VERISIMILITUDE

SNATCHES

2011-12-19T17:21:00.001+05:30

So I've got mint tea, green tea lemon flavored, Assam tea, English breakfast tea... what'll you have?
Er.. I don't know. What're you taking?
Coffee.
Oh. /: I
I don't like tea at all.
I see.
Therefore I foist it upon my unfortunate guests. :)
You could try not buying any?
Ah! That never works, does it? Fucking advertisements.
Ah! So true.
Well?
Well what?
What'll you have?
Coffee, if that's okay.
Nope. Not okay.
Heh?
I need to finish off all this tea and stuff before the packers and movers come to dismantle my life. Drink tea!
Fine, I'll go with the Assam. :x ...So you really are leaving, huh?
Yep.... You thought I wouldn't go through with it?
Well, no. But I hoped you wouldn't.
So did I you know.
You hoped you wouldn't leave?
Yes.
But you don't have to hope! It's your decision, right?
Yes. But decisions just get made, don't they?
I suppose so.... Like my tea.
Yes, like your tea.

ARTIST

2011-11-15T22:21:00.000+05:30

I look into the blackness of the gulf that separates you from me. My abyss. Your entertainment. My life. My loss. My tragedy. My pleasure. My joy. My indescribable love and unfathomable hate.

I pull threads, out, out, out of me and mine, and tie knots for you to see and applaud and I bask in the unrelenting light of adulation, that the mutations of my privacy give to me.

My twisted knots are my joy and my pain. To see them pulls you into a world of extremes lost to you - into betrayal and misery that you'd rather not have, but want in a story anyway. My twisted tales and futile ramblings are yours. Enjoy them. I know I do.

WAITING -The Deconstruction of G - Part #no

2011-08-18T12:36:00.000+05:30

G loved times spent in waiting - waiting for airplanes topped the list, followed by waiting for the destination, waiting on a wooden bench watching the rain and reading a Maugham, waiting for steamy spicy pasta after running into a bistro from the windy outdoors, waiting for a blissful cup of coffee amid the wafting tantalizing scents, for a cool draught of beer, for the first light, for the pink dusk, for the velvet night, for the deep poignant darkness of 3 a.m. Waiting was the most beautiful, the most charming, the most benevolent of times, and G was waiting.

For Godot? Maybe.

But the wait is worth the wait.

CHOICE - The Deconstruction of G - Part #no

2011-08-17T11:12:00.002+05:30

For months now G had wrapped herself in a life whose ultimate purpose was the fulfillment of the bare existential necessities of each moment. G had always imagined that such a bland and banal routine would have inundated her with a flood of the daily misery of regularity and the further misery of quotidian tragedies - sticky hair that a comb despairs of, tearing a button, finding always one of pair be it socks or earrings, stepping in a puddle, missing a bus - so on and so forth - things that require us to be heroes daily.

But, the Year (well, almost) of the Quotidian Tragedy, as G had christened the era of her foray into the mundane, was surprisingly, less like an annoying toothache that has you shaking fists at the universe and cussing at Creation every five seconds; and more like a warm fuzzy blanket that dulls you into slumber and slyly fools you into hitting Snooze every time your much maligned alarm clock attempts to wake you; which of course, would lead you to sticky hair, tearing a button, finding one of a pair, stepping in a puddle, missing the bus...

Oh! But that warm fuzzy blanket!

A FEW OLDIES: VOICES RANT ON - Conversation in parts

2010-12-03T10:10:00.000+05:30

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

Egypt

ian 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

2010-12-02T15:23:00.001+05:30

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

China

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

2010-12-02T15:22:00.001+05:30

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

2010-12-02T15:21:00.003+05:30

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

2010-12-02T15:20:00.003+05:30

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.

A FEW OLDIES: THE LIFE AND TIMES OF A

2010-12-02T15:19:00.003+05:30

“A pervasive mediocrity, like a poisonous miasma, had crept into the life of A. Its fingers were of smoke- ghostly and intangible- touching and polluting and wounding and infecting and scarring every aspect of the life of A.

A did not realise it until it was too late- until optimism gave way to scepticism to disillusionment to resignation.”

The professor read out the piece, slowly and deliberately, hoping to invoke the pathos of the life of A, through measured modulation and trained use of his vocal chords.

“A is our case study for today.”

He added in a more quotidian manner.

“A was a product of the past century- a typical example of homo sapiens as it existed before eugenics found the key to unlocking human potential.”

The professor’s voice resounded as he stressed ‘eugenics’ and ‘human potential’ using all his oratorical prowess and lung capacity. By this, he believed that his class of some 20 odd students would imbibe the importance of the decisions taken by their ancestors.

“A’s…maybe one of you should read”

Cultivate and create interest through interaction- the professor ardently held to the principles taught to him in school, by pleasant teachers in fresh airy classrooms, their voices designed so as to leave a lasting impression on their students. The professor hoped he was attaining their level of acoustic perfection and etching the ideas on the brains and souls of his talented tractable bunch of eager learners. His every vein pulsated with the necessity of having to do justice to his profession, to his employers, to his students, to himself. It prodded him to work, yet his well-conditioned personality and instinct of self-preservation never let him over-work, never allowed fatigue to creep in. He was perfect- perfectly happy, perfectly healthy, perfectly content.

“Jacob…?”

Jacob had a pleasant voice- with right intonations and stresses, he could weave an effect that was almost magical. Jacob could be a good professor one day, his teacher thought, of course it depended on the cumulative of all strengths and weaknesses that Jacob possessed which would be analysed as always and the best possible decision taken. But still, he persisted in a non-profitable day-dream of Jacob becoming a professor and later in life, speaking with gratitude about his teacher who taught him the Life and Times of A and inspired him to reach such heights as he had attained now, in a trembling voice, pitch slightly wavering so as to produce lumps in the throat, pits in the stomach and such like, while he, the professor, would bask in reflected glory, as the tutor of one of the finest teachers and orators of the world. The professor knew precisely the extent of his own talent and that of Jacob’s and understood without envy that he could never hope to attain the levels of brilliance that Jacob could effortlessly reach. He was content in his knowledge and submission to knowledge, unlike A, his case study.

“Maybe you could read out this part…”

The tiresomeness of the Life of A, his struggle to rise above his mediocrity, his miserable failure, the death of his hopes, his resignation to being one of a million, the sameness he shared with a mediocre population which he tried vainly to escape from, his lack of understanding about his own strengths or rather lack thereof, his pathetic attempts at excelling at something which was scientifically and indisputably beyond his abilities- Jacob’s perfect reading, conveyed more than the mere words. The students were profoundly moved. They all thought A was ridiculous, of course, but now they also felt a certain amount of pity for the wretched soul, who not knowing his inherent weaknesses and stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his genetic incapability to live his dreams, plodded on from failure to failure, from heartbreak to heartbreak, plunging into an abyss of despair, living out his life finally as an insignificant clerk in some shady company, coming home to a shrew, dying as he was destined to die- a mediocre man, a failure who did not have the sense to see that he would ultimately only be a failure- no fault of his own, he was just not the right material.

Every aspect of the Life of A was given in precise detail in the student notes. A was checked, analysed, dissected, labelled and classified, as were several men and women of his Times. This analysis would help the progeny of the race to understand their ancestors, their- excuse the coarse word- stupidity, their irrationality, their dissatisfaction, their failures, their lack of acceptance of scientific and genetic certainties, the inanity of the ideas which may have prompted them to resist eugenics and efforts to improve the race through selective mating, specially designed curricula etc and persist in the belief that somehow they would circumvent their genetic limitations and attain some sort of glory- ultimately helping the present and future generations look at them with some amount of pity at least, if not understanding.

The students muttered amongst themselves, incredulous, finding it impossible to believe that someone could be so dense, so intransigent, never giving up despite proving to himself everyday that he was simply inadequate, so utterly foolish. It was unbelievable, most people during the Times of A lived similar lives and yet, they resisted change, a shift in lifestyles, refused to accept eugenics and the comfortable lifestyle it promised.

The professor smiled knowingly as he heard the muttering, inwardly thanking the heavens that he was born in these times, when he was capable of acknowledging his limits and not attempting any foolhardy ventures into domains which would not suit his skill set. Of course he would have liked to have another set of skills, like Jacob perhaps, but what can you do, science still cannot alter you much after you are born, then again he was a good professor, it matters what he can do best, not what he wants to do, what a beautiful elegant notion, he saluted his forefathers, the ones who had bought about this state of affairs of course. They have created Utopia, they have actually done it, no communism or fascism or capitalism, no plutocracy, aristocracy, none of oligarchy, theocracy- foolish notions of men- just a perfect system, a system that could not possibly err because it was based on fact, on actual proven genetic facts, assigning everyone a role, a level to which they could rise, one knows now, one knows how far one can go, the satisfaction of a life well-lived wells up in every human being today, the joy of knowing their strengths, their limitations, it was tantamount to knowing the future, everything settled in the best possible manner, no hassles, no trials and tribulations, no more men and women like A.

“Now what should A have done? Today A would never exist, A would not be created. Misery of failure is no longer present in our times. Acceptance of our limitations helps us live in contentment. We know, right when we are born, who we are, where we can go, what we can do, we know it from facts that are undeniable, we no longer have to struggle because we know. But the Times of A were different.” said the professor, looking everyone in the eye, impressing upon them the beauty of their Life and Times.

“Your may work in groups of four, analysing the Life of A, where he went wrong, what he should have done and any other points of interest, for the next ten minutes, then I want one of you from each group up here, to present your conclusions…I think this case study will effectively dispel any doubts about the ethics of eugenics. I cannot put it more clearly; you can see for yourselves, compare and contrast your own lives with that of A’s.”

The Life and Times of A, in particular, was chosen to be part of the curriculum, precisely for this purpose, to efficiently remove any seed of sedition against the established eugenic system. Not that there was any threat, but there was some incident of protests, demonstrations and such things which are now found only in history textbooks, at the time of inception of the system. No one, in their right senses, who read about the Life of A, would want to go back to his Times of wintry discontent. It was much better to be told your abilities, much better to submit oneself to the irrefutable authority of scientific knowledge and improved statistical and probabilistic methods.

Michael came up first to speak. The professor nodded appreciatively, he knew Michael would. Michael was quite a thinker, of course the side effect was that he could at times be refractory- the system was still not a hundred percent efficient, one had to deal with some negative aspects if certain required positive traits were to be introduced, but that could not be helped. Through proper education and guidance, Michael would think up new ideas which were in keeping with the system in place; he would be an independent thinker, a visionary who saw the right visions.

The professor wanted to put Michael on the track; he would perhaps be a leader, a top level administrator, the man on the dais everyone looked up to. The professor would bask in the light of Michael shining and be respected as the man who shaped one of the greatest. But that requires work, lots of work, Michael must be taught to think properly, slight tendencies of unprofitable pondering over silly issues that he had now, they must be removed and then Michael would be perfect. Michael will be analysed a few months from now, lots of work to be done before that. He apparently sometimes talks about wanting to be a critic or traveller or some such thing, straying from the path of maximum benefit, as calculated using the best of technology available. That was of course legally impossible, but one might avoid the unpleasantness if Michael would, well, not be so Michael. The Life and Times of A would certainly root out any foolish tendencies. Michael could not be as good a critic as he would be a public speaker, and we need no more Magellans, thank you very much.

Michael walked up to the raised dais, murmured ‘Hello’ into the microphone which automatically adjusted itself to his voice, tone and pitch, so as to accentuate modulations and variations.

“A was undoubtedly a failure, and his life was irrefutably one replete with humiliating and almost, dehumanising experiences.”

The professor smiled, Michael would come round, he knew that. He was a good boy, a boy who could think, good, good.

“But I don’t think he’s pathetic. In fact, he is my hero and I am here to tell you why.”

The professor decided a trifle wistfully that Michael was a case for Sebastian to handle, Michael would thank Sebastian now he thought, meanwhile he had other students to think about. If they would only fix the system errors, it would so much easier. Listening to this boy’s conclusions would only be a waste of time, and he certainly didn’t want his students to start thinking that way, He knew from the profile study that Michael possessed the ability to be extremely persuasive if he wanted to.

“We’ll finish this off tomorrow. Class dismissed.”

A FEW OLDIES: PARTIR, C'EST MOURIR UN PEU

2010-12-02T15:18:00.001+05:30

The night sky was purple. The tinges of coconut leaves broke out in violet slashes that disappeared into a musty black. Down the small tarred lane I could see the yellow pool of sodium vapour light shimmering eerily, lighting up the various greens that clung to it for support. The leaves of the jackfruit tree next door covered the little strip of lawn we had, sadly neglected and left to ruin. I could see the pink of the arali flowers on the beautifully kept huge garden of my other next door’s. The wind whistled through the veppu leaves (again next door, our lawn is pathetically small and is abode to no tree), and nestled among our tulsis. I smelt in the odour of the tulsi greedily. It was one of the various fragrances that I associate with home.

My feet were pressed against the outdoor-tiled floor of our car porch; my errand of locking up the gates conveniently forgotten as I gazed up and around me.

So familiar, yet so different now. This would perhaps be one of the last times I would lock up. I would go back in, locking the door as well, put the water to boil, make all of us our ritual after-dinner lemon tea, wash up the dinner plates grumbling away freely at the lack of maids, put the day’s newspapers in their stack; I would go upstairs and drop onto the couch in the hall and talk to anyone who’d listen about nothing at all and then, ablutions done, I would go to sleep curling up under my light cotton quilt.

It was a well-worn routine, a routine I couldn’t remember the beginnings of, I mused, as I stood in the porch with the keys in my hand. I absently ran my hand over the rear glass of the car and automatically decided I would wash it tomorrow; it was way too dusty to be out on the road. But then of course, tomorrow would see me far away. The car wouldn’t matter anymore. It was my parents’, as is the house and everything in it. I am breaking away. I will go to a new home, waiting to be furnished. A few months on, I shall buy myself a new car. I shall buy my own books. I remembered that earlier in the day, I’d looked at the teak wood bookcase with its glass doors that never would be rid of dust with a fondness that springs from the knowledge that it is no longer yours. I had steadfastly refused to take pieces of furniture from the house. It wouldn’t be right. The house was just correct the way it was, though it wasn’t mine anymore, so to speak. I would want to come back and find everything the same way.

It is still all yours, mother had said, when I’d told her about my feeling like a guest in my own house. Of course, it is not mine. I had me defined in the glossy sheen of the metro I was going to. There was no little strip of lawn there nor the odour of tulsi leaves. My minimalist theme for furniture would be glass and steel. No old teak wood, with doors that wouldn’t be rid of dust.

Would the sky there be purple too? I wondered as I locked up and went to my lemon tea.

A FEW OLDIES: THE CITY

2010-12-02T15:17:00.003+05:30

The city was still there.

I could see it; it could see me, 12 floors into the sky we conquered. I felt naked in its light, exposing my senses to a multitude of sounds, colours, smells, tastes- all blending into a living breathing animal. I could feel its putrid odour, its heavy breathing, its coarse grey-brown skin, its frenzied excitement, swarming...

The city is a graveyard- a cemetery of our civilization. The race is like a colony of ants in the cemetery- insignificant, overshadowed. The skyscrapers uncannily resemble megaliths our ancients used to mark their dead. Garlands of metal ensconce the city in energy. Veins of water, sewage, oil, gas- the life breath, the circulation, the excretion- run through the cemetery.

It was alive- breathing, living.

It was real.

More real than the race- the race which conquered the steel and the skies to build it. Swallowed by its own creation- the living breathing cemetery of steel and glass, built for the life, for perpetuation. We were buried in it. Buried alive. The horror of the cemetery was garrotting all of us- engulfing every soul, smothering the teeming masses that thrived in it, strangling and choking us, reducing us to nothingness... a brute force defining us, our actions, our thoughts, every aspect of our wasted lives.

I could see it in their eyes. I could see it in every one of them. Teachers, doctors, children, housewives, carpenters, paramedics, executives, government officials, programmers- all of us- dead. Teachers taught, children learned, housewives cooked, desultory conversation at dinner, young people partied and tried to look cool. We were all the same. Ghosts- trying to cling to a life that is forever lost, trying to suck out life from the cemetery we made- the cemetery which was more alive than us.

One day, it must have been two weeks ago- my sense of time has been lost now for many days- a welcome change- I woke up to my regular routine comfortable life and found it gone.
I knew, instinctively, as I woke up and consciously breathed in a gust of cold air floating in through my open window, that it was gone. I would know. We were all connected by the sameness of the feelings in us, held together by the intuitive need for something, glued together, coalesced into a mass of walking talking bodies- all of us- so many, all alike. I am sure all of us knew, that morning as we woke up, that it was over. It had snapped. The strings of our cocoons, built painstakingly over the centuries, were undone, disappearing like wisps of smoke. I knew it would’ve changed.

But the city was still there.

The next days were lost in delirium, in ecstatic happiness. The bliss in which I find myself now.

I think the housewife started it. I don’t remember her name now, though I saw it in the news. She had killed her 8 month old child and her husband and declared herself free. She became a sort of messiah. There was no ripple of shock, no waves of protest by idiotic hypocritical moralists.

There were cults. She had followers.

Even the law enforcement officers were in no mood to enforce the law. A policeman set fire to a gas station, I remember. That was fun. Somebody threw my company’s CEO out of the cool important-looking architectural glass window after dramatically breaking it with the fire extinguisher. I saw him fall. I don’t think there were any pieces to collect. I’d thought he was a harmless fellow, at least as harmless as CEOs can be. But it doesn’t matter. It was fun. Its not every day that you see your CEO hurled out of his office window. It was nice. I think that was the last day I went to my office. What is the point anyway? I can just walk in anywhere I want and get my stuff. No one needs salary anymore.

My landlord is killed of course. And I personally cut up the supermarket cashier. I didn’t know blood was so sticky. There are people, mostly teenagers I think, vandalising the telephone booths and writing obscenities on the walls. Very creative. Makes the cemetery human. The other day I saw my Senior Executive join in the ravaging, leering as he danced a jig in the wreckage. He is a smart man. One of the first to join the cults, though that I don’t think was a smart move.

I don’t belong to any cult of course. Cults are in my opinion, dangerous. They remind me of the past days- of the city that was. They have semblances of what the housewife broke, what she didn’t want. Hell, I admire her. But she didn’t want a cult following I am sure. A cult that would have rules, that would have order and routine, that would have rituals. No, a cult is the last thing we need. It would have more and more followers. And we would go back to an order, a different order, but an order nevertheless. It would destroy what we have now.

It would destroy what I have now. It would destroy my elation, my ecstasy, my euphoria- my existence separate from the brute force and decided by me alone. There is joy in the pandemonium and anarchy. Chaos and confusion have set us free. Hell, there isn’t any chaos now. It is clearer, easier, though one might say life expectancy has considerably decreased. As if it matters! We’ve all got to die one day anyway.

Damn those cults! Those idiots shouldn’t be allowed of course. Maybe I’ll start with my Senior Exec. Will he squeal I wonder?
I look down from 12 floors into the sky we conquered.
The city was still there. It looks naked to me; exposed in all its sounds, colours, smells, tastes...
I am alive.

A FEW OLDIES: THE GUILTY NOSE

2010-12-02T15:16:00.003+05:30

Of course it wasn’t because she died that the nose did what it did. The nose was very tiresome. It grew and it grew. I didn’t like looking at dad because of it. It hung from his face- a disgusting lump of flesh, with hair sprouting from the nostrils. It started the day after she- my sister- died. Just a coincidence, I’m sure. It couldn’t have been because of that, could it?

Since I saw her getting run over by a lorry, everyone thought I’d go bonkers or something like that. Some stupid uncle scared mom and dad by talking some Freudian crap. I don’t really know about Freud, but I’m sure he was pretty brainless, if he’s anything at all like my uncle makes him out to be. Dad and mom gave me a big huge lecture on death and a lot of philosophical nonsense after my dim-wit of an uncle brainwashed them. My reactions must have confirmed their worst suspicions. I could hardly look at them. Of course it wasn’t because I saw her get herself plastered onto the road by the lorry. That didn’t matter at all. She wasn’t important anyway- irritating and rather stupid and a bloody tell-tale if there ever was one. It was because of the nose.

I couldn’t bear it.

No one else noticed anything amiss. They were all pretending it was okay, that there was nothing wrong. Maybe they didn’t want to hurt dad’s feelings by pointing out how ugly he looked with a chunk of cartilage-deficient flesh hanging over his hairy upper lip. No one laughed at him. Neither he nor mom nor anyone, not even innocuous acquaintances who dropped in with condolences, was perturbed by this monstrosity.

But I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t stand it all. Day in and day out, I thought of nothing but the nose. I couldn’t do anything else. Everyone thought that it was because she died.

Stupid.

Her death was, frankly, quite convenient. It was the smartest thing she ever did, after getting born, and she didn’t do it herself either. I didn’t like her. She didn’t like me. Of course both of us are better off now.

No, my problem was the nose. And nobody understood it.

One day, I decided I’d think it over logically and rationally and list possible reasons why the nose did what it did. It noted this down behind my EVS note:

1. Dad ate too much and it all went to his nose.
2. The skin on his nose became elastic and got pulled down by gravity.
3. He purposefully got it done because he actually wanted to start a new trend of long noses.
4. The nose just decided to grow on its own to contain all of his cold.
5. Pinocchio story is actually true and dad is a liar.
6. Dad is a monster.
7. Dad is a mutant.
8. It isn’t dad at all. He got replaced by some dumb alien who didn’t know the right size of earth noses.
9. Mom got pissed with dad and yanked his nose.
10. It is because of me.

Of course it wasn’t because of me, was it? I just added that last to round off the reasons to a ten. It wasn’t because of me. It couldn’t be.

As days passed, it grew uglier. I couldn’t talk. I was silenced by the sheer ugliness, the monstrosity, the repulsiveness of the thing. It was pockmarked. It had warts, pimples, black spots, red blotches, grey-black bristles of hair sticking out. I could no longer go to school. I could not eat or drink or sleep. The nose loomed in front of me, accusingly. It seemed to point fingers at me. It seemed to blame me for its repugnant condition. It wasn’t my fault. What could I possibly do about it?

One day, mom spotted my list of reasons in the EVS notebook. She gave me a troubled look. I was relieved. Maybe they’ll take him to a doctor and get it fixed.

But instead of taking dad to a plastic surgeon, I got taken to a psychiatrist! How absurd!

He asked a lot of silly questions. I couldn’t answer of course. All I could see around me was the huge ugly nose, looking at me accusingly, making me move uneasily, making me look guilty. The silly crap he talked nauseated me. I felt like pointing out to him that at 12, I was a lot smarter that the adults around me because I could understand the enormity of the problem of having a hideous nose. Everyone else was just plain stupid. Something had to be done and no one was bothering.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. The nose had left my faculties and senses numb and unresponsive. The psychiatrist looted my parents and gave a date for the next sitting, smiling at me with a false I’m-a-nice-uncle cheeriness. I felt like throwing up.

I was being choked, suffocated, slowly and painfully, murdered and mutilated by the nose. I could see it everywhere- condemning, menacing, intimidating. A flesh and blood indictment of everything I had done.

It had to stop. It had to be stopped. I decided to narrow down my list of reasons by proving each one false. But only for the last reason could I have conclusive proof. I had to find out.

So I went and told mom and dad that I had pushed her on to the road that day, that I had killed her.

They stared at me.

Mom hugged me and said it wasn’t my fault. It couldn’t be true.

Dad’s nose went back to normal, but he didn’t speak.

A FEW OLDIES: THE OTHER

2010-12-02T15:15:00.001+05:30

You would call me mad. Call me Mad.

I am talking to you. Talk. I am talking to you. I can hear your responses; you are human and normal and hence, very predictable and, may I say, quite boring, no offence meant.

Now picture to yourself anything. A place, and me. Any place. A glade perhaps, lush and green, with a slow trickling waterfall, polished shapely stones lining the little creek where you will wet your toes. You can hear the leaves rustle, the wind whistles, the birds chirp – quite a rhapsody in fact. You look at me.

I am talking to you.

Perhaps you would picture a library, closed Gothic windows, arches, columns, marble, bookcases, red carpet, lamp lights, fire places, thick tobacco smoke, and you see me, lying languidly on a leather armchair, carelessly tossing magazines around. You look at me.

I am talking to you.

Now that we’re comfortably settled I shall talk to you.

Why would I? I am mad. I can do anything; insanity is my licence; I can trespass, I can wound, I can yell, I can scream, I can enter your head and turn it to a confused Babel. I am Mad.

Are you afraid?

Of course not.

You are reading. You are not afraid of words on your computer screen, on your books. You can close your browser window and shut down your computer. You can close the book and throw it into the creek or the fireplace.

But aren’t you listening?

You aren’t reading. You are here, in any place, with me. We are alone and you know I am mad. I could be superhuman, I could be violent, I could be deranged. Anything, a flicker of an eyelid, a twitch of your lips, and it could precipitate my insanity. I could attack you. I could in fact kill you.

I am stronger than you.

Haven’t you heard of the strength of the insane? They fear nothing. Consequence and cause.

We’re alone and you’re scared.

But no, your eyebrows are slightly lifted and you are wondering why you even started reading this. You are contemplating whether or not you should spend the next few minutes reading futile ramblings of Mad. For you have precious things to do in the next few minutes. You are not scared of Mad. But you are scared. Your fright defines you. You are fidgeting, looking at your watch, thinking of the next thing.

But you are not listening to me.

I am talking to you.

We’re alone and you’re scared. You cannot shut me down. You cannot throw me into a creek. You cannot think. You aren’t looking at your watch anymore; you don’t give a damn about the next thing.

Sit down, please; and do not look so annoying. Look interested. Feel interested. I shall feel quite insulted if you were more interested in your watch and its hands and the crystal in it, than in me.

Because, I am talking to you.

We’re alone and I’m not a browser window.

I am mad.

I am Mad.

Call me Mad.

Many months ago, I was you.

Would you like a lollipop, by the way? No? Oh, alright. Don’t accuse me of impoliteness, I did ask. Draw a doodle. Go on. No? Do you like mine? Ah! Accusatory eyes! Here I am, alone in any place, with mad, Mad, whatever, and draw a doodle? Yes, indeed. For when I am done with you, I am going to kill you. And last time I checked, they don’t let you draw doodles in purgatory. Ask Dante.

Many months ago, I was you.

Now picture to yourself a comic strip, say, like Tintin or Asterix. Can you see the colours? Slide your hands over the glossy pages. Feels nice? Smells fresh? Or do you prefer that nice old-book smell?

Captain Haddock is drunk and has smashed Tintin, Calculus et al into a huge something. Crash! Ka-boom! Biff! Thud! Smash!

http://dammitisanybloodyaddressavailable.blogspot.com/

That was it.

All of them ceased. But of course Herge would bring them all back miraculously, but Herge wasn’t the one to decide here.

Thus, I ceased.

Possession.

Me ceased. She ensued.

Mad saw. Mad heard. Mad did not understand.

That day the rain singed the grass.

She possessed Mad?

I would not know. Who would? Why would you idiots think that you could define the world in terms of five meagre senses? Or is it that the world is defined because of five meagre senses? Is it that a dog that saw the rainbow is mad because it is not a part of its world of conventional interpretations?

Overkill! You think. You are thinking of 911. Hey presto! You have no cell phone, no PDA, no laptop. We’re alone.

You’re scared.

The rain singed the grass.

Mad saw, heard, smelt, tasted, touched, but Mad could not.

Mad tried. Mad could not.

Mad went to the shrink. Mad could not.

Mad got locked up. Mad could not.

You would call me mad. Call me. Call me mad. Call me Mad.

You look at me. But you do not see. I am no one but I am. I have nothing but I am. You are going to die now. Can you look at Mad, at madness, and say ‘I am’?

Care to draw a doodle? Draw a funny one. Go on. Poke fun at your boss. Lollipop? You don’t get that either in purgatory. Ask Dante. He knows.

The days after the rain singed the grass and the wind screamed a dirge in the sepulchral trees, cannot be remembered. I remember when I was you. I remember when I am Mad. But the days in between have been lost in translation, so to speak.

Throw away your watch. I am going to kill you.

You threw it away. I know.

You think that if you listen to me, I will spare you.

You are wrong.

I am mad.

Do the dying really see their lives flashing in front of their eyes?

The possessed do. In the moment of possession. They do. Possession is death. You are no more you.

She decides. You obey. She decides. You obey. She decides. You obey.

Can you see your life flashing in front of your eyes? Can you hear yourself? Can you hear your lies? Can you see what you are? Can you say “I am”?

You are edging away from me. Your nerves are throbbing against your temples. Your palms are sweaty. You muscles are painfully petrified.

I am coming.

The days after the rain singed the grass, people ceased. Many months later, after she tore me apart, she left me to piece together the shattered ruins of you. And then, she whispered- she only whispers- to the North Wind to blow them away and the South Wind to scatter the ashes.

The days after the winds sung my obituary, I lived.

She had left me.

And I shall leave you.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“But I already have.”

A FEW OLDIES: VISION

2010-12-02T15:13:00.003+05:30

Igor is the villain.

Igor is the one I must do. The last.

Charcoal.

Charcoal.

They wanted colour- red, pink, blue.

Like the primroses and the edelweiss and all those pretty European things in European stories.

But Igor; not Igor.

Igor is mine- charcoal. Smudged and sharp at the same time; like Igor is.

They want colour. Ivan- the glorious prince- the slayer of Igor- in purple and gold of royalty. And the beautiful brainless princess he rescues- golden flowing hair, limpid vapid eyes.

They want colour.

They can have all their Ivans and their princesses in all their fancy plumage.

But not Igor.

All my work I can see now, laid out on my work bench- fearful and adherent and conforming to everything but me, their creator- splashes and splashes and splashes of horrible colour- suppressing and throttling any reality and meaning that they possibly had. All of it- stupid Goldilocks and the idiotic Red Riding Hood and the silly Anoushka- all of them- slaves to the colour.

Slaves to the colour they must have- for that is how they must be. Red Riding Hood must have a disgusting vermillion cape and Anoushka must shine in silver. The colour blazing and blazing. Each tint I painted, each applause I received for all the colour I painted and didn’t believe in and tried to find contentment in- all of them- screamed in falsetto.

But not Igor.

Igor would be my last.

It is curious. I have not thought of how life would be after blindness overtakes me. The only thing that sends me into a feverish delirium is the fear whether I would be able to finish Igor.

Igor, the villain. My last. I had to paint Igor for me.

They want colour.

Like the dragon that Beowulf slew, perhaps- with fiery red eyes and flaring nostrils- your typical villainous creature- your typical nasty picture- the more typical it is, the greater they would like it.

But this picture is not for them.

Each day I spent painting Igor with charcoal, only charcoal. Each day I threw away my work at the end of it.

It requires a certain amount of bravery to work all day and all night on something very special- something that would not be repeated- the completion of all your wishes- a masterpiece- and then throw it all away, like just another piece of sketch, because you are brave enough to admit that it is not right- despite all you did- it is just not right.

That sort of courage sets you free- the courage to forego.

Deadlines seem to me like a thing of a distant past I could never return to.

Their threats and entreaties and expressions of disappointment are merely words that hang around in their space of sound- trying in vain to penetrate my impregnable fort, that impending blindness that built around me.

Each day I spent painting Igor, the sharper I could see. Igor gave me focus- gave me to me.

One day, I completed Igor and looked at him in all his villainy and tyranny and wrath- painted my way, without flaming nostrils and fiery eyes. I looked at him for perhaps a minute- my masterpiece.

I lost my sight completely. Just around the time my doctor said I would.

I had walked to vision.

:)

2010-12-02T15:04:00.000+05:30

I seriously toyed with the idea of either seriously writing or seriously giving up the whole damn thing. Seriously doesn't work. So here I am, back, an ignominious return I must say. All the same, I do feel refreshed after the self-imposed exile, and as always, returning makes everything fresher and sweeter - a warm buttery, crumbly sense of adventure. There are new rhythms in the air, new winds whispering silly things, new thoughts humming crazy tunes. So here I am, back again, feeling a little silly and a little fresh, a little old and a little new. And yes, I want to write and keep writing. It's my own personal brand of heroin. :)

2010-09-12T09:25:00.001+05:30

Leaving... :)