Monday, December 18, 2006
Monday, August 07, 2006
It’s hilarious. It’s a hilarious rain-sorrow filled paper cup. Just don’t let it surprise you. It’s not semen or anything. It’s just rain-sorrow.
I feel really terrible when you cry because you can’t hold her hand, or when he looks through you or something. I feel terrible for you and me, and also them. I feel terrible for everybody sometimes, but that’s just life…in its most resplendent natural form. It’s being a bitch again. Don’t cry or anything. It’s just the way things are sometimes.
It was a nice day that day. Just the way the Chinese lanterns were lit up above us all - it was almost night, drizzling a little and we were having cheap takeaway coffee. It was super-cool. I loved that day. I don’t remember a word of what was said. And that’s great, ‘cause I usually remember every fucking thing. But I didn’t forget the music: Through the din, the clatter of plates and cups on the sidewalk cafes, the other voices and shuffling feet.
That day never came back, though we all tried to recreate magic in our puny little ways.
Back home, it was all different. There was discontent everywhere – in the way phones were answered, in classroom conversations, in stolen kisses. People were too poor or too rich or Marxists. Or intelligent. Discontent and suffering everywhere. And I missed the goddamn Chinese lanterns and the dishwater coffee, the cold and wet night, our little group. But someone’s cynical laughter distracted me, and we shared a cigarette and wiped the sweat of our brows, talking about things we weren’t too sure of.
Sometimes I think we’ve got it again… when we lean against each other like uncared books in a dusty shelf. And when you tell me about your little quixotic plans. I love you like mad then. But then you look away, like you’ve made a mistake…or like you have more important things to do…or like you’ve said too much. I don’t know what I do then. Probably look at my hands or nod idiotically, laugh unexpectedly or something. What does one do, when they feel love slip so clumsily out of their hands? I am certain I look as silly as you do.
But like I said: it’s not all bad. We’re really good to each other sometimes. We’re good to other people. We still discover new things – in the backyard, in ourselves. And then on a really, really good day, when you turn off the TV, and turn on the rich sax sounds and do a wild jig with me, it’s cool. Not super, but cool.
I feel really terrible when you cry because you can’t hold her hand, or when he looks through you or something. I feel terrible for you and me, and also them. I feel terrible for everybody sometimes, but that’s just life…in its most resplendent natural form. It’s being a bitch again. Don’t cry or anything. It’s just the way things are sometimes.
It was a nice day that day. Just the way the Chinese lanterns were lit up above us all - it was almost night, drizzling a little and we were having cheap takeaway coffee. It was super-cool. I loved that day. I don’t remember a word of what was said. And that’s great, ‘cause I usually remember every fucking thing. But I didn’t forget the music: Through the din, the clatter of plates and cups on the sidewalk cafes, the other voices and shuffling feet.
That day never came back, though we all tried to recreate magic in our puny little ways.
Back home, it was all different. There was discontent everywhere – in the way phones were answered, in classroom conversations, in stolen kisses. People were too poor or too rich or Marxists. Or intelligent. Discontent and suffering everywhere. And I missed the goddamn Chinese lanterns and the dishwater coffee, the cold and wet night, our little group. But someone’s cynical laughter distracted me, and we shared a cigarette and wiped the sweat of our brows, talking about things we weren’t too sure of.
Sometimes I think we’ve got it again… when we lean against each other like uncared books in a dusty shelf. And when you tell me about your little quixotic plans. I love you like mad then. But then you look away, like you’ve made a mistake…or like you have more important things to do…or like you’ve said too much. I don’t know what I do then. Probably look at my hands or nod idiotically, laugh unexpectedly or something. What does one do, when they feel love slip so clumsily out of their hands? I am certain I look as silly as you do.
But like I said: it’s not all bad. We’re really good to each other sometimes. We’re good to other people. We still discover new things – in the backyard, in ourselves. And then on a really, really good day, when you turn off the TV, and turn on the rich sax sounds and do a wild jig with me, it’s cool. Not super, but cool.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Walk along with your broken feet
On a broken road, on a broken street
Sir, a token for your merriness,
Here, have your fun.
Sing aloud with your hollow voice,
And let the hallowed hall ring
With jelly coughs, shuffles and chattering teeth.
When you lie on a cold, hard bed
And cold rain seeps through the ceiling cracks,
And the clock tick-tocks like a madness in your head,
What do you do?
Feel yourself for cuts and bruises, I suppose:
Squalor avenged through body art in permanent ink.
A little angry youth preserved - a little hate, a little love,
A little bit of a broken heart?
And you may not know, but I have seen you stare
Heaven-ward with your soul-sucked eyes -
Taking a breath, and going back to graffiti Gods
And tiny, shared cigarettes.
And maybe you feel a peace and ease
In this madness that, I will never know.
But I know somewhere,
Beyond the fangled wastelands,
Scribbled notes and doodled stuff –
There is a happier you.
On a broken road, on a broken street
Sir, a token for your merriness,
Here, have your fun.
Sing aloud with your hollow voice,
And let the hallowed hall ring
With jelly coughs, shuffles and chattering teeth.
When you lie on a cold, hard bed
And cold rain seeps through the ceiling cracks,
And the clock tick-tocks like a madness in your head,
What do you do?
Feel yourself for cuts and bruises, I suppose:
Squalor avenged through body art in permanent ink.
A little angry youth preserved - a little hate, a little love,
A little bit of a broken heart?
And you may not know, but I have seen you stare
Heaven-ward with your soul-sucked eyes -
Taking a breath, and going back to graffiti Gods
And tiny, shared cigarettes.
And maybe you feel a peace and ease
In this madness that, I will never know.
But I know somewhere,
Beyond the fangled wastelands,
Scribbled notes and doodled stuff –
There is a happier you.
Friday, June 16, 2006
It was the hour of ghosts. And it was surreal, running with high heels on the empty street which boasted of so much life, just a little while back. The lights looked dim. And the shops were all closed. Cars whizzed past occasionally. The pitch roads were slick with rain, steaming a little. I don’t know what I was doing. It was a ridiculous night. A little drunk, a little insane. I was trying to feel the full force of being twenty. There was a bitter-sweet, happy-sad energy, pulsating through my veins… and I needed to be drunk, I needed to run…although why, I cannot tell.
Slow down, a couple of voices said. And I couldn’t, because I didn’t know where my legs were. And I had a notion that, I had probably fallen…but it didn’t hurt. I felt young and reckless, and the sky was so goddamn majestic, looming over this puny little street, this city, this earth, me. I felt small, but deliriously happy. A pair of tragic eyes met mine. Everything was so upside down at the moment. Get up, he said. So I let my body do whatever it wanted to do and I think it got up.
I was walking now, rested against another body. Oh what lovely designs everything made when we walked. I can do what I want, right? I asked. And those eyes just looked ahead patiently, waiting for the madness to recede. Oh please, c’mon, tell me, I’m super, right? And I didn’t really care for answers, because I floated effortlessly across the street, feeling super, super alright.
Will you tell my parents? I suddenly asked, feeling this horrible feeling at the pit of my stomach. Tell them what, the voice right next to me spoke. That I’m stupid? I said, feeling stinging tears roll down my face unannounced. I thought you were super, not stupid, the body that held me said. I’m just twenty, goddamn it, just twenty, I said unhappily.
My voice chimed in my head. I said things, but what I don’t know. It was like a sweet irritation, like a healing sprain, inside me. And I remember the police asking questions and whole lot of other crap, which is quite honestly a blur now. But there was no trouble as far as I can remember. Just an exchange of polite words and money.
Well, congratulations once again, some distant voices said. Yes, it was a great dinner, a great party. Can you drop me home? I asked. But I was standing all alone, and was so far away from that familiar, colourful street. There were no tragic eyes next to me. No happy bantering. No arms to steady me. I didn’t know where the hell I was. There was a door that I was leaning against. And it looked a lot like the one we had at home. But I couldn’t be sure. Heck, I had no goddamn clue.
Slow down, a couple of voices said. And I couldn’t, because I didn’t know where my legs were. And I had a notion that, I had probably fallen…but it didn’t hurt. I felt young and reckless, and the sky was so goddamn majestic, looming over this puny little street, this city, this earth, me. I felt small, but deliriously happy. A pair of tragic eyes met mine. Everything was so upside down at the moment. Get up, he said. So I let my body do whatever it wanted to do and I think it got up.
I was walking now, rested against another body. Oh what lovely designs everything made when we walked. I can do what I want, right? I asked. And those eyes just looked ahead patiently, waiting for the madness to recede. Oh please, c’mon, tell me, I’m super, right? And I didn’t really care for answers, because I floated effortlessly across the street, feeling super, super alright.
Will you tell my parents? I suddenly asked, feeling this horrible feeling at the pit of my stomach. Tell them what, the voice right next to me spoke. That I’m stupid? I said, feeling stinging tears roll down my face unannounced. I thought you were super, not stupid, the body that held me said. I’m just twenty, goddamn it, just twenty, I said unhappily.
My voice chimed in my head. I said things, but what I don’t know. It was like a sweet irritation, like a healing sprain, inside me. And I remember the police asking questions and whole lot of other crap, which is quite honestly a blur now. But there was no trouble as far as I can remember. Just an exchange of polite words and money.
Well, congratulations once again, some distant voices said. Yes, it was a great dinner, a great party. Can you drop me home? I asked. But I was standing all alone, and was so far away from that familiar, colourful street. There were no tragic eyes next to me. No happy bantering. No arms to steady me. I didn’t know where the hell I was. There was a door that I was leaning against. And it looked a lot like the one we had at home. But I couldn’t be sure. Heck, I had no goddamn clue.
Friday, March 24, 2006
*It’s ridiculous how much you can love some people. It’s like this knotty overwhelming feeling that, punches you in the guts sometimes. It’s what makes you check to see if a person is still breathing or not if he’s not snoring.
**Ray held an orange against a marmalade sky. And he wore a dizzy blue shirt and had bright red scratches on his arms. I wonder what happened to him. He probably turned into a beautiful little picture, between the pages of my diary.
It’s all bullshit, he said. What is, I asked. It’s ridiculous, he said. What is, I asked. The way you write godammit, he said. What are you posing for, I asked. I am not, he said. He then grinned suddenly. He always grinned suddenly. And his sooty grey eyes turned wild and dangerous when he did that. Let’s go, he said. And I followed without asking where.
Ray, you are a strange, strange man, I told him. You smell like an Indian kitchen, he said, digging into dal puris. I am an Indian kitchen, I said. I am strange, he said. I still hate the way you write, he said licking his fingers. So what, I said, I can cook well. And we both ran down some empty wet road, like cricket balls hit for a six.
***I stood with others like me, in front of our favourite dhaba, sipping sweet cha. Colourful girls in kurtas and patialas, with interesting jholas and dangly earrings. It started raining, lightly at first and then harder, and I sang some rainy song, really softly, so that no-one could hear me, but myself. What are you muttering about, dangly earrings asked. Nothing, I said. No, you are always doing things like this, interesting jhola observed. I’m just singing, I said. Then why can’t you sing louder pipsqueak, yellow kurta exhorted. I don’t know, I said. I sipped tea and looked at the slick wet roads over the muddy rim of the cup. The boys joined us, a while later. Disheveled and dirty on purpose, with pants that were so loose that their underwear showed. With sneers and crisp witticisms and observations on their lips. Colourful boys and girls in the rain, smoking and sipping tea and talking about Satyajit Ray, Eliot, Pink Floyd and revolutions. And I stood there hunched and spectre thin. Maybe I wasn’t like them at all.
****The metro ride home was lonely, squashed in with people wet with sweat and rain and discontent. Like sitting on a wet toilet seat, first thing in the morning. I dreamed and dreamed and dreamed: I’ll go here, go there, I’ll do this, I’ll do that. I stood on the vestibule, where you’re not supposed to stand and dreamed, only to be interrupted once in a while by indecisive passengers, who kept changing compartments. The jerky khatakhat-khaat, khatakhat-khaat noise of the train and the lovely zephyr that blew through the torn edges of the vestibule took me to another world. And the lonely people of course. Of course, I’m sure not all them were lonely. Maybe it was the lights… the distant look in their eyes... the mis-en-scene of the entire compartment. I remembered standing here once and reading bits of Toni Morrison’s “Jazz”, about Violet and her lonely life.
*****Nothing, nothing makes sense, Ray said. You? You are saying that, I asked, bewildered and heart-broken. Who am I? I am nobody, he said. No, no, no, you’re everybody I argued. You can be anyone, I insisted. And he grinned and asked me where we were going to go today. I was relieved. Anywhere, anywhere, I said. To a rocky cliff then, he said. With a swirling sea below, I said. And an oak tree, leaning over the edge, he said. And a swing attached to one of its heavy branches, I added. Yes, let’s go, he said. And we both went.
**Ray held an orange against a marmalade sky. And he wore a dizzy blue shirt and had bright red scratches on his arms. I wonder what happened to him. He probably turned into a beautiful little picture, between the pages of my diary.
It’s all bullshit, he said. What is, I asked. It’s ridiculous, he said. What is, I asked. The way you write godammit, he said. What are you posing for, I asked. I am not, he said. He then grinned suddenly. He always grinned suddenly. And his sooty grey eyes turned wild and dangerous when he did that. Let’s go, he said. And I followed without asking where.
Ray, you are a strange, strange man, I told him. You smell like an Indian kitchen, he said, digging into dal puris. I am an Indian kitchen, I said. I am strange, he said. I still hate the way you write, he said licking his fingers. So what, I said, I can cook well. And we both ran down some empty wet road, like cricket balls hit for a six.
***I stood with others like me, in front of our favourite dhaba, sipping sweet cha. Colourful girls in kurtas and patialas, with interesting jholas and dangly earrings. It started raining, lightly at first and then harder, and I sang some rainy song, really softly, so that no-one could hear me, but myself. What are you muttering about, dangly earrings asked. Nothing, I said. No, you are always doing things like this, interesting jhola observed. I’m just singing, I said. Then why can’t you sing louder pipsqueak, yellow kurta exhorted. I don’t know, I said. I sipped tea and looked at the slick wet roads over the muddy rim of the cup. The boys joined us, a while later. Disheveled and dirty on purpose, with pants that were so loose that their underwear showed. With sneers and crisp witticisms and observations on their lips. Colourful boys and girls in the rain, smoking and sipping tea and talking about Satyajit Ray, Eliot, Pink Floyd and revolutions. And I stood there hunched and spectre thin. Maybe I wasn’t like them at all.
****The metro ride home was lonely, squashed in with people wet with sweat and rain and discontent. Like sitting on a wet toilet seat, first thing in the morning. I dreamed and dreamed and dreamed: I’ll go here, go there, I’ll do this, I’ll do that. I stood on the vestibule, where you’re not supposed to stand and dreamed, only to be interrupted once in a while by indecisive passengers, who kept changing compartments. The jerky khatakhat-khaat, khatakhat-khaat noise of the train and the lovely zephyr that blew through the torn edges of the vestibule took me to another world. And the lonely people of course. Of course, I’m sure not all them were lonely. Maybe it was the lights… the distant look in their eyes... the mis-en-scene of the entire compartment. I remembered standing here once and reading bits of Toni Morrison’s “Jazz”, about Violet and her lonely life.
*****Nothing, nothing makes sense, Ray said. You? You are saying that, I asked, bewildered and heart-broken. Who am I? I am nobody, he said. No, no, no, you’re everybody I argued. You can be anyone, I insisted. And he grinned and asked me where we were going to go today. I was relieved. Anywhere, anywhere, I said. To a rocky cliff then, he said. With a swirling sea below, I said. And an oak tree, leaning over the edge, he said. And a swing attached to one of its heavy branches, I added. Yes, let’s go, he said. And we both went.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Victor's Room
It was a room that cast a spell on you.
The bookshelves boasted of all the right books
And the lazy lounge chair and svelte lamp
Like a Moroccan don and vixen vamp
Invited you smoothly, blowing smoke rings into your face.
Sit down, sit down.
The window stared into a narrow cobblestone street.
Outside, burnt brick houses leaned over each other,
- Ponderous, pondering, smoking a little.
Inside, a fire burnt assiduously
Dancing, bickering and bantering with fellow flames.
Rosemary prepared the coffee.
And silver spoons and coffee cups
Waited eagerly, and importantly like bright children.
Victor was old.
He didn’t bother with hats, suits
Or patent leather shoes.
He stayed at home and watched the news.
He read a lot,
Settling down comfortably on the Moroccan don
And smoking rare Cuban cigars and Java coffee fumes.
He’d travel thrice a year.
Some place exotic and new.
But quiet, with plenty of solitude.
Victor was old.
Sometimes he missed the tangerine perfume
That once invaded this room.
Victor dreamed sometimes, when he finished reading
The yellowed pages of some old, worn book.
He dreamt of woods and jungles
And a strange red earth…
And a perfume, yes, the most divine perfume,
Of tangerine with a lemon’s twist.
Of olive skin and guitars
And rain in December.
He imagined he heard laughter sometimes…
And mirthful voices that bantered
Like the flames in his hearth.
And the eyes, of course the eyes –
Dark, stormy, gypsy eyes
That, veiled themselves with thick eyelashes
And an elusive vagueness.
Yes, Victor dreamed sometimes.
Was it this room? Of course it was.
Where a flower, a powerful, powerful flower
Was brought and kept for everyone to see.
Its lavish petals enthralled all,
And its sweet smell intoxicated.
And Victor, nourished the earth
That his prized possession grew on.
Right next to the Japanese paintings
And Russian dolls,
Pushed against a green-apple wall,
The one with the window,
In a most exquisite vase.
The flower lived out its life
And faded...
It never replicated.
And Victor settled for some less exotic daisies.
And as he sits, by the warm fire
Reading a book, leather-bound and kind of dull…
Victor feels a little chill.
Like a breathy whisper -
Of frozen citrus perfume.
And he cannot help it as he chokes,
On some powerful unseen beauty,
And the coffee grows cold
And the glowing cigar-end turns to ashes…
The bookshelves boasted of all the right books
And the lazy lounge chair and svelte lamp
Like a Moroccan don and vixen vamp
Invited you smoothly, blowing smoke rings into your face.
Sit down, sit down.
The window stared into a narrow cobblestone street.
Outside, burnt brick houses leaned over each other,
- Ponderous, pondering, smoking a little.
Inside, a fire burnt assiduously
Dancing, bickering and bantering with fellow flames.
Rosemary prepared the coffee.
And silver spoons and coffee cups
Waited eagerly, and importantly like bright children.
Victor was old.
He didn’t bother with hats, suits
Or patent leather shoes.
He stayed at home and watched the news.
He read a lot,
Settling down comfortably on the Moroccan don
And smoking rare Cuban cigars and Java coffee fumes.
He’d travel thrice a year.
Some place exotic and new.
But quiet, with plenty of solitude.
Victor was old.
Sometimes he missed the tangerine perfume
That once invaded this room.
Victor dreamed sometimes, when he finished reading
The yellowed pages of some old, worn book.
He dreamt of woods and jungles
And a strange red earth…
And a perfume, yes, the most divine perfume,
Of tangerine with a lemon’s twist.
Of olive skin and guitars
And rain in December.
He imagined he heard laughter sometimes…
And mirthful voices that bantered
Like the flames in his hearth.
And the eyes, of course the eyes –
Dark, stormy, gypsy eyes
That, veiled themselves with thick eyelashes
And an elusive vagueness.
Yes, Victor dreamed sometimes.
Was it this room? Of course it was.
Where a flower, a powerful, powerful flower
Was brought and kept for everyone to see.
Its lavish petals enthralled all,
And its sweet smell intoxicated.
And Victor, nourished the earth
That his prized possession grew on.
Right next to the Japanese paintings
And Russian dolls,
Pushed against a green-apple wall,
The one with the window,
In a most exquisite vase.
The flower lived out its life
And faded...
It never replicated.
And Victor settled for some less exotic daisies.
And as he sits, by the warm fire
Reading a book, leather-bound and kind of dull…
Victor feels a little chill.
Like a breathy whisper -
Of frozen citrus perfume.
And he cannot help it as he chokes,
On some powerful unseen beauty,
And the coffee grows cold
And the glowing cigar-end turns to ashes…
Friday, February 03, 2006
Urban Romance
There’s urban romance. And there’s a train that’s about to leave at 5:17 p.m. Ignoring the damn twilight and damn lovers who’ll not see each other for the next seven months. The damn lovers. The damned lovers.
There’s the jeep ride in the rain. There are hills and surreptitious kisses. There’s a feeling of not knowing. There is a fallen tree and memories. There’s that car and Bobby McGee. There’s a red bandana and untold stories.
There’s a missing girl. There are lost jobs and letters. There are days of inexplicable insanity. There’s that day of finally meeting someone who understands.
There’s a lot of on the road stuff. A lot of guitar, poetry and cigarettes… There are days of reckless abandon and carefree love-making. There are days of experience and loss.
There’s Bob Dylan and then there’s that square country girl. There are days of wishing and hoping. And there are conversations and bonfires galore.
There’s a new city. There is a new song. There are different things to see, and STD phone-calls to be made to anxious parents. Photographs there are many.
There’s a distant land. It sometimes surprises pleasantly, sometimes disappoints. It tells us the true meaning of homesickness.
There’s a date that lurks near. There is a station platform and a-come –on –in -just –this-once goodbye.
There’s urban romance. And there is a train that’s about to leave at 5:17 p.m.
Friday, January 27, 2006
I hate pop-ups and smartasses. But that didn’t stop them from entering my life.
I am fussy about coffee, but I am diseased with politeness. I sit in a bus that’s about to have a heart attack, and I know it’s not for me. And as I wait in the traffic signal, studiously ignoring the little beggar boy, in my plush Mercedes Benz, I know, that’s not for me either.
I have a face that could be from anywhere. I have a voice that is seldom heard. I have hands and feet that could be anybody’s. I have a body, I don’t care much for. I have a cello-taped heart and an indecisive brain. I have a pair of very vague eyes and a smile that’s too easy and meaningless.
I live well enough. I have friends. I have family. I’m not frightfully pretty or frightfully ugly. I’m not morbidly depressed or over the moon happy. I’m your everyday, regular cup of coffee. Or tea. Whatever it is you have.
Come tomorrow, I am going to die. And it’ll be sheer poetry.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Ms. Ol’Wassername, I’m pleased to announce, has kicked the bucked. Gone, deceased, disintegrated, helloing St. Pete, whatever, whatever…dead. And here I am. An extreme. Brand new hands, brand new feet, a face you’d remember, a voice you’d dream of and eyes that would haunt you forever. Ms. Sex on the Beach. Peachy ‘aint she?
------------------------------------------------------------------
Unrequited love is a bitch. That’s what the girl next to me keeps saying, in an accent I don’t quite get. It’s the first time I’ve come to this strange city. And she wails, and bawls, and dead soldiers appear from nowhere and one tells me… “You were never a patriot, never will be”.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Coffee, cruel coffee. Loves to test my patience, still. Cigarettes and magazines scattered everywhere, remind me of a song. A mother, a father and a brother walk around the new apartment looking for this kid. I tell them, she doesn’t live here. And they walk out saying “never mind” and remind me of another song.
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Another day, another job. Another face I remember, another I’d rather not.
------------------------------------------------------------------
He had a trunk like a tree trunk. And he ate six meals a day. He had perfect teeth and a ghastly voice. He just came into my apartment and refused to go. I had to pick up a cricket bat and chase him away. But then again, it could have been a crow.
------------------------------------------------------------------
This British boy (I’m sure about this, he was British, he told me so), sat next to me in a hand-pulled rickshaw. I thought it was strange, because I hate hand-pulled rickshaws and I never share my transportation. He told me, I was becoming crazier by the day. And I told him plainly (because I wasn’t diseased with politeness anymore) that, I am fine. I have a perfect body, perfect feet, perfect hands, haunting eyes and a dreamy voice. I am an extreme. So he just got off, and I endured the terrible ride on my own and could not ask the man to stop. When I reached my destination, I realized I was penniless.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Is it just the Romantics, who keep searching, searching and searching? What is it that they search for? The Holy Grail, Salvation, Love, God, Happiness? How do they write? How do they tell stories? Don’t they ever look at their hands and wonder, “whose are these?”
I am fussy about coffee, but I am diseased with politeness. I sit in a bus that’s about to have a heart attack, and I know it’s not for me. And as I wait in the traffic signal, studiously ignoring the little beggar boy, in my plush Mercedes Benz, I know, that’s not for me either.
I have a face that could be from anywhere. I have a voice that is seldom heard. I have hands and feet that could be anybody’s. I have a body, I don’t care much for. I have a cello-taped heart and an indecisive brain. I have a pair of very vague eyes and a smile that’s too easy and meaningless.
I live well enough. I have friends. I have family. I’m not frightfully pretty or frightfully ugly. I’m not morbidly depressed or over the moon happy. I’m your everyday, regular cup of coffee. Or tea. Whatever it is you have.
Come tomorrow, I am going to die. And it’ll be sheer poetry.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Ms. Ol’Wassername, I’m pleased to announce, has kicked the bucked. Gone, deceased, disintegrated, helloing St. Pete, whatever, whatever…dead. And here I am. An extreme. Brand new hands, brand new feet, a face you’d remember, a voice you’d dream of and eyes that would haunt you forever. Ms. Sex on the Beach. Peachy ‘aint she?
------------------------------------------------------------------
Unrequited love is a bitch. That’s what the girl next to me keeps saying, in an accent I don’t quite get. It’s the first time I’ve come to this strange city. And she wails, and bawls, and dead soldiers appear from nowhere and one tells me… “You were never a patriot, never will be”.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Coffee, cruel coffee. Loves to test my patience, still. Cigarettes and magazines scattered everywhere, remind me of a song. A mother, a father and a brother walk around the new apartment looking for this kid. I tell them, she doesn’t live here. And they walk out saying “never mind” and remind me of another song.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Another day, another job. Another face I remember, another I’d rather not.
------------------------------------------------------------------
He had a trunk like a tree trunk. And he ate six meals a day. He had perfect teeth and a ghastly voice. He just came into my apartment and refused to go. I had to pick up a cricket bat and chase him away. But then again, it could have been a crow.
------------------------------------------------------------------
This British boy (I’m sure about this, he was British, he told me so), sat next to me in a hand-pulled rickshaw. I thought it was strange, because I hate hand-pulled rickshaws and I never share my transportation. He told me, I was becoming crazier by the day. And I told him plainly (because I wasn’t diseased with politeness anymore) that, I am fine. I have a perfect body, perfect feet, perfect hands, haunting eyes and a dreamy voice. I am an extreme. So he just got off, and I endured the terrible ride on my own and could not ask the man to stop. When I reached my destination, I realized I was penniless.
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Is it just the Romantics, who keep searching, searching and searching? What is it that they search for? The Holy Grail, Salvation, Love, God, Happiness? How do they write? How do they tell stories? Don’t they ever look at their hands and wonder, “whose are these?”
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Well you see Elvis died at 42
He could never get over Elvis dying at 42. Then John Lennon got shot and Kurt Cobain shot himself. He could feel the world collapsing around him. 9/11 happened and his sister confirmed that she was a lesbian, at the same time. What does a man do in a moment of crisis like that? He found solace in this girl called Marianne and they got married and divorced all in a span of three years. He was dissatisfied with his job. He liked designing, but not potato chip packets. He was an artist. Or so he liked to believe. He painted every Sunday in front of the big window facing the lake. Not the scenery outside or anything…I mean come on …it would be the same damn thing all the time then…he did that just once. Maybe twice. Once in water colours, and once in charcoal. He just liked the place, that’s all.
She battled with weight all her life. She tried very hard not to be a cliché. She proved everyone wrong by being happy. She got married and had two children. She had many friends. She had a small, but nice house. She liked to hum songs while changing diapers and cooking. Her husband stayed away a lot. Maybe for work, maybe not. But she did not fret. She was not a worrier. She believed everything happened for a reason, and she couldn’t fight destiny. She read poetry in her free time. She worked in a bookshop. But had to quit after the birth of her second son. But she was fine with that. Really.
They met at the park. Battery Park. He was walking his dog. She was out with her children. Yes, they were lonely. What else did you think? All they needed to do was to meet. And like I said, they did.
Well of course, they fell in love. But she didn’t leave her husband, and he still went to work. They both dreamed of leaving their dreary lives behind and search for a new house in Tuscany that faced the sea. But who doesn’t?
They always met at Battery Park. They talked. They dreamed. They watched her children play. He sometimes painted amidst the falling autumn leaves. She admitted that she used to play the piano and had hoped to play professionally someday. But their house was too small for a piano. And she didn’t have the time anyway. He said he wanted to be Elvis. And was. Every Halloween. They laughed often. Sometimes, if they were hungry, they had a little something from somewhere nearby. She wondered if turning vegetarian would help. He was considering asking for a raise.
Her husband did not recognize the slightly bald, short-sighted man who came to his wife’s funeral. He had something to say. He said “Well, you see Elvis died at 42. And I never got over that. She helped me to. Now I wonder who’ll help me get over her”. He missed her a lot. He was a sentimental man. He quit his job, sold his paintings, got a house in Tuscany that faced the sea and shifted into it a grand piano.
She battled with weight all her life. She tried very hard not to be a cliché. She proved everyone wrong by being happy. She got married and had two children. She had many friends. She had a small, but nice house. She liked to hum songs while changing diapers and cooking. Her husband stayed away a lot. Maybe for work, maybe not. But she did not fret. She was not a worrier. She believed everything happened for a reason, and she couldn’t fight destiny. She read poetry in her free time. She worked in a bookshop. But had to quit after the birth of her second son. But she was fine with that. Really.
They met at the park. Battery Park. He was walking his dog. She was out with her children. Yes, they were lonely. What else did you think? All they needed to do was to meet. And like I said, they did.
Well of course, they fell in love. But she didn’t leave her husband, and he still went to work. They both dreamed of leaving their dreary lives behind and search for a new house in Tuscany that faced the sea. But who doesn’t?
They always met at Battery Park. They talked. They dreamed. They watched her children play. He sometimes painted amidst the falling autumn leaves. She admitted that she used to play the piano and had hoped to play professionally someday. But their house was too small for a piano. And she didn’t have the time anyway. He said he wanted to be Elvis. And was. Every Halloween. They laughed often. Sometimes, if they were hungry, they had a little something from somewhere nearby. She wondered if turning vegetarian would help. He was considering asking for a raise.
Her husband did not recognize the slightly bald, short-sighted man who came to his wife’s funeral. He had something to say. He said “Well, you see Elvis died at 42. And I never got over that. She helped me to. Now I wonder who’ll help me get over her”. He missed her a lot. He was a sentimental man. He quit his job, sold his paintings, got a house in Tuscany that faced the sea and shifted into it a grand piano.
Monday, December 26, 2005
"I have to ask", he said. "Do, you still talk to her?"
She was just about done with his neck, and wasn't in the mood to talk. "Hmm?" she somehow obliged.
"Is that a yes, or a no?" he demanded to know, pushing her back.
She looked at him vaguely and then slowly curled up like a cat near his legs. Then she smiled a contended smile and relished the dillema in his eyes.
"Yes, of course", she said, reaching out for a cigarette.
He sat cross legged and hunched, lighting the cigarette for her.
"So, you, still...you know..."
"No. We're done with that. But we talk....from time to time. Why do you care?"
He got up, wrapping the sheet around his waist. She promptly pulled it away.
"Why?"
"Yes, why?" she asked, playing with the corner of the sheet and smiling.
He pulled back the sheet and wrapping it around again, walked towards the window. He observed the view from his 42nd floor penthouse apartment. The glittering lights below looked so far away...the glittering stars above looked so far away. He was far away from everything, he felt.
"I don't understand you artists. Is it absoulutely necessary for you to 'explore both sides of the hemisphere', or whatever it is that you say? Is it? It's such a goddamn cliche, you know", he said waving his hands dramatically.
"You're a bit of a cliche too, darling. The big business tycoon, with the mid-life crisis, and slutty mistress", she said, taking a long, slow drag from her cigarette.
"I don't think you're slutty. Just a bit of a whore, that's all", he said, his temples throbbing with anger.
She chuckled and got up and embraced him. "I love it when you're mad", she whispered and kissed him on his lips, but he pushed her back angrily, and she fell back on the bed, rather ungracefully.
"Darling, tell me", she said, lying there as she fell, "what would you do, if your wife found out?"
"Depending on her reaction, I'd either leave her, or you...", he said lighting himself a cigarette.
"Oh...so it matters what she thinks", she said softly.
"Yes" he said feeling knotty and exasperated.
Pacing a little he went back to the bed and leaned over her. "So we're both flawed, chliched and pretentious. Do you care?", he asked, trying to forget the conversation.
"No, I don't. But you do. But it's okay", she said, and pulled him into herself.
He didn't fight it. He was a fallen man. And he couldn't do a thing about it, even if he wanted. Not when the devil in the form of this beautiful creature, was doing such wonderful things to him. He didn't even want to be redeemed.
As he drove home, he felt completely relaxed. That little cat sure knew how to deal with his moods and anxieties. Oh, she was good. She was very, very good.
A few blocks from his home, he was met with an unfamiliar sight. His beautiful picket-fenced, Victorian house was blazing with fire. Inside, you could hear from a mile away, the agonized screams of a woman. The mortified neighbours were gathered around his house, the wailing sirens of police cars and fire engines could be heard. No-one saw, as he quickly backed his car, and drove away from the ghastly scene. He needed to get away. As far away as possible.
She was just about done with his neck, and wasn't in the mood to talk. "Hmm?" she somehow obliged.
"Is that a yes, or a no?" he demanded to know, pushing her back.
She looked at him vaguely and then slowly curled up like a cat near his legs. Then she smiled a contended smile and relished the dillema in his eyes.
"Yes, of course", she said, reaching out for a cigarette.
He sat cross legged and hunched, lighting the cigarette for her.
"So, you, still...you know..."
"No. We're done with that. But we talk....from time to time. Why do you care?"
He got up, wrapping the sheet around his waist. She promptly pulled it away.
"Why?"
"Yes, why?" she asked, playing with the corner of the sheet and smiling.
He pulled back the sheet and wrapping it around again, walked towards the window. He observed the view from his 42nd floor penthouse apartment. The glittering lights below looked so far away...the glittering stars above looked so far away. He was far away from everything, he felt.
"I don't understand you artists. Is it absoulutely necessary for you to 'explore both sides of the hemisphere', or whatever it is that you say? Is it? It's such a goddamn cliche, you know", he said waving his hands dramatically.
"You're a bit of a cliche too, darling. The big business tycoon, with the mid-life crisis, and slutty mistress", she said, taking a long, slow drag from her cigarette.
"I don't think you're slutty. Just a bit of a whore, that's all", he said, his temples throbbing with anger.
She chuckled and got up and embraced him. "I love it when you're mad", she whispered and kissed him on his lips, but he pushed her back angrily, and she fell back on the bed, rather ungracefully.
"Darling, tell me", she said, lying there as she fell, "what would you do, if your wife found out?"
"Depending on her reaction, I'd either leave her, or you...", he said lighting himself a cigarette.
"Oh...so it matters what she thinks", she said softly.
"Yes" he said feeling knotty and exasperated.
Pacing a little he went back to the bed and leaned over her. "So we're both flawed, chliched and pretentious. Do you care?", he asked, trying to forget the conversation.
"No, I don't. But you do. But it's okay", she said, and pulled him into herself.
He didn't fight it. He was a fallen man. And he couldn't do a thing about it, even if he wanted. Not when the devil in the form of this beautiful creature, was doing such wonderful things to him. He didn't even want to be redeemed.
As he drove home, he felt completely relaxed. That little cat sure knew how to deal with his moods and anxieties. Oh, she was good. She was very, very good.
A few blocks from his home, he was met with an unfamiliar sight. His beautiful picket-fenced, Victorian house was blazing with fire. Inside, you could hear from a mile away, the agonized screams of a woman. The mortified neighbours were gathered around his house, the wailing sirens of police cars and fire engines could be heard. No-one saw, as he quickly backed his car, and drove away from the ghastly scene. He needed to get away. As far away as possible.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
“I won’t, I won’t, I won’t”, he said, refusing to look up from his tomato soup existence.
“But…” I said, floating in cream of mushroom.
“No. And that’s final”, he said, drowning croutons.
“But you must!” I said assassinating asparagus.
“And how do you intend to make me?” he asked, twisting his flour-dough fingers.
“I don’t know. But, please?” I pleaded, cracking my fortune-cookie knuckles.
He agreed eventually. Blue eyes red. Angry, red, red. Me ballerina-hopping-happy. Sulk, sulk, sulk. Ha, ha, ha!
What a night before the other night. No love. Love. No love. Love, love, love. Nope. No love. Oh no, but oh yes! Yes. Yes. Yes! Love. Slipping out. Spilling out. Nope. It’s gone now. Score(eventually): No love (lost).
Morning of the expected night was pregnant with twisted vein-nerve-artery dilemma and doubtful anger and joy. Eggs cracking and sizzling and tsk-tsking like vengeful, bitter-tongued mother-in-laws.
“Na, na, na. Woohoohoo!” he showered under the Victoria.
“Shit. Shit. Oh Shit!!!” I prepared breakfast in the caveman’s kitchen.
Afternoon, I was in Jamaica. He was in Tokyo.
Early evening I was in New York. He was in Los Angeles.
Late evening we were both in Las Vegas.
“And?” he asked, purple, from holding his breath.
“I haven’t seen” I said, jelly-legged and noodle-brained.
We decided to wait till it was night.
The void of time and space was filled with inky-blue melancholy. Entwined like a couple of mating snakes. As still as malaria water.
Then, it was time.
Then it was past that time.
Then it was way past that time.
I was finally a dandelion. He was finally the grand old oak he wanted to be, but didn’t know he wanted to be. We were both glad of course.
“But…” I said, floating in cream of mushroom.
“No. And that’s final”, he said, drowning croutons.
“But you must!” I said assassinating asparagus.
“And how do you intend to make me?” he asked, twisting his flour-dough fingers.
“I don’t know. But, please?” I pleaded, cracking my fortune-cookie knuckles.
He agreed eventually. Blue eyes red. Angry, red, red. Me ballerina-hopping-happy. Sulk, sulk, sulk. Ha, ha, ha!
What a night before the other night. No love. Love. No love. Love, love, love. Nope. No love. Oh no, but oh yes! Yes. Yes. Yes! Love. Slipping out. Spilling out. Nope. It’s gone now. Score(eventually): No love (lost).
Morning of the expected night was pregnant with twisted vein-nerve-artery dilemma and doubtful anger and joy. Eggs cracking and sizzling and tsk-tsking like vengeful, bitter-tongued mother-in-laws.
“Na, na, na. Woohoohoo!” he showered under the Victoria.
“Shit. Shit. Oh Shit!!!” I prepared breakfast in the caveman’s kitchen.
Afternoon, I was in Jamaica. He was in Tokyo.
Early evening I was in New York. He was in Los Angeles.
Late evening we were both in Las Vegas.
“And?” he asked, purple, from holding his breath.
“I haven’t seen” I said, jelly-legged and noodle-brained.
We decided to wait till it was night.
The void of time and space was filled with inky-blue melancholy. Entwined like a couple of mating snakes. As still as malaria water.
Then, it was time.
Then it was past that time.
Then it was way past that time.
I was finally a dandelion. He was finally the grand old oak he wanted to be, but didn’t know he wanted to be. We were both glad of course.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Two big, innocent eyes had seen everything. Two big ears, sticking out of a relatively small head, had heard everything. And then, in a dewdrop instance, these sensory organs forgot. The little pieces of sudden, surprising events had been carefully stored away in a little dark corner, of a fresh pink brain.
I really mean to tell you a story. I can feel this story within me. It’s trying to push itself out of me, and it’s not finding the right vent. I really, really mean to tell you… It’s a rather desperate feeling. Look, I will try. It maybe coherent…it may not be. But please listen…because, I need to speak.
There was sun everywhere. Sun in the courtyard. Sun in the rooftop. Sun in the window. Sun in the hair, the eyes, the face. Sun through a hole. Sun smeared at the edges of a hole. A little spot of sun on my right shin. Like I said… it was everywhere.
Someone was sitting in the courtyard cutting his or her nails. Someone was hanging up wet clothes to dry. Someone was getting a mustard oil massage. Someone was reading the papers. Someone was having oranges. Everyone was doing something or the other.
I was playing in my room. I had a cold. It was winter, and I was wearing a muffler and a sweater and something else I don’t remember. I was playing with a broken tobacco pipe and a very thick pair of turtle-shell rimmed glasses. I was wearing the glasses and pretending to smoke the pipe. I was my grandfather.
My parents were in the other room, quarreling tremendously, like they always quarreled.
I was used to this constant bickering. It was my lullaby when I went to sleep. It was my alarm clock when I had to wake up in time for school.
Nothing was unusual or out of order. I was looking out of the window in my room and inspecting all the activities of the courtyard with grandfather-eyes.
And I felt the sun shine brightly, directly, into my big eyes, through the inch thick lenses of the glasses. Everything was blurred and wonderful. Someone was singing a song.
This is the very last memory I have of my childhood. I know this is not exactly a story…or even an anecdote. It’s the only thing I remember of those days, and I’m dying to tell someone.
I remember I used to draw a lot…even on the walls of our two storied bungalow. I remember singing while taking a bath in the dark mezzanine floored bathroom. I remember being forced to eat fish. I remember listening to the radio. I remember sleeping under a suffocating mosquito net. I remember the smell of school. I remember the smell of my blue raincoat. But all this was before the day I looked out of my window. After that, the only other thing I remember was a complicated math problem during a class IX exam. But that was ten years later. I remember nothing before.
Except…a strange pain. Not particularly painful. But an unfamiliar, unidentifiable pain. No balm, no medicine, no syrup could cure it. It was…is…this haunting, irritating niggle that, consumes my entire body. It comes and goes. It never completely disappears.
Anyway, that’s it. Now I feel much better. Can I go to my room now? 306. Ward no.306.
I really mean to tell you a story. I can feel this story within me. It’s trying to push itself out of me, and it’s not finding the right vent. I really, really mean to tell you… It’s a rather desperate feeling. Look, I will try. It maybe coherent…it may not be. But please listen…because, I need to speak.
There was sun everywhere. Sun in the courtyard. Sun in the rooftop. Sun in the window. Sun in the hair, the eyes, the face. Sun through a hole. Sun smeared at the edges of a hole. A little spot of sun on my right shin. Like I said… it was everywhere.
Someone was sitting in the courtyard cutting his or her nails. Someone was hanging up wet clothes to dry. Someone was getting a mustard oil massage. Someone was reading the papers. Someone was having oranges. Everyone was doing something or the other.
I was playing in my room. I had a cold. It was winter, and I was wearing a muffler and a sweater and something else I don’t remember. I was playing with a broken tobacco pipe and a very thick pair of turtle-shell rimmed glasses. I was wearing the glasses and pretending to smoke the pipe. I was my grandfather.
My parents were in the other room, quarreling tremendously, like they always quarreled.
I was used to this constant bickering. It was my lullaby when I went to sleep. It was my alarm clock when I had to wake up in time for school.
Nothing was unusual or out of order. I was looking out of the window in my room and inspecting all the activities of the courtyard with grandfather-eyes.
And I felt the sun shine brightly, directly, into my big eyes, through the inch thick lenses of the glasses. Everything was blurred and wonderful. Someone was singing a song.
This is the very last memory I have of my childhood. I know this is not exactly a story…or even an anecdote. It’s the only thing I remember of those days, and I’m dying to tell someone.
I remember I used to draw a lot…even on the walls of our two storied bungalow. I remember singing while taking a bath in the dark mezzanine floored bathroom. I remember being forced to eat fish. I remember listening to the radio. I remember sleeping under a suffocating mosquito net. I remember the smell of school. I remember the smell of my blue raincoat. But all this was before the day I looked out of my window. After that, the only other thing I remember was a complicated math problem during a class IX exam. But that was ten years later. I remember nothing before.
Except…a strange pain. Not particularly painful. But an unfamiliar, unidentifiable pain. No balm, no medicine, no syrup could cure it. It was…is…this haunting, irritating niggle that, consumes my entire body. It comes and goes. It never completely disappears.
Anyway, that’s it. Now I feel much better. Can I go to my room now? 306. Ward no.306.
Monday, November 21, 2005
He picked at a scab. I sat next to him with my head in my hands and stared. “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man….have you read it?” he asked. “No”, I said, now staring at my brittle toe nails.
“I might open a shop here”, he said looking at the sky.
“What kind?” I asked looking at a cloud.
“Small” he replied.
I smiled and we walked towards the sea.
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It was a lazy afternoon. Soft, yellow and wintry. The dog nibbled at something. I stretched and yawned and smiled all the while. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared out of the window. The fan whirred steadily, at its lowest speed. I touched his back, half asleep, looking at him with rainbow eyelashes.
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It had rained last night. It was still raining in the morning. Freak showers from nowhere particular. Had the MET in a tizzy. He had wanted to cook. I had wanted to make love.
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The phone rang incessantly. But it was an empty house. The chair, the table, the bed, the floor, the ceiling…they heard. And they felt scared. The dog had died a few days ago.
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I had a headache. Nothing seemed right when I had a headache. I slept fitfully and wept unconsciously. The chowkidaar was on his final round. He blew the whistle and beat the ground with his stick. He had one more bidi and slept in peace, awakened by the occasional mosquito.
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He had said too much of what he had felt. He was embarrassed now. He smoked in the verandah and watched football on TV. He wouldn’t look at me. He wouldn’t talk to me. I chewed on the things he had just told me.
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I painted an ugly picture. I loved it. He cocked his head sideways and smiled at it. He had just gotten a pair of glasses. He looked older and more patient.
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I was at a wedding. I just went because I wanted to wear a sari. He did not come, and a mashima said, it was my turn next.
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He was packing his bag. I was sitting cross-legged on the bed, observing everything. Six pairs of underwear, socks, shirts, T-shirts, two pairs of jeans, two pairs of khakis, a cargo, three trousers, a denim jacket, an overcoat, wet-pack.
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“I am finding this very difficult. I am sick. Homesick. Lovesick.” I put the letter into the empty Cadbury Nutties box.
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It was hot and sweaty. Loads of work to be done. Loads of work. I had a crick in my neck. I smelt the Vicks container once again and felt better. I picked up a bunch of books and placed them in the huge cardboard box. I sealed it with duct tape and then wrote on it with a marker: Books that I actually read.
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I left 5 minutes ago. He called. He was very happy. She was fine. I was fine.
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I was taking piano lessons. I was re-learning the subjects I was bad at. I liked the new place. It was not too big, not too small. I had a new dog. I finally read ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’. I had to fish it out of the box marked – ‘Books I’ll never read, but should’.
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“I might open a shop here”, he said looking at the sky.
“What kind?” I asked looking at a cloud.
“Small” he replied.
I smiled and we walked towards the sea.
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It was a lazy afternoon. Soft, yellow and wintry. The dog nibbled at something. I stretched and yawned and smiled all the while. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared out of the window. The fan whirred steadily, at its lowest speed. I touched his back, half asleep, looking at him with rainbow eyelashes.
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It had rained last night. It was still raining in the morning. Freak showers from nowhere particular. Had the MET in a tizzy. He had wanted to cook. I had wanted to make love.
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The phone rang incessantly. But it was an empty house. The chair, the table, the bed, the floor, the ceiling…they heard. And they felt scared. The dog had died a few days ago.
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I had a headache. Nothing seemed right when I had a headache. I slept fitfully and wept unconsciously. The chowkidaar was on his final round. He blew the whistle and beat the ground with his stick. He had one more bidi and slept in peace, awakened by the occasional mosquito.
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He had said too much of what he had felt. He was embarrassed now. He smoked in the verandah and watched football on TV. He wouldn’t look at me. He wouldn’t talk to me. I chewed on the things he had just told me.
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I painted an ugly picture. I loved it. He cocked his head sideways and smiled at it. He had just gotten a pair of glasses. He looked older and more patient.
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I was at a wedding. I just went because I wanted to wear a sari. He did not come, and a mashima said, it was my turn next.
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He was packing his bag. I was sitting cross-legged on the bed, observing everything. Six pairs of underwear, socks, shirts, T-shirts, two pairs of jeans, two pairs of khakis, a cargo, three trousers, a denim jacket, an overcoat, wet-pack.
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“I am finding this very difficult. I am sick. Homesick. Lovesick.” I put the letter into the empty Cadbury Nutties box.
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It was hot and sweaty. Loads of work to be done. Loads of work. I had a crick in my neck. I smelt the Vicks container once again and felt better. I picked up a bunch of books and placed them in the huge cardboard box. I sealed it with duct tape and then wrote on it with a marker: Books that I actually read.
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I left 5 minutes ago. He called. He was very happy. She was fine. I was fine.
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I was taking piano lessons. I was re-learning the subjects I was bad at. I liked the new place. It was not too big, not too small. I had a new dog. I finally read ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’. I had to fish it out of the box marked – ‘Books I’ll never read, but should’.
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Monday, October 31, 2005
Ash on an Old Man's Sleeve
It was nice when it rained. It reminded me of all sorts of nice smells. Like Cuticura powder.
Dadabulo's armchair needed repair. And some of the books in the library were full of silver ants. Oh no...Don Quixote too. Our favourite book.
The 42 year old record player still worked. Maybe it would sell well at some antique store. Maybe it wouldn't. I don't care. I'd keep it and listen to The Beatles, Carpenters and Cliff Richard. The only records that still worked. And Donny Osmond. But I never liked him much.
The 1975 Toyota had been sold off. It used to smell great. So did Dadabulo. Except when he came back from the hospital. There was this strong smell of disinfectant, which always made me pinch my nose. But then I grew used to it.
But that was a long time ago. Where was the box of cards, I wondered. The one he got from Sweden. The rich rosewood box, with the really worn out cards. Hours of Patience. And to think people called him impatient. Like me.
The pipes were there in the dressing table drawer. The rusted tobacco box safely held in it some my teeth, which had to be extracted at the dentists'. What a dirty clinic that was. What a waste to have brushed ten times before leaving. And then having Halls to keep my breath fresh. What a gentle doctor the dentist was though. With soft hands. It didn't hurt much. And I had my pride. Dadabulo was 100% certain I would not wail and cry like the twitchy little girl before me. I didn't even wince. And got rewarded with loads of ice cream.
He gave me my first bicycle. But it got stolen. It was red. And I remember crashing into hundreds of flower pots and falling on top of the bonnet of a moving car, while learning. What a day that was. I had sworn I'd never ride it again. But I did. And fell in love with a floppy red haired chap that I nicknamed Archie. Archie had a grey coloured scooter that refused to start in winter. And the poor boy would keep trying to warm up the engine while I stood in the verandah and stared at him lovesick. He was extremely scared of me. I think I was trying to grow my hair then.
I liked the Rollick man a lot. And nutty crunchy ice cream that Dadabulo bought for us. And the long walks with Snowy. It was so funny when Snowy farted. Dadabulo said it was a common problem with old men. But it was uproariously funny. I think sometimes Snowy seriously took offence when we giggled like that. What a photogenic dog he was. I remember crying non-stop for two whole days when he died. Dadabulo called up in the morning to tell me that, he didn't do a thing to the "stupid dog", as he liked to call him. Snowy just went to his favourite place under the Toyota in the garage and lay down to sleep. He never came out. I remember pulling him out of there on some Sundays when we tried to give him a bath. Right after the bath in the terrace, with a terrible hose pipe, he'd run down the stairs and hide under the car. He'd come out a little later covered in soot. "Stupid dog! Stupid dog!" Dadabulo would yell!
It was nice then. I didn't do much then. I'd sing and dance and act in plays. But no-one at school would know. "Rabindra sangeet? You know Bangla?"
I wasn't what I used to be then. The bright effervescent child at home. The shy, well-mannered girl at school.... Old wazzername?
Hand me a cigarette, willya? Don't you just love The Doors? Oh, so you play guitar as well? Aah, you know that poem by Eliot? No, no. Not Wasteland. Ash on an Old Man's Sleeve. No? But you must read it!
Stupid dog.
Dadabulo's armchair needed repair. And some of the books in the library were full of silver ants. Oh no...Don Quixote too. Our favourite book.
The 42 year old record player still worked. Maybe it would sell well at some antique store. Maybe it wouldn't. I don't care. I'd keep it and listen to The Beatles, Carpenters and Cliff Richard. The only records that still worked. And Donny Osmond. But I never liked him much.
The 1975 Toyota had been sold off. It used to smell great. So did Dadabulo. Except when he came back from the hospital. There was this strong smell of disinfectant, which always made me pinch my nose. But then I grew used to it.
But that was a long time ago. Where was the box of cards, I wondered. The one he got from Sweden. The rich rosewood box, with the really worn out cards. Hours of Patience. And to think people called him impatient. Like me.
The pipes were there in the dressing table drawer. The rusted tobacco box safely held in it some my teeth, which had to be extracted at the dentists'. What a dirty clinic that was. What a waste to have brushed ten times before leaving. And then having Halls to keep my breath fresh. What a gentle doctor the dentist was though. With soft hands. It didn't hurt much. And I had my pride. Dadabulo was 100% certain I would not wail and cry like the twitchy little girl before me. I didn't even wince. And got rewarded with loads of ice cream.
He gave me my first bicycle. But it got stolen. It was red. And I remember crashing into hundreds of flower pots and falling on top of the bonnet of a moving car, while learning. What a day that was. I had sworn I'd never ride it again. But I did. And fell in love with a floppy red haired chap that I nicknamed Archie. Archie had a grey coloured scooter that refused to start in winter. And the poor boy would keep trying to warm up the engine while I stood in the verandah and stared at him lovesick. He was extremely scared of me. I think I was trying to grow my hair then.
I liked the Rollick man a lot. And nutty crunchy ice cream that Dadabulo bought for us. And the long walks with Snowy. It was so funny when Snowy farted. Dadabulo said it was a common problem with old men. But it was uproariously funny. I think sometimes Snowy seriously took offence when we giggled like that. What a photogenic dog he was. I remember crying non-stop for two whole days when he died. Dadabulo called up in the morning to tell me that, he didn't do a thing to the "stupid dog", as he liked to call him. Snowy just went to his favourite place under the Toyota in the garage and lay down to sleep. He never came out. I remember pulling him out of there on some Sundays when we tried to give him a bath. Right after the bath in the terrace, with a terrible hose pipe, he'd run down the stairs and hide under the car. He'd come out a little later covered in soot. "Stupid dog! Stupid dog!" Dadabulo would yell!
It was nice then. I didn't do much then. I'd sing and dance and act in plays. But no-one at school would know. "Rabindra sangeet? You know Bangla?"
I wasn't what I used to be then. The bright effervescent child at home. The shy, well-mannered girl at school.... Old wazzername?
Hand me a cigarette, willya? Don't you just love The Doors? Oh, so you play guitar as well? Aah, you know that poem by Eliot? No, no. Not Wasteland. Ash on an Old Man's Sleeve. No? But you must read it!
Stupid dog.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Desert Sands
Where were you, when I walked on the lone desert sands all by myself? Yes…the moon was there. But it was still lonely as I wrapped its blanket of blue around my body. The wind played with my hair and fine grains of sand blew into my face. I licked my dry, cracking lips and swept back the hair that fell over my face. The three pyramids of Khufu, Khafre and Menkaura loomed over me, a silhouette against their gigantic presence. The Sphinx lay before Khafre…dedicated and loyal, the ironic smile wiped off from his face by a mysterious force. It saw me approach and cast me a wary look.
The sand seeped into the folds of my toes as my leather sandals sank into the blue sand. I shivered as I walked towards the tombs of the three royal wives.
Where are you now? I am sitting here all by myself, a thin shawl wrapped around my shoulders, shivering not in the cold, but in anticipation.
The stars are twinkling softly. The silence is fraught with a palpable tension. It is interrupted by the sudden wail of the desert sands. I am playing with the sand absently, letting it slip between my fingers and then grabbing a handful immediately. I am really tired. Really, really tired.
It is two in the morning. You are still not here. The watch on my wrist ticks on mercilessly. It clicks its intricately designed steel hands in disapproval. Do not wait any more; it tells me, you have waited long enough.
I hold the worn leather diary to my breast one last time. I weave through its yellowed pages once more. You promised. You promised you would come. I let the diary slip. It gets covered with a splattering of sand brought forward by a gust of wind.
I left without looking back. If only I had. Maybe I would have seen the second figure that cast its shadow on the pyramids. Maybe I would have seen his nimble, delicate fingers dusting away the thin layer of sand that covered the diary. Maybe I would have seen him pick it up and kiss its cover. Maybe I would have never let him walk away.
The sand seeped into the folds of my toes as my leather sandals sank into the blue sand. I shivered as I walked towards the tombs of the three royal wives.
Where are you now? I am sitting here all by myself, a thin shawl wrapped around my shoulders, shivering not in the cold, but in anticipation.
The stars are twinkling softly. The silence is fraught with a palpable tension. It is interrupted by the sudden wail of the desert sands. I am playing with the sand absently, letting it slip between my fingers and then grabbing a handful immediately. I am really tired. Really, really tired.
It is two in the morning. You are still not here. The watch on my wrist ticks on mercilessly. It clicks its intricately designed steel hands in disapproval. Do not wait any more; it tells me, you have waited long enough.
I hold the worn leather diary to my breast one last time. I weave through its yellowed pages once more. You promised. You promised you would come. I let the diary slip. It gets covered with a splattering of sand brought forward by a gust of wind.
I left without looking back. If only I had. Maybe I would have seen the second figure that cast its shadow on the pyramids. Maybe I would have seen his nimble, delicate fingers dusting away the thin layer of sand that covered the diary. Maybe I would have seen him pick it up and kiss its cover. Maybe I would have never let him walk away.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
New Blog
check out my other blog if you please. www.musicalmosquito.blogspot.com
It's more about me I guess.
It's more about me I guess.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Friday, August 19, 2005
Blurry
You know sometimes how things are just perfect? When you don’t have a tooth-ache or head-ache or a finger-ache or a funny feeling in the stomach? When everything is just right? You do? Well…that’s strange…as far as I see it…there’s always something or the other…. A niggle at most. Anyway….the day I’m talking about…was an almost-perfect day. The weather actually, was rather perfect. For me, anyway. Dark grey clouds hovered over the earth. The zephyr was slowly transforming into something a little more sinister….unassumingly lifting skirts, blowing away hats and smacking fliers onto people’s faces. Two fat drops of rain plopped on to my face and the rest followed suit. Chaos all around me…peace within. Really, it was perfect. I could stay out longer, getting wet and all…but you know all that jazz about decorum et cetera. Besides, it’s more fun when there’s someone else to splash around with. All I could see around me were a bunch of boring drips.
Anyway, soaked through the skin, I finally took shelter – some sort of bus-stop. Don’t ask me which one… I never take buses. People looked at me funny. Don’t blame them. A wet girl in a transparent white shirt …entertainment in an otherwise dreary place like a bus-stop. But an Ursula Andress, I was not….so I guess the stares weren’t sustained. Oh well.
It was around that time – standing in a crowded bus-stop with a simply fascinating assortment of strangers – staring at the deserted streets – that I saw him…Blurry. That’s what he was. Blurry. A riot of colors weaving through disjointed strands of rain.
“Terrific, isn’t it?” he asked me, a perfect stranger. “Perfect”, I replied, a perfect stranger. “Where are you… right now?” he asked, shaking himself like a dog. “Scotland, I guess. Could be Norway, but I’m guessing Scotland”. “Wonderful”, he quipped. “ I’m in this place called Cavan – it’s a county in Ireland – not too far from Dublin. So I guess we aren’t too far apart”. “Considering how big this world is”, I said, “no, not at all”.
“Yes. That’s what I like about you. You still think the world is big. Isn’t it awful when someone says ‘it’s a small world after all’?” “Yes. They give no credit to poor ol’ world. For all its mysteries and secret shadowy crevasses”, I said munching on roasted corn. “Now you are being silly”, he said slurping on imaginary tea, “just plain old silly”. That put me off. Believe me, it did. Who was he to call me silly??...this…this….Clown!
Anyway, good for him he was never in one place, or one mood for that matter, for very long. Judging by his next question, I supposed he was in Africa. “Do you think”, he asked scratching his ear, “that you could ever eat a zebra?” “What sort of zebra?” I asked, groping for a punch line. “Well...” he said, “the usual…but if you want more…he’s about your size…not too tall, but you know, the sort who eats all day and everything…” I gaped at him angrily…damn, I needed a punch line.
“Can I have some of your corn? You are making a huge show of it you know? You might as well share”, he said changing the topic once again. “I’ll think about it”, I said smarting a little; after all he just compared me to a zebra that eats all day. “You obviously have no manners”, he said, the uncouth what-not. “It’s the company I keep”, I sniffed. “Your shirt is wet. So’s your hair”, said the observant fellow. “Really? I hadn’t noticed. Maybe because of the rain and everything”. “See, the thing is”, he said, finally taking away my corn cob, “I can see your scalp. Have you considered taking Paba? Para benzoic acid?” Ouch. “No”, I said, recovering only slightly, “but I’ve considered jumping off a building”. “How tall was it?” “About your size. Not too tall.” “Then it doesn’t qualify as a building.” “Whatever. I don’t feel like talking”, I said feeling disturbed.
So we both stopped talking for a while. Then along came a bus. 202 or something of that sort. “So, you want to come?” he asked, renewing old ties. “I don’t know where it’s going”, I said honestly. “Nowhere particular. Let’s go”, he said, tugging at my arm. So I went, because the bus went to ‘nowhere particular’…precisely my destination. We sat together. Surprise, surprise…like he was going to leave me. The bus was empty. Pretty much empty. I guess most people knew where they were going.
I sat at the window, but of course. I sit only by the windows. He didn’t complain. “Have you been in love?” he asked. What a cheesy question. “It’s none of your business”, I said, not caring much for the topic of conversation. I had seen perfectly fine gentlemen, in total control of themselves, being reduced to jelly, when it came to things like love. Just a mere conversation about it would make them seem silly. When they’d suddenly get sentimental and dreamy and talk about things ‘you won’t understand’. “I knew a girl once…” he began, and I sighed, hating him and despising him and getting bored of him. “She was a tarantula of some sort”. What? Oh no…not Dylan and all that now! “Hairy little poisonous thing. I loved her. She roamed about freely…not in a glass cage or anything. Always found something to nibble on. Till she found my toe. It’s all about the survival of the fittest right? So I took an encyclopedia I never read and squashed her before she could bite me. It was the cruelest thing I had to do…kill someone I loved”. It felt surreal…talking about a dead tarantula, who was a former love, on an empty bus that went to ‘nowhere particular’ on a stormy afternoon. “Was that metaphorical?” I asked, happy again. “No. Nothing between the lines”. “Good”. “But I lost someone”. “Don’t we all?” “Shut up”. Ouch. I should have been more sensitive and less pseudo-philosophical. “Sorry”, I said sincerely.
“You say that a lot don’t you?” he asked. “Even for other people…people I don’t know”, I replied. “I figured”. “I have been in love”, I said suddenly. He just looked out of the window, past me. But I went on. I knew he was listening. “He didn’t love me back. I don’t think he knew either. He went around with someone else. Happily married now, I believe”. “You're like my tarantula. I don't how it is connected to your story though. I'd just like to think you're my tarantula. Though you’re not particularly hairy. Paba is the only answer. Believe me. Paba”. And I laughed. For the first time in ages, I laughed. A laugh that came from some unknown abyss I hadn’t dared to explore.
Somehow I don’t remember the rest. It’s all blurry after that.
Anyway, soaked through the skin, I finally took shelter – some sort of bus-stop. Don’t ask me which one… I never take buses. People looked at me funny. Don’t blame them. A wet girl in a transparent white shirt …entertainment in an otherwise dreary place like a bus-stop. But an Ursula Andress, I was not….so I guess the stares weren’t sustained. Oh well.
It was around that time – standing in a crowded bus-stop with a simply fascinating assortment of strangers – staring at the deserted streets – that I saw him…Blurry. That’s what he was. Blurry. A riot of colors weaving through disjointed strands of rain.
“Terrific, isn’t it?” he asked me, a perfect stranger. “Perfect”, I replied, a perfect stranger. “Where are you… right now?” he asked, shaking himself like a dog. “Scotland, I guess. Could be Norway, but I’m guessing Scotland”. “Wonderful”, he quipped. “ I’m in this place called Cavan – it’s a county in Ireland – not too far from Dublin. So I guess we aren’t too far apart”. “Considering how big this world is”, I said, “no, not at all”.
“Yes. That’s what I like about you. You still think the world is big. Isn’t it awful when someone says ‘it’s a small world after all’?” “Yes. They give no credit to poor ol’ world. For all its mysteries and secret shadowy crevasses”, I said munching on roasted corn. “Now you are being silly”, he said slurping on imaginary tea, “just plain old silly”. That put me off. Believe me, it did. Who was he to call me silly??...this…this….Clown!
Anyway, good for him he was never in one place, or one mood for that matter, for very long. Judging by his next question, I supposed he was in Africa. “Do you think”, he asked scratching his ear, “that you could ever eat a zebra?” “What sort of zebra?” I asked, groping for a punch line. “Well...” he said, “the usual…but if you want more…he’s about your size…not too tall, but you know, the sort who eats all day and everything…” I gaped at him angrily…damn, I needed a punch line.
“Can I have some of your corn? You are making a huge show of it you know? You might as well share”, he said changing the topic once again. “I’ll think about it”, I said smarting a little; after all he just compared me to a zebra that eats all day. “You obviously have no manners”, he said, the uncouth what-not. “It’s the company I keep”, I sniffed. “Your shirt is wet. So’s your hair”, said the observant fellow. “Really? I hadn’t noticed. Maybe because of the rain and everything”. “See, the thing is”, he said, finally taking away my corn cob, “I can see your scalp. Have you considered taking Paba? Para benzoic acid?” Ouch. “No”, I said, recovering only slightly, “but I’ve considered jumping off a building”. “How tall was it?” “About your size. Not too tall.” “Then it doesn’t qualify as a building.” “Whatever. I don’t feel like talking”, I said feeling disturbed.
So we both stopped talking for a while. Then along came a bus. 202 or something of that sort. “So, you want to come?” he asked, renewing old ties. “I don’t know where it’s going”, I said honestly. “Nowhere particular. Let’s go”, he said, tugging at my arm. So I went, because the bus went to ‘nowhere particular’…precisely my destination. We sat together. Surprise, surprise…like he was going to leave me. The bus was empty. Pretty much empty. I guess most people knew where they were going.
I sat at the window, but of course. I sit only by the windows. He didn’t complain. “Have you been in love?” he asked. What a cheesy question. “It’s none of your business”, I said, not caring much for the topic of conversation. I had seen perfectly fine gentlemen, in total control of themselves, being reduced to jelly, when it came to things like love. Just a mere conversation about it would make them seem silly. When they’d suddenly get sentimental and dreamy and talk about things ‘you won’t understand’. “I knew a girl once…” he began, and I sighed, hating him and despising him and getting bored of him. “She was a tarantula of some sort”. What? Oh no…not Dylan and all that now! “Hairy little poisonous thing. I loved her. She roamed about freely…not in a glass cage or anything. Always found something to nibble on. Till she found my toe. It’s all about the survival of the fittest right? So I took an encyclopedia I never read and squashed her before she could bite me. It was the cruelest thing I had to do…kill someone I loved”. It felt surreal…talking about a dead tarantula, who was a former love, on an empty bus that went to ‘nowhere particular’ on a stormy afternoon. “Was that metaphorical?” I asked, happy again. “No. Nothing between the lines”. “Good”. “But I lost someone”. “Don’t we all?” “Shut up”. Ouch. I should have been more sensitive and less pseudo-philosophical. “Sorry”, I said sincerely.
“You say that a lot don’t you?” he asked. “Even for other people…people I don’t know”, I replied. “I figured”. “I have been in love”, I said suddenly. He just looked out of the window, past me. But I went on. I knew he was listening. “He didn’t love me back. I don’t think he knew either. He went around with someone else. Happily married now, I believe”. “You're like my tarantula. I don't how it is connected to your story though. I'd just like to think you're my tarantula. Though you’re not particularly hairy. Paba is the only answer. Believe me. Paba”. And I laughed. For the first time in ages, I laughed. A laugh that came from some unknown abyss I hadn’t dared to explore.
Somehow I don’t remember the rest. It’s all blurry after that.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Friday, July 08, 2005
The Gift
It was godawful corny, if you have to know. A whole lot of sentimental slop. But he wrote it down for her, because he had no idea what she would like. Not that he didn’t think. Oh, he thought. And thought. And thought a little more. It had to make some sort of statement, you see. Something which said that, he was smart…and that even if he pretended that he didn’t care, he did. It had to have a bit of psychedelia and flower power…she liked all that sixties crap… and…well…it had to be a tinge sentimental…’cause whether she admitted or not, she was every bit the sentimentalist. Anyway…and there would be art work. Van Gogh or Dali…maybe Renoir…maybe even Ansel Adams…she was obsessing a bit about photography of late. So, you see…no-one could accuse him of being unobservant or uncaring. Its just that she wasn’t all that easy to figure out.
He didn’t think he could conquer her with his looks. He had always been a little funny looking. A tad too tall, limbs that went on forever, ears which stuck out at all the wrong angles, a nose that was too long for comfort, and eyes that were far too myopic. But everyone said he had a nice smile. If only he’d smile more often…
He was a clever ol’ fellow though. He knew his stuff. He wrote, read and composed with élan and sophistication…in the classroom, he was unbeatable. Outside…well…he got beaten a lot. So he stayed at home…with his paints, brushes and piano. Read a lot, smoked a lot and tried to establish himself as more of an intellectual, and less of a certified geek. It worked to an extent. It worked with her. Or maybe she saw him for exactly what he was…and still liked him. Either way…she was his. Quite an achievement, he thought.
He took his poor old struggling artist’s satchel bag and a big puff of his cigarette…and trotted off to meet his lady love. She…she was everything wonderful. At least to him, she was. She was an actress. Theatre of course. Pretty and witty. If only, if only, she could sit still. “Oh I don’t care much for all the post-modernist jazz”, she said smoking her zillionth cigarette. “But hey, it’s a living. Give me good ol’ melodrama any day…”…she said stirring her martini and pushing back a strand of her jet black hair. “I mean”, she continued, “its not that I have anything against Becket or Ibsen or anyone…its just that…you know…its all they can talk about…those…those snobs…I mean…do they even know what they are saying? They just love the fact that they are so damn smart…and believe me, they aren’t. They just mug up their lines really well…especially that scruffy arty guy. You know, the one…smoking weed all the time? And then there’s that Professor. He is such a sarcastic piece of shit. God, all I want to do is dissipate when I see him. He thinks he’s some sort of Oxford cream, but all he is, is a bitter old junkie. ”
He didn’t care much for her company. She was right…they were all arty snobs. But all very popular. He wondered what that would be like. But who cares. She was there. Smoking her menthols and sipping her martinis. Her short hair tousled carelessly, her innocuous dimples right there, her naughty twinkling eyes smiling at him. Life was good.“Uh…so…you wanna see it, or what?”, he said…his heart pounding a little for some reason. “Ooh! Yes! The present! I’m so sorry dear…its just that I’ve been having the most disastrous day…with that guy putting me down all the time…and the shoes so awfully tight…I just…oh well…never mind. Let’s see what you’ve got.” She started unwrapping the old brown paper which held her birthday present and card…letter…both. Anyway, “You’re really something, you know”, she said while tearing at the paper with impatience, “really something. Thank you. For whatever it is. I love you for the thought and all. Even if it sounds corny. Or rude. Or both”. At last she opened it. The poem was on top, in his scrawly handwriting. The Peanuts collection beneath that (“Snoopy!” she exclaimed), and the collage…Van Gogh, Dali, Renoir, Adams…the lot…and he had to admit himself, it looked pretty darned good. She was grinning ear to ear…her dimples conspicuous as ever…his heart still beating a little faster than usual. “Well?”
“They went ahead and did so many things
She read from the paper. Smiled again and looked out of the window of the café in which they were sitting. “I like it”, she breathed. And smiled again, her eyes far away. “Is something wrong?” he asked. She shook her head in disagreement and kissed him on his cheek tenderly. “Thank you. Really, thank you”. He smiled this time. “Glad you liked it”. She nodded, her eyes still wistful and melancholy, the smile plastered on her face. He felt a bit unsettled. She stopped fidgeting with her stirrer, and stubbed out her cigarette. “I have to go”, she said abruptly. “But why?” he asked, colouring a little. “We just met!” But she was already getting up and nodding absently. He grabbed her arm and looked into her eyes. He saw fear. And he let go, puzzled beyond belief. “What happened? Just tell me once…is it something I said? Wrote? I mean, come on! We’re supposed to be happy today! It’s your birthday and everything. Did that guy piss you off? Should I…” “I –I have to go”, she cut him off. And he stood there speechless, as he saw her walk out of the café, her hips swinging sweetly from side to side.
He didn’t think he could conquer her with his looks. He had always been a little funny looking. A tad too tall, limbs that went on forever, ears which stuck out at all the wrong angles, a nose that was too long for comfort, and eyes that were far too myopic. But everyone said he had a nice smile. If only he’d smile more often…
He was a clever ol’ fellow though. He knew his stuff. He wrote, read and composed with élan and sophistication…in the classroom, he was unbeatable. Outside…well…he got beaten a lot. So he stayed at home…with his paints, brushes and piano. Read a lot, smoked a lot and tried to establish himself as more of an intellectual, and less of a certified geek. It worked to an extent. It worked with her. Or maybe she saw him for exactly what he was…and still liked him. Either way…she was his. Quite an achievement, he thought.
He took his poor old struggling artist’s satchel bag and a big puff of his cigarette…and trotted off to meet his lady love. She…she was everything wonderful. At least to him, she was. She was an actress. Theatre of course. Pretty and witty. If only, if only, she could sit still. “Oh I don’t care much for all the post-modernist jazz”, she said smoking her zillionth cigarette. “But hey, it’s a living. Give me good ol’ melodrama any day…”…she said stirring her martini and pushing back a strand of her jet black hair. “I mean”, she continued, “its not that I have anything against Becket or Ibsen or anyone…its just that…you know…its all they can talk about…those…those snobs…I mean…do they even know what they are saying? They just love the fact that they are so damn smart…and believe me, they aren’t. They just mug up their lines really well…especially that scruffy arty guy. You know, the one…smoking weed all the time? And then there’s that Professor. He is such a sarcastic piece of shit. God, all I want to do is dissipate when I see him. He thinks he’s some sort of Oxford cream, but all he is, is a bitter old junkie. ”
He didn’t care much for her company. She was right…they were all arty snobs. But all very popular. He wondered what that would be like. But who cares. She was there. Smoking her menthols and sipping her martinis. Her short hair tousled carelessly, her innocuous dimples right there, her naughty twinkling eyes smiling at him. Life was good.“Uh…so…you wanna see it, or what?”, he said…his heart pounding a little for some reason. “Ooh! Yes! The present! I’m so sorry dear…its just that I’ve been having the most disastrous day…with that guy putting me down all the time…and the shoes so awfully tight…I just…oh well…never mind. Let’s see what you’ve got.” She started unwrapping the old brown paper which held her birthday present and card…letter…both. Anyway, “You’re really something, you know”, she said while tearing at the paper with impatience, “really something. Thank you. For whatever it is. I love you for the thought and all. Even if it sounds corny. Or rude. Or both”. At last she opened it. The poem was on top, in his scrawly handwriting. The Peanuts collection beneath that (“Snoopy!” she exclaimed), and the collage…Van Gogh, Dali, Renoir, Adams…the lot…and he had to admit himself, it looked pretty darned good. She was grinning ear to ear…her dimples conspicuous as ever…his heart still beating a little faster than usual. “Well?”
“They went ahead and did so many things
We escaped and sank deeper into sin...
The motley van had left without us,
Forty years had passed,
We discovered ourselves in a broken bus.”
She read from the paper. Smiled again and looked out of the window of the café in which they were sitting. “I like it”, she breathed. And smiled again, her eyes far away. “Is something wrong?” he asked. She shook her head in disagreement and kissed him on his cheek tenderly. “Thank you. Really, thank you”. He smiled this time. “Glad you liked it”. She nodded, her eyes still wistful and melancholy, the smile plastered on her face. He felt a bit unsettled. She stopped fidgeting with her stirrer, and stubbed out her cigarette. “I have to go”, she said abruptly. “But why?” he asked, colouring a little. “We just met!” But she was already getting up and nodding absently. He grabbed her arm and looked into her eyes. He saw fear. And he let go, puzzled beyond belief. “What happened? Just tell me once…is it something I said? Wrote? I mean, come on! We’re supposed to be happy today! It’s your birthday and everything. Did that guy piss you off? Should I…” “I –I have to go”, she cut him off. And he stood there speechless, as he saw her walk out of the café, her hips swinging sweetly from side to side.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Bonnie and Clyde : Revisited
Bonnie said to Clyde one day…
“It was summer when we met.
Just one of those days you can’t forget.
Honest, upright and clean –
The nicest man I’d ever seen…
They changed you, didn’t they Clyde?
I’m happy as we are,
In our little getaway car.
The dusty trails we go on,
The bloody trails we leave behind…
Did I tell you that, red is my favourite colour?
What good would we have been
In cotton fields and gas stations?
No millions could we steal
In a world devoid of imagination.
Load your gun, I’ll wear my hat
And we will leave a mark.
No longer will we be wallflowers
Fading in the dark.”
A day later they both got caught.
Gunned and gory, their corpses were brought.
“Don’t bring me to the funeral parlour.
Bring me home” Bonnie had told her mother.
We were aboard that car
Eight decades too late, so what?
We also sang them songs
Of our freedom and our love.
They went ahead and did so many things.
We escaped and sank deeper into sin.
The motley van had left without us,
Eighty years had passed…
We discovered ourselves in a broken bus.
“It was summer when we met.
Just one of those days you can’t forget.
Honest, upright and clean –
The nicest man I’d ever seen…
They changed you, didn’t they Clyde?
I’m happy as we are,
In our little getaway car.
The dusty trails we go on,
The bloody trails we leave behind…
Did I tell you that, red is my favourite colour?
What good would we have been
In cotton fields and gas stations?
No millions could we steal
In a world devoid of imagination.
Load your gun, I’ll wear my hat
And we will leave a mark.
No longer will we be wallflowers
Fading in the dark.”
A day later they both got caught.
Gunned and gory, their corpses were brought.
“Don’t bring me to the funeral parlour.
Bring me home” Bonnie had told her mother.
We were aboard that car
Eight decades too late, so what?
We also sang them songs
Of our freedom and our love.
They went ahead and did so many things.
We escaped and sank deeper into sin.
The motley van had left without us,
Eighty years had passed…
We discovered ourselves in a broken bus.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Just an uh-uhmm moment
I’m sitting here, waiting for a long distance call. Or a secret smile maybe…a look…some form of contact…. I’ve been waiting for quite a while.It would be unfair to call myself lonely…unfair because…I have everything…I am lonely, not because I am alone….just dissatisfied I guess….I don’t know why really….I’d rather not delve into too many philosophical thoughts. Okay, forget that I’m lonely. I am not.
You see, sometimes I feel as if I’m this really deep, philosophical person…but I’m not, to be honest with you. I am a cheap materialist…I am happy with “things”, so to speak. I am also…very self-absorbed. I like thinking only about myself. I am not a very interesting person in the eyes of other people though. ‘Boring’, is the word I’m looking for. But I wish they could see more than what they saw…I wish I could let them enter my imaginary world….now that, is interesting…really, it is. I wish I could tell a person, who thought I was really boring, ‘hop aboard…see what it is really like.’ But then I’d hesitate…I’m not too sure….will he really like it? Is it really that good? I’m never too sure about anything. Do something…if you ever meet me….don’t ask me about the weather…’cause I won’t be sure about that either.
Hey, you know what I really like? I like roller coasters. All sorts of roller coasters. I like the way you move so fast, that you don’t know where you’re going to be next….but at the same time, you’re tied up so securely, you know you’ll never fall…it’s the happiest, most exhilarating feeling of all. I wish I owned all the roller coasters in the world, and never had to queue up when I wanted to ride them. I’d feel the wind in my face, that light feeling in my gut, the fast beat of my heart against my rib cage, the adrenaline rush…I swear, I would never tire of it.Know what I don’t like? I don’t like it when people say “Life is like a roller coaster ride”…meaning, life has its ups and downs. And the people who say it, some of them, man, they haven’t even been on a roller coaster ….it just gets me mad. I know there is no sound logic behind my anger…but I just hate phrases like that. As if people know everything about life by the time they are twenty-six. I think, the only time people should talk about life, and huge philosophical theories, is when they are just about to die…when they have seen as much as they could….I mean no-one ever sees everything…even if he lives to be a hundred and twenty six. Why, some people who see me everyday, haven’t seen me at all. See what I’m getting at?
Any-way. I’ll let you in on a secret. My biggest fear. People. If there’s one thing that I’m really, really scared of, its people. It’s not easy being a human being, I tell you. I’d much rather be stuck in Siberia with a hungry polar bear for company. But I know what you’re thinking. Why would I look for any form of contact, if I were scared of people? Umm…I’m not sure. I guess isolation is not good for me. If you noticed, I had a polar bear with me in Siberia. I need someone. Always. Real, or imaginary. I need. I’m a needy, needy being. And I’m human too…a baffling structure of contradictions, lies, arteries and veins. Also, scary. Yeah…I scare me. Did I tell you I hate mirrors? I hate mirrors. Man, I hate them. I also hate cold, dark rooms…cold, dark rooms are also like mirrors….you get to see inside yourself when you’re in a cold dark room. And that can be…scary. But I have to admit…I enjoy the fear once in a while. You didn’t think fear could be enjoyed did you? But it can be. Honestly, it can.
You see, sometimes I feel as if I’m this really deep, philosophical person…but I’m not, to be honest with you. I am a cheap materialist…I am happy with “things”, so to speak. I am also…very self-absorbed. I like thinking only about myself. I am not a very interesting person in the eyes of other people though. ‘Boring’, is the word I’m looking for. But I wish they could see more than what they saw…I wish I could let them enter my imaginary world….now that, is interesting…really, it is. I wish I could tell a person, who thought I was really boring, ‘hop aboard…see what it is really like.’ But then I’d hesitate…I’m not too sure….will he really like it? Is it really that good? I’m never too sure about anything. Do something…if you ever meet me….don’t ask me about the weather…’cause I won’t be sure about that either.
Hey, you know what I really like? I like roller coasters. All sorts of roller coasters. I like the way you move so fast, that you don’t know where you’re going to be next….but at the same time, you’re tied up so securely, you know you’ll never fall…it’s the happiest, most exhilarating feeling of all. I wish I owned all the roller coasters in the world, and never had to queue up when I wanted to ride them. I’d feel the wind in my face, that light feeling in my gut, the fast beat of my heart against my rib cage, the adrenaline rush…I swear, I would never tire of it.Know what I don’t like? I don’t like it when people say “Life is like a roller coaster ride”…meaning, life has its ups and downs. And the people who say it, some of them, man, they haven’t even been on a roller coaster ….it just gets me mad. I know there is no sound logic behind my anger…but I just hate phrases like that. As if people know everything about life by the time they are twenty-six. I think, the only time people should talk about life, and huge philosophical theories, is when they are just about to die…when they have seen as much as they could….I mean no-one ever sees everything…even if he lives to be a hundred and twenty six. Why, some people who see me everyday, haven’t seen me at all. See what I’m getting at?
Any-way. I’ll let you in on a secret. My biggest fear. People. If there’s one thing that I’m really, really scared of, its people. It’s not easy being a human being, I tell you. I’d much rather be stuck in Siberia with a hungry polar bear for company. But I know what you’re thinking. Why would I look for any form of contact, if I were scared of people? Umm…I’m not sure. I guess isolation is not good for me. If you noticed, I had a polar bear with me in Siberia. I need someone. Always. Real, or imaginary. I need. I’m a needy, needy being. And I’m human too…a baffling structure of contradictions, lies, arteries and veins. Also, scary. Yeah…I scare me. Did I tell you I hate mirrors? I hate mirrors. Man, I hate them. I also hate cold, dark rooms…cold, dark rooms are also like mirrors….you get to see inside yourself when you’re in a cold dark room. And that can be…scary. But I have to admit…I enjoy the fear once in a while. You didn’t think fear could be enjoyed did you? But it can be. Honestly, it can.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Moose-Head Stew
One day Waganuk just went crazy. I don’t really know what happened but it was sometime after 25 minutes past 11 at night, that all the pandemonium began. He put on all the clothes he ever had and declared he was going to Hell. ‘It’s going to be hot in there’ we said, but he just ignored us and went on tinkering with all the paraphernalia he ever owned. He stuffed in the important things like his ‘1001 bed time stories’ book, garden scissors and half-eaten sandwiches in a big yellow portable mini taxi and said ‘So long folks’, and trotted off into the moon.
We sat around in shock and dismay for a while and then remembered that we had to cook moose-head stew for Muchopick, who was suffering from a terrible cold. It wasn’t easy cooking moose-head stew, because catching a moose is always a problem. The moose, you see, is not really that stupid, contrary to popular belief. And they are, indeed, unbelievably strong. It hides for days, as it can survive on very little food and keeps us waiting in the freezing cold. Then, when we are weak from cold and hunger, so weak that we cannot even raise our eyebrows , he waltzes past and flashes us a dirty smile, and we cannot do a thing about it. Maybe it isn’t that the moose is suddenly smart…maybe it’s just us who have become dumber by the day.
‘How will he go?’ asked Snubbabub, after we finished tending Muchopick. ‘Three miles south…seventh door to the right’ said wise old Retipop, who claimed that he had been to Hell once before. Wise as he maybe, we all thought he was senile. But turns out he wasn’t far from the truth. It was five miles south, and indeed, the seventh door to the right’. Waganuk wrote to us in a few days with a return address.
He said he was fine, and we were right about the weather. But if you could sell a couple of souls to the Devil, he gave you a raise, and you could cool off at Siberia. Siberia reminded him of home, and he missed us all very much. That was all.
Biggina, who was his special friend, said that she’d go and meet him just once. After all, five miles couldn’t be that big a deal. But everyone, including Retipop warned her against it. ‘Besides, Biggina, he’d be in Siberia, and that’s further than Hell.’ She blew her nose for ten whole minutes and said ‘okay’ finally. No-one just goes to Hell like that. ‘Waganuk did’, corrected Biggina, but didn’t comment any further.
Life went on where we lived. Since Waganuk, ten more people went to Hell on their own accord. A much recovered Muchopick thought that, Waganuk was probably using his sales tactics on the poor folks living here. He had always been a bit of a charmer. But we never really knew. Those who remained, busied themselves with catching moose, and many died in the process. Retopick said those who died also went to Hell, so a month later, moose-hunting was banned. Everyone died of starvation in the next forty days, and here I am….the only one left to tell you this story. I’ll get back to you if I am alive, or have anything more to say about the nothingness that surrounds me. So long.
We sat around in shock and dismay for a while and then remembered that we had to cook moose-head stew for Muchopick, who was suffering from a terrible cold. It wasn’t easy cooking moose-head stew, because catching a moose is always a problem. The moose, you see, is not really that stupid, contrary to popular belief. And they are, indeed, unbelievably strong. It hides for days, as it can survive on very little food and keeps us waiting in the freezing cold. Then, when we are weak from cold and hunger, so weak that we cannot even raise our eyebrows , he waltzes past and flashes us a dirty smile, and we cannot do a thing about it. Maybe it isn’t that the moose is suddenly smart…maybe it’s just us who have become dumber by the day.
‘How will he go?’ asked Snubbabub, after we finished tending Muchopick. ‘Three miles south…seventh door to the right’ said wise old Retipop, who claimed that he had been to Hell once before. Wise as he maybe, we all thought he was senile. But turns out he wasn’t far from the truth. It was five miles south, and indeed, the seventh door to the right’. Waganuk wrote to us in a few days with a return address.
He said he was fine, and we were right about the weather. But if you could sell a couple of souls to the Devil, he gave you a raise, and you could cool off at Siberia. Siberia reminded him of home, and he missed us all very much. That was all.
Biggina, who was his special friend, said that she’d go and meet him just once. After all, five miles couldn’t be that big a deal. But everyone, including Retipop warned her against it. ‘Besides, Biggina, he’d be in Siberia, and that’s further than Hell.’ She blew her nose for ten whole minutes and said ‘okay’ finally. No-one just goes to Hell like that. ‘Waganuk did’, corrected Biggina, but didn’t comment any further.
Life went on where we lived. Since Waganuk, ten more people went to Hell on their own accord. A much recovered Muchopick thought that, Waganuk was probably using his sales tactics on the poor folks living here. He had always been a bit of a charmer. But we never really knew. Those who remained, busied themselves with catching moose, and many died in the process. Retopick said those who died also went to Hell, so a month later, moose-hunting was banned. Everyone died of starvation in the next forty days, and here I am….the only one left to tell you this story. I’ll get back to you if I am alive, or have anything more to say about the nothingness that surrounds me. So long.
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