A FEW OLDIES: THE LIFE AND TIMES OF A

“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

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

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

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

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

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.

:)

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.  :)