future, by virtue of her name, and she certainly did not like it.  It would have been better had she known her namesake, if any, thought she. She must have had a namesake, she reasoned. She could not imagine her otherwise regular, commonplace parents deciding on impulse to call their first-born Mau.  But they simply could not provide her with the solace of a namesake. Why would it be better if she knew that there was one? Possibly she might feel an invisible hand lift the burden of the tragic name from her shoulders, redistribute it across the unfortunate unwitting possessors of the said name, make it okay in some manner.  There are probably several Maus in Thailand or China or Japan, thought Mau suddenly. People there had names like that, she reasoned vaguely. But no, that did not make it better. A Mau in India could share her distress, one in Thailand was of no consequence, thought Mau sullenly. Perhaps she wouldn’t have despised her name quite so much, if she didn’t associate so very many annoying memories with it – amused glances; quizzical expressions; questions regarding the meaning (meaning!) of her name from inquisitive strangers to which she could only respond with the blank stare which was her parent’s standard reply; teachers remembered her unusual name and made it a point to pick her out in class during Q&A; kids poked fun twisting her name around to mean an amazing gamut of things, and moreover she had to turn her head and acknowledge every time someone called out “Maaaauuuuuu…!”. It felt like a primeval animal call and it always drew attention to the addressee, more so than the addressor. Mau’s life, therefore, had been spent in the fatiguing exercise of staying in the background.

Mau and Su stared sullenly at the white boards of their cubicles and scowled. They were both getting ready to leave the day behind and walk into their respective sunsets as the lift clicked open and an intensely efficient looking courier guy, walked in.

“Is there a Mr. Suresh here?”

“Yeah. Right here. Hello!”

“Oh, right, if you could sign here sir, you have a courier.”

“A courier? I am not expecting one.”

“You are Mr. Suresh?”

“Is that a Suresh N or a Suresh M?”

“Don’t know. I thought you were Suresh.” The courier guy’s eyebrows contracted into deep furrows of thought.

“I am Suresh. Is there an initial on your note there? Is that an N or an M?” Suresh felt his temples ache.

“I’m… not sure. Aren’t you Suresh?” The courier guy’s eyebrows now betrayed distinct annoyance. He could not decipher the handwriting on the box, the staples were right across the finely printed name of the recipient on the cover receipt and the last thing he wanted to do was to pore over inconsequential extensions of inconsequential names.

“Yes I am. But, there are others.” Suresh’s temples were throbbing at the unfairness of it all.

“Hey man, why did you say were Suresh if you weren’t?”

“I am Suresh, damn it. I wasn’t expecting..”

“Yeah, I mean if you aren’t the Suresh…”

“How was I supposed to know who you were referring to?” Suresh’s nerves were stinging like a hundred hypodermics stuck all over his body. Was this guy a moron?

“Where is the other Suresh, if this isn’t yours?”

“I didn’t say it isn’t mine. It could be.  I only said…”

“Eh, what are you saying.” The presumptuous little prick, thought Su.

“Maaaaaauuuuu… I got this letter here, it’s for you, was lying on my desk. Take it when you leave” yelled Rishabh from the cubicle across the room. The courier guy turned an interested gaze at Mau, and grinned, presumably at the name, and Mau wilted.

“Could you please check the damn initials? Is it an N or an M?”

“I can’t see. You don’t know sir? How will I know? You check by yourself” Said the courier guy, turning his attention to Su from the interesting female specimen with the unusual name in the other cubicle. Su’s temples burst into a cloud of frustrated despair.

“Keep the fucking courier, you moron.” Said Su, and gathered up his belongings and walked resolutely to the lift that opened with a click, leaving a surprised and wounded courier guy behind. Mau joined Su in the lift, as did several of their co-workers. The courier guy was looking curiously at Mau, perhaps also at Su, we will never know.

“Damned name.” thought Su and Mau, at the exact same moment.

A FEW OLDIES: WAITING FOR 57

It was only the smells. If only I could suspend my olfactory senses for sometime, I’d be in heaven.  I could close my eyes and shut out the light, I could keep the sounds out with my headphones, I had a comfortable chocolaty taste in my mouth and the blankets they give, kept me warm and cosy.  I could of course pull the blankets over my face to try and keep the smells out but then it wouldn’t cover my toes and you know the thing about cold toes. They are acutely uncomfortable.

So it was only the smells.  I even had side lower.  Of course, nobody prefers the side berths.  But I do.  I love side lower.  Side upper wasn’t here yet.  So I had the whole side to myself. It was only the smells.

They were sort of an unwelcome link to a world I could never really figure out. 

I was 56.  57 was side upper.

At each station, there was a slight feeling of trepidation as I wondered if I’d have to give up putting my legs up and find room for 57’s luggage.  As we swept past each station, I unconsciously heaved a sigh of relief, ever so slight, but it was there nevertheless. A little callous perhaps, but I hoped he wouldn’t turn up, that he’d miss the train, be caught up in a traffic jam, fall down and hurt his leg…well…not that I’m a bad person, I don’t like discomfort, you know.  And I was nicely settled here for about two days, from one end of India to the other, well almost the other.

It was only the smells.

I now realise, I imagined 57 to be a he.  Strange but true, I’d never imagine a she 57, so to speak.  Somehow, I realised, I give male personifications to the slight irritating things of life that you, all the same, have to go through with.  Now Freud would have something very interesting to say about that, I reflected.  I might even be having some of those complexes with the nice Greek (or are they Roman?) names; you know them- Oedipus, Electra and all the rest. 

57 would be a man for certain.  If I’m lucky he would have a backpack which he would shove somewhere and go sleep on his side upper and not bother me at all. 

Well, as long as I am imagining, he might as well be a little more interesting, I mused. He could be an artist or a writer, something of the relic of the Beat generation – an icon and an iconoclast, like Kerouac maybe. (I had a crush on Kerouac ever since On the Road). He’d have tired but lively eyes that shine like the dying embers of the sun, I imagined, warming up to my topic. He’d wear a loose T-shirt and a faded pair of jeans, actually faded not these acid fades that insult aesthetics that you find everywhere from a Levi’s store to a street corner.  Faded, with splotches of colour that speak of endless hours spent in a studio with a skylight that lets in grimy rays, lighting up canvases painted in daubs, canvases painted out to perfection with not one thick stroke, canvases painted in fiery reds and oranges, canvases painted in greys and blues. He would sit every evening on his rickety couch leaning on stacks of Marquez, Ginsberg, Marai, perusing their volumes, finding his own expression in his art and sculpture.  Or maybe, he would be just content to watch, with his tired ebony eyes, just watch and wonder, but not one languid action of his would disturb anything, change anything, he would be content to watch.  

There would be stories in his eyes, tales that would fill pages if he so desired, the taut alertness and the charming insouciance resting harmoniously and holding themselves together so well, you felt the strangeness of it instinctively.

Maybe we’d be reading the same book and start talking about our shared loves. Or talk about the bad rail food – always a brilliant conversation starter; shared hatreds being causes of friendships, as Tocqueville said, aren’t restricted to politics alone. Shared hatreds are even stronger than shared loves oddly enough, I realized. But of course my Kerouac reading artist wouldn’t be quite as bothered about something as plebeian as rail food, I reasoned smartly. He would be quite above those silly necessities of life. Lancelot wasn’t as bothered about broken teeth as Don Quixote, now was he?  

So then, how would we start talking? Common book, best bet.

Oh my God, you like Saramago? My favourite! Wow, a kindred soul; Seeing was my favourite. Mine’s got to be Stone Raft. Yeah I love that one too. Okay.

Uh-oh. Dead end. Damn.

Er… what else do you read? Kafka, Ginsberg… you know. I loved The Trial; and Howl, of course. Of course.

Uh-oh. Another one.

Right. Now I get it. We can’t agree on everything. So we’ve got to disagree. But how do I talk to someone who disagrees with me liking Trial and Howl? Tricky. And I shouldn’t look too interested. So I’d take up my book and read. End of story. Kerouac artist leaves. Poof.

Damn.

Yeah, I get it. We’ve got to agree of course, but we’ll have to discuss about it. Long conversations about Kafka et al. But then, any guy who’s reading Saramago would absolutely detest being interrupted and forced into conversation. Uh-oh.

Nevertheless, I am undaunted - the Gordian knots that tie up reality into intricate layers of finesse and crudeness are sliced through by the Alexander of my dreams. Dreams are by definition of course, unreal, but the best dreams are the ones where everything is unreal – perfect- and yet you do not realise it is a dream. After a point the perfection starts grating on you.

But a tinge of reality can send you straight back to your opium den, your marijuana, your own personal brand of addiction, and reality aftertastes last long enough for you not to want it for a very long time.  You want to stay in the world you control, in the perfection of your imagination. Occupational hazard that comes with living in printed pages and celluloid mostly, I suppose. Reality is a small price to pay.

If only one could conjure up sensory deprivation tanks and stay in them forever and ever.  But the blanket that smells acutely of moth balls, the blue rexine reminiscent of the ‘60s, the constant commuting of the vendors up and down the aisle accompanied buy the veritable bevy of discordant odours, the incessant vague chatter that your headphones only just manage to push to the background, the soft rocking of the train – these will have to be borne with fortitude.

I have been talking with my Kerouac artist for a while now. I think a smile is lingering on my lips. If I open my eyes, I know they will be shining ever so slightly.

The train is rocking gently – back and forth, slower now and coming to a steady halt – so slowly that is almost escapes me.

I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder.

My seat. This one – 57. Do you mind?

Oh. Of course not. Do make yourself comfortable.

I am sorry to have woken you.

It’s alright. I was awake.

A young man. Personable. Late twenties perhaps. Led Zeppelin jersey. Unruly black hair. East of Eden tucked under an arm.

I smile and settle down with The Great Gatsby. The cool glass presses against my temples. My feet are drawn up and I wrap myself in my blanket snugly. I talk to my Kerouac artist.

A FEW OLDIES: PHANTASMAGORIA

She lay on the bed, eyes half-closed, in that limbo, that no-man’s-land between sleep and wakefulness where you are free from earthly ties and unreachable dreams, from nightmares and the tedium of the minutiae of living that you stub your toe against every waking moment.  These fleeting seconds, this is life, she thought absently, it was not really thought, just a few nebulous words falling together unconsciously in a random Brownian motion and somehow making sense.  These moments, the words glittered in neon light that was curiously not harsh and jarring to the nerves, these are mine.    

Random thoughts, vague ideas, lack of misgivings, absence of planning, forgetfulness, extinction of to-do lists, lightness of self- one floats in limbo, floats between dying stars and an alarm clock gearing up to create the excruciating noise that marks the beginning of another merry day.

Far away, Zeus was sending down lightning and thunder clouds, Pan was watching the death of his farmlands, Hades was laughing, Persephone was bored, satyrs roamed in Dionysus’ court feasting on wretched love. It was a curious sight to her. She could see their flowing robes and bored faces and their death in their immortality and the eternal wakefulness that never left them and their loves and lusts and their quest for power and the torture of living on Olympus.  She wondered if they saw her and envied her and desired her peace- five minutes a day perhaps, but it was peace.

Strange quests presented themselves to her, ideas of romance and adventure, of stories told by eagles who spy on unknown lands and unknown peoples and fly to realms of fantasy and speak of chimeras and heroes. She heard voices whispering seductively, like sirens who awakened desire.  That was what they did, she realised suddenly.  Sirens who sang to Odysseus and all the men who passed by those islands, spoke to them of possibilities, of another existence, of myths and fallacies all men want to believe in. They only spoke of the dreams; they only conjured up fatal fata morganas. They cannot alter reality, they can only sing their visions in sounds that the universe dreamed up when it was still young and adventurous, in notes that are resonant with the first sounds of breathing and laughing and dying. They only wanted others to see what they saw. But the men died because they wanted it. They wanted to possess and control and have and get and writhed in their discontent and withered in their helplessness.  They died. And the sirens screamed with anguish at their death when no one was near because their threnodies were the saddest sounds on the earth. Their wails would break masts and inspire suicide, and yet they spoke and sang in single notes which are now lost in symphonies and sounds that are forgotten. The Siren’s Song.

Trilobites came, growing in their peripatetic abilities, dying as they should and huge reptiles and dinosaurs lived and man came and lived and everybody killed everybody else in the limbo. Twisted tales of murder and mayhem, rape and incest screaming through, glaring like headlights that shine right into your eyes, burnt her sensibilities to cinder.

Rosemary. Rosemary, for remembrance, the sunlight kissed her forehead and told her. Cloves, cinnamon, red chillies- mystic spells cast by exotic spices wove an odoriferous fabric of nothingness around her consciousness.

Light and dark, sun and stars, tides crashing, quasars and pulsars expanding the reaches of the universe, creating space as they flashed by emptiness- they all centred around her- worked their magic and their routines for her, lived for her, died for her, spoke to her, listened to her.

Journeys were imagined, through time and through space, cutting across realms of reality as we define it when conscious.  She was a Sphinx, she was at Delphi, she was in Paris and bitching about the Eiffel tower with Maupassant.

She was infinity and she was zero.

Love and hope kissed hate and despair lovingly and tenderly like lovers fated to meet for a few moments before being separated again and wandering lonely. Platonic lust, placid anger, hateful love, despairing hope clinging to each other in an orgy, a catharsis of every emotion spewed by the collective consciousness of a populace, surrounded her with paradoxes that were clear and problems whose tangles fell apart as she gazed at them with limpid eyes.

The alarm went off.

A FEW OLDIES: CAPITALISM HAS NO HEROES

My grandfather had nothing to say when Lehman crashed.

I don’t know why I expected him to say anything, but I did.  People were buying Das Kapital more than ever now.  I remember our old copy.  I saw it in the book case when I was a child.  It was red, with gold lettering.  Like all books at the time that came from Moscow Publishers, Russia, it was awe-inspiring- beautifully bound, exquisitely printed, with a charming smell-  these would suffice- honestly, these spurred my imagination more than did Chekhov and Dostoevsky, in those days when you still believed things and stopped to smell the rain. 

When we moved from the house with the book case full of red bound books, we couldn’t take the book-case along.  We were all very upset about it. We all admitted anyway that there wasn’t space for the book-case; the new one would hold all of our books. 

So it was that the book-case stayed where it was and we went our way, to return once in a while, to try to believe things and smell the rain.

I wonder why they don’t make books so beautiful now.  The gold edges and the leather covers and the delicate pages and the beautiful printing- I wonder why.  I do not like the fact that we have to buy paper backs now.

I’m sure you must have realised by now that I come from a family of bibliophiles.  We’ve never had the money of course to indulge our interest in a maniacal way, even if we would like to; but we’ve always had our books- our own personal little library, our little sanctum. 

Das Kapital was there for as long as I can remember.  It taught my grandfather everything he needed to know. 

And it was beautiful.

A very beautiful book.

And yet he had nothing to say when Wall Street very nearly crashed and people had hot debates on how Keynesian we ought to be.  He was mainly concerned with growing coconut trees back at our ancestral home; he came back voicing loud complaints about the Agricultural Officer and the workers who never turned up. 

In the meanwhile there were Maoists and Naxals trying to prove a point; perhaps inspired by heroes such as Che Guevara- several people in my college have Che Guevara T-shirts.  One of them, I believe, thought he was a great motor cyclist- no doubt an impression developed on having heard vaguely about ‘The Motorcycle Diaries’.  

My grandfather had nothing to say about them either.  He was worried about the plantains and the jackfruit trees and the lack of labourers and the inefficiency of manure.

The little piece of land my grandfather so fondly looked after was his own.  He had bought it, paid for it by saving up a few rupees every month from his very insubstantial salary, and built a house without a loan and lived there with his wife and children and a dog and two cows and plenty of chickens and a farm full of trees that gave and continue to give coconuts, jackfruits and plantains.  When my grandmother was alive, there were roses and jasmine and pineapple and cashews. They left when she did.

In the outhouse, were stacks of magazines- the Illustrated Weekly, the Economic and Political Weekly, Yojana,, Janayugam (which was once quite good but now merely sings praises of the political party that supports it) and such things that afforded many hours of leisure and thought to my grandparents, my mother and her brother. One very rainy season, water swept into the outhouse and we lost the magazines.

My grandfather had nothing to say. Neither did my parents.

In another world, Unions called for strikes, my parents lost leaves for no reason because they couldn’t get to work and hence were feeling quite unsympathetic towards everyone from Marx to Lenin to Guevara. People yelled Inquilab Zindabad on the streets and the General Knowledge of Channel V’s Lolakutti proved beyond doubt that nobody cared or knew. I remembered that it was a fond slogan of my grandfather and others who gave up their lands before the Land Ceiling Act. I had things to say, but my grandfather was primarily bothered about getting rid of the algae from the canal that ran through our farm.

Meanwhile, our new house was furnished with capitalistic money that flowed in from beyond the seas. Upper class families sweltered in poverty and left their homes to new grounds because their land no longer cared.  

The coconut trees were giving coconuts abundantly.  Every summer we got jackfruits and plantains to eat, to make preserves and chips and all the rest. 

And so, my grandfather was happy.

I read Ayn Rand.

Two weeks back, we went to get some books from the bookcase we were so loath to leave.  But the termites had taken Das Kapital.