Lonely with Passion

The gnarled trees reaching –

sinking silent screaming love

in friendship’s quagmire.

The white cloud passes –

that special beautiful one

now a past blemish.

 

On the tree love signs –

after the kiss the caress

before accusing.

 

The shadows cover –

Loneliness on crumpled sheets

with Passion all spent.

 

Gigolo

You are late, I tell him,
But with a sheepish grin,
He holds me, my whim.
There’s no gain
If I complain,
If all I want is sin.


It is late, to drink or dine,
Or to be civilized,
We lie in the cold, say you’re mine,
I recline and watch as he strips
Is it fine when his nose drips,
Is this act ritualized?


It is not late, when it’s done,
I wish I could pay,
Than wait for morning sun,
When I share eggs and toast
And news and office boast,
Alas, at the door, come home early, I say.

The Only One That Remains

Will I be awake or will I be dreaming?
When I trace each curve, each thought upon you,
With breath-like kisses I will let the ink dry,
Below or atop, crushing your sweet love into me –
But will you excuse if I call the wrong name?
Everything has a bright side, they say.

Will I be alive buried or will I be dead free?
When I watch a white night or a dark noon,
On those verdant hills or that ground grey green snot,
With serene skies or there where angry clouds hover –
But will you excuse if I tell her name’s Solitude?
Everything is for the best, they say.

I have no questions I need no answers, here.
You cannot accuse, in jail, you cannot complain.
I look through bars for a Muse on visitors’ day,
You or Love, Life or Freedom, Nature or Solitude,
Those fancy names mean little, here.
Memory alone tucks me in with a lullaby.

When I am awake and when I dream,
I stare at the walls and the barred exit,
Every minute ticks long by rote.
But I have learned to be with shackles,
And with my head on Memory’s lap,
She feeds new-born stories, a shared fantasy.

(pictures from the Internet)

Cupid (Amor Victorious), Caravaggio

Nighthawks, Edward Hopper

The Kiss, Rodin

Meditation from Thais, Massenet (Nathan Milstein)



Moonlight Sonata, Beethoven



Joe Le Taxi, Vanessa Paradis


From dusk till dawn,
haunting Memory beckons me;
with moving images
in black-and-white or colour;
speeding on highways,
shuffling into alleys,
groping for an exit in a cul-de-sac –

while I trip on psychedelic ecstasy,
I’m allowed three posters and three songs,
On each day one of each for nine lives expired –

Can’t you hear the Muse knocking at the door?

virtual hara-kiri

`With pleasure…’

With my friend Arjun, it is usually more pleasing to place his answer before my question:

`If I were to perform hara-kiri, will you be my kaishaku?’

I really rely on him. A few weeks back, I asked him to read one of my blogs, a seriously funny one. He read it carefully, hugged me tightly, whispered softly `Lovely…it is sad!’

Recently, on the topic of blogs once again, he surprised me with a request:

`I want to feel a book…here, in blogosphere.’

`What?’

`I mean,
• go away from frenetic on-line activities;
• stay off-line with a collection of blogs;
• lazing over the cover, the preface, the table of contents;
• using old skills without tags, labels and search engines;
• having a bird’s eye view over a sea of gathered and discarded thoughts;
• swooping in on that blog which I feel like reading.’

How can I refuse him? Anyway, with regard to time and effort, I found the task to be only as daunting as the task of writing a single blog. This is the output:

COLLECTION OF MY BLOGS
(click here to download PDF file,
size ~ 2.75 MB)

Anyway, a year has gone by since I wrote my first blog. This proved to be ideal to view and arrange with a fresh perspective before moving on.

`Hope other friends try it out too…and, let us know when their collection is ready.’

`That would be nice.’ I really think so.

Arjun said, `Byeeee.’

`Take care.’

`By the way, what does this have to do with virtual hara-kiri?’

The Scream Within

             Do you have a scream?
                Caged within your mind?
                Choking each breath?
                Clogging life?
             Don’t you have that scream?

Yesterday, when I walked past the graveyard, I heard her scream.

Didn’t I tell you, few months back, that my house is on an island, half a kilometer in radius, in the middle of the city; and that, to the west, the graveyard is still there but the old mint is gone? The old mint was not there even when she screamed in the graveyard, twenty six years back.

That evening, I had gone for a party at a friend’s place. I had told my folks that I would be dropped safely at home around nine. For some reason, I felt out of place and making up some hasty excuse, escaped from that group at half past seven. With three kilometers to my house, and one steep hill to climb, I estimated that I could walk and reach home by eight. I walked quickly past the low-lying area near my friend’s place, with the strong stench of the drainage canal in the air. The air cleared when I climbed the hill. The streets were empty, as usual; barely lit by old low-wattage street lamps. I don’t think it was safer then but I was young. At the top of the hill, I followed the road climbing to the left, alongside the graveyard wall. Then, I heard her scream.

It was not a loud scream and if I had not been near that part, I would not have heard it. It bore pain, a brief tired protest too but then and now, it mostly said … nothing … neither a cry for help nor rage nor lost hope … nothing.

I felt scared and I wanted to run. I do not know why I looked over the wall. I could see the back of a man, brushing dust from his clothes, tucking in his shirt slowly and carefully into open pants, adjusting his underwear, zipping up, taking a small comb from the back pocket of his pants, combing his hair and mustache, spitting. I must have slipped or made some noise. The man turned and saw me. His expression did not change; in fact, he looked bored. I must have opened my mouth in fright. He raised his finger to his lips and then, walked away quite leisurely. I recognized him from photos in the paper and you might know him, too.

It was only after he left that I saw her lying still near an unmarked grave. I climbed over the wall and went to her. For years, I have wondered why I did that. To be honest, it must have been just curiosity. Her eyes were open, filled with tears, unblinking. Recently, I saw a face like hers – that eighteen year old suicide bomber in Russia, the one with a baby face. At that time, she looked old to me – at least a dozen years older than me. I did not touch her or speak to her. After few minutes, she slowly sat up, her young body shivering. Using a part of her sari, she wiped her body, harshly wiping her thighs, her legs, her upper body, her face. She tore that part of the sari and threw away the rag. She straightened her clothes, trying in vain to fix her torn blouse. I took out the plastic raincoat from my backpack and held it out to her. She took it without a word and covered herself.

“Shall we go to a hospital?” I asked.

She shook her head, not even looking at me.

“Shall I come with you to the police station?”

This time, she looked at me. Again, she shook her head, smiling sadly, “O child …”

I must have stood there not knowing what to do, watching her shivering, tears rolling down her cheeks, brushing the gravestone. I looked around and recognized the area. This was that part of the graveyard – the place for the unmarked, the excommunicated, the ostracized, the criminals, the immoral lot and all the other bad ghosts discarded by my society.

“Why did you come here?” I asked hoping that it did not sound like an accusation.

I thought that she would not reply or that she might tell me to get lost. But, she asked me,

“Will you sit next to me … just for a moment?” She must have seen me move back involuntarily and she added bitterly “This is not contagious …”

I sat on the ground next to her. We sat quietly for a while but I sensed that she wished to speak – being non-threatening, I must have fitted the role like how we confide to strangers on a train, just someone together for a while.

She pointed at the grave,

“Today is his death anniversary.”

Then she paused, breathing deeply,

“The man you saw knew I would come here. For him and his cronies, it was patriotic revenge. He didn’t even want to be the first … just watched, and waited till the others were done and gone … they said that they felt justified doing this to me, like they were lynching him once again, they said …” she broke down, leaning against me lightly.

I sat there stiffly, hardly thinking about her … what if I had been the victim? For years, I have tried to figure out the answer to that. I knew that she was terribly miserable but to tell you the truth, I have no idea about the extent of her pain.

“Who is he?” I asked, tilting my head towards the grave.

“Don’t you know? Don’t you remember?”

I tried to recollect the day’s headlines. I vaguely remembered a small article about today being a black day. On this date three years back, a terrorist was nabbed – after the terrorist entered a school and killed twenty three people at a primary school, three teachers and twenty kids. One of those teachers was a distant aunt and two of those kids lived in my neighbourhood.

I think I stood up and moved away from her.

“I deserve what I got, right?” she laughed and to me, it seemed like she was mocking herself.

I went back, knelt in front of her, “Sorry.” She must have realized that I was not a child or an adult, and that I meant it. “Was he your husband?”

“No … we knew each other … met when we could …”

I kept quiet.

“I should have known that he was a time-bomb waiting to explode … we never talked about ourselves … why waste time, we thought … I could rest my head against his chest and sleep so well. That’s all that I wanted. I used to wake up knowing that he would be there … looking at me, tenderly, lovingly … that’s all we wanted.”

“I try to forget all that he told me … but, I didn’t listen well I suppose, even when he foretold doom:

        
                In the dark days to come –
                With you,
                Your words, your kiss, your touch,
                To know peace, 
                To forget rage, 
                In this world –
                In this damned world,
                With you, 
                I might survive.

When I heard about what he did, I hated myself more than I had to hate him. I knew that I had to forget the only memory I wish to remember.”

“For three years, I stayed away from this city … unknown. I tried hard not to think of him. But today … I knew that he was buried here … I thought I would ask him … why.”

Her words and her life did not mean much to me then. We parted that night knowing that we will never see each other. I did not know that her scream would stay with me forever.

In the years that followed, I kept hearing that scream. I heard it when I was betrayed, when I felt lost, when I felt defeated – by the system, by my society, by kith and kin, when even the judicial system destroyed my life …

When I had to forget the only memory I wish to remember …

With pain, a brief tired protest, saying … nothing …

I hear that scream … is it my scream now?

Blogalgia : 3 Examples Of A Growing Problem

Blogalgia is a type of pygalgia. While pygalgia (pyg=rump, algia=pain) definitely means “pain in the butt”, there is considerable debate about whether blogalgia should be taken to be any combination of “pain” and “blog”. For the sake of generality, “blog” here includes any channel of chatter and social networking using information and communication technology (ICT). It should be emphasized here that the “pain” relates to that experienced at a personal and psychological level and does not include the distress caused by virulent attacks involving identity theft, virtual bullying and hate-mongering.

In the last decade, the rapid growth of various channels of chatter via ICT has been mostly viewed through rosy, though myopic, lenses. Business and charity organizations, and even governments, have realized its immense scope. What began as a means for virtual bonhomie has evolved into the proverbial Trojan horse – even ardent fans raise the question “It feels good but what lies within?”

It is widely believed that the immense growth is a result of the desire for social equality. The hoi polloi is able to “follow” and communicate with the high and mighty or, at least, the hoity-toity. For the first time in the history of mankind: anyone can voice an opinion which, in principle, everyone anywhere could hear immediately.

Unfortunately, this seemingly benign desire for social equality is the root cause for blogalgia. In this note, three examples or symptoms are briefly described and readers are advised to contemplate on the same and take necessary remedial actions, if necessary.

(1) There are numerous articles with the to-do list on how to get “visits” that spans a network. Some of the basic steps are:
• have an adequate number of friends (a theory even says that there is a unique critical number);
• comment frequently on friends’ posts;
• post at an optimal time.
When one still faces nearly-zero viewers despite all such attempts, one rapidly decline into a severe depression and decides to obliterate oneself from the virtual world unable to bear the pain due to the lack of success. It is even worse for that individual who realizes that his friends or “followers” are there not based on conviction, philosophy or any meaningful attachment. Most are there for the same reason as serial “comment”ers, as described below.

(2) Serial “comment”ers are those who comment on everything and refuse to stop even when their comment is not acknowledged. They attempt to ride along and the prize that they seek is a visit to their own site (in the virtual world, Andy Warhol’s expression should be “everyone will be famous for three seconds”). Strangely, they are immune to any rebuke and it is those who receive their comments who suffer from migraine, disillusionment and a total loss of words.

(3) When successful traits in these networks are carried over to other spheres, there is usually painful chaos and havoc in the non-virtual reality of personal and professional relationships. One of the root causes is the inability to write, speak or think a well thought out grammatically correct sentence without emoticons whose substance requires an attention span of more than three seconds. A colleague or a spouse is usually not satisfied with byte-sized efforts or a comment but usually requires an attempt to converse, preferably face-to-face. Even the judicial system is beginning to wonder if the rising number of divorce cases can be attributed to such virtual causes.

The three examples respectively show that blogalgia could be pain suffered by an individual, a network and even an external non-virtual network. A healthy discussion of such and similar symptoms is highly recommended.

Few Movies, a Book, a deleted Blog & Blogalgia

Alexander the Great is a landmark cosmopolitan Malayalam movie without any reference to Kerala. The story is a shoddy mixture of Rain Man and something very forgettable. If you would like to see glimpses of Dubai and Mumbai (Powai, Marine Drive, etc.), please see this movie. At the end, one asks: in how many days was this movie completed?

This is not a review of the movie. The comments made above should be read like a play within a play or the frustration should be viewed in the context of what happened before.

Like most typical Kerala families, mine is divided into the Mohanlal and the Mammootty camps. Last night, at eight, the first camp won the battle and the whole family went for the second show at half past nine (the presence of actor-politician Ganesh and family in a row ahead soothed some frayed nerves). The second camp lost because Mammootty’s Pokkiri Raja “definitely looks non-Mallu”. No one wanted to be a traitor and suggest Jayaram’s Katha Thudarunnu. For the last decade, we have come to expect very little from Malayalam movies but yesterday, the bars were raised because we saw Yavanika (with the Bharat Gopi) on TV yesterday morning.

Rewinding further, there is disappointment of being let down by a crime novel, Fever of the Bone by Val McDermid. This book might be the last in the Tony Hill-Carol Jordan series (also made famous by the TV series Wire in the Blood). The book started off well (the danger of virtual social networking used as the crime plot along with McDermid’s humour and the reader is goaded to accept “non-mainstream” relationships). Why was I disappointed? My rule for crime fiction is: if you want to end the series, kill the hero but please do not domesticate. They should remain weird, or better, get weirder. Can you imagine Holmes married and with a child or two on his knees?

Then, there was the blog that I had to delete. In that blog, I made a school-boy-or-girl-ish attempt to write crime fiction. I dreamt of reviews like “spine-chilling”, “page-turner”, “creepy”, “u r a monster”. My polite and stoic friends endured bits and pieces and tried to encourage me with “luv ur umor”.

Sometime around then, I visited my psychologist. He hum-haw-ed, said that I am doing well with NaSTy (Narcissistic Self-Destruction Tendency). He also added that I should stay away from blogs to avoid blogalgia (for details, please click here).

Simply Murder

Acknowledgement: based on the outline given in Bina Gupta's Sulekha blog, for link please click here ... since the outline is not mine, I deleted the blog but just for the sake of completeness of my records, I am including this here ... shrouded in obscurity and relative anonymity. :-)

Simply Murder

It must have been the banging on the front door that woke me up. It felt more like a sledgehammer at work within my head. Groggy and snarling, I quickly wrapped the housecoat over my nightclothes, tied a tight careless knot and went down the stairs to the front door. A moment’s sanity made me do the habitual check through the eyehole. There were two – one in uniform and the other in black. I opened the door cautiously, squinting at the near midday light and croaked, “Yes?”

The man in uniform stepped forward, apologized for waking me up and proceeded to ask the customary to confirm my identity. Then, he introduced himself

“I am Inspector Sid of the local police station.”

Sid – Siddharth, Siddique, Sidney? I have always hated this anglicized attempt of whitening a brown man’s name. Who but an idiot would make Padmanabhan Paddy or Krishnamurthy Kris? For me, Subrahmaniam is not Sub; maybe, Chuppramani. Why would a red-blooded male want to present a castrated self? As usual, I could not control my thoughts; but fortunately, it does not show on the outside. I smiled sweetly at the tall clean-shaven handsome young man with no wedding ring and he seems to be charmed. He continued,

“This is Shokie, our consultant for difficult crimes.”

The person in all black – jeans, corduroy top and boots – turned out to be an attractive woman leaning against the wall, rolling a cigarette expertly and lighting it with a match. She must be around forty, about five eight, with an athletic and tough frame, dark unruly hair generously peppered with gray and the darkest eyes I have seen staring intently at me. But for her eyes, I would have fallen in love with her, desperately, passionately. I asked her,

“Shoky?”

“Not Shoky, Shokie – “ie”, not “y”. Everyone calls her that.” the young man gushed with great admiration.

“I have heard about you two. Shokie the Sherlock and Sid the Watson in that famous case…the case of Minister Twitter, right?” The young man was blushing and the lady kept staring. I remembered more details and I could not resist myself,

“Shokie? Your name is supposed to be Sherlie Kockier, right?”

“None of your business,” the curt reply. The young man intervened,

“We are here because of a crime.”

“Here?”

“Next door…”

“Rosie’s place? What happened?” Taking in their joint presence, I assumed that it must be something nasty.

“Rosie was found dead.”

“Ohmigod! When?”

“Last night…around eleven.”

“Last night? You were here? And…I slept through all of it!” I leaned against the door, looking shocked and terribly disturbed, even feeling guilty for sleeping too well.

“We would like to ask a few questions. Can we come inside?”

“Please…of course…please come in.” I replied and took them to the drawing room. “Can I get you coffee? Please join me…I need a strong brew…” They nodded and asked for black with no sugar, just like me. I went to the kitchen, ground coffee-beans, placed filter paper in the coffee-machine, added water and heaps of the fresh powder. Standing at the doorway, taking in the aroma, I tried to listen to the whispering in the drawing room,

“Feed nearly all the details…let’s get the story right…slip up…”

I went back to the drawing room with three mugs of coffee.

“Sid” started with the preliminary questions, confirming that I have lived in this exclusive locality for the last three years; and, been the only neighbour of Rosie, the movie icon, who shifted here two years back. Our two houses feel even more exclusive in this large estate because it is in a well-shielded cul-de-sac, with hers against the steep cliff and mine situated at the entrance, nearly shielding Rosie’s house.

Then, I felt as if I needed to know,

“How did she die?”

“Apparently suicide,” Shokie muttered and continued, “Where were you last night?”

“Here.”

“Anyone to confirm that?”

“No.”

“Did you know her well?”

“Come on, Rosie is an icon…I mean, was. Ohmigod! I still feel shocked.”

“Did you know her personally?”

“Me? Of course not. How will I know her?”

“Well, you live here.”

“Courtesy of a rich impotent uncle.”

“I know.” Shokie, still staring, was beginning to make me feel uncomfortable. “He died suddenly, didn’t he?”

“It’s usually so, isn’t it?”

“Maybe…” Shokie shrugged.

The young man must have noticed that I was beginning to feel terribly insulted and he tried to divert the flow,

“I am actually quite perplexed. She was found hanging in a locked empty room…”

I couldn’t stop myself from interrupting, “Was there a suicide note?”

“Some crap suicide note from the internet…worse, rubbish poetry at that.” Sid said.

“Can I see it?” I asked.

Sid handed me a printout in a plastic cover. I read the first two lines, “When Sylvia wrote, I-have-done-it-again…”

“It’s from a blog…it won’t be difficult for us to find the author’s identity. Maybe, a little bit of hacking.” Sid informed me.

“There’s an easier way,” I tried to suggest.

“What?” asked Sid.

“You could just ask.” I felt quite naïve.

“Are you familiar with that note?” Shokie asked.

“Yes…I wrote that blog.” I replied feeling rather guilty.

“Why didn’t you say so?” asked an exasperated Sid. “Who the hell is Sylvia?”

“Sylvia Plath.”

“Let’s leave that,” Shokie suggested. “Sid, why don’t you continue with the murder scene?”

“Ok…Rosie was found hanging in a locked empty room, locked and bolted from the inside and without even a stool for her to stand on. Shokie checked if there was water on the floor – just in case Rosie had used an ice block for some funny reason and which melted before we got there. Supposedly, it’s an old idea in some pulp fiction. Anyway…even the key’s inside and the windows were locked from inside. It must be murder but how did the murderer get out?”

I blurted, “Must be through the window.”

“Simple, isn’t it?” Shokie added. Was she trying to goad or praise?

I tried to explain, “I assumed that Rosie has the same type of window lock like here.”

“You reported a burglary a year back, didn’t you?” Shokie asked.

“Yes, when I came back after a trip, there were some valuables missing.”

“Insured valuables, right?” Shokie persisted.

“Yes, of course! Are you trying to suggest something?” I nearly shouted. Were they trying to frame me?

Shokie ignored my outburst. I decided to continue from where I had left off.

“All the locks were undisturbed. Someone helped the police at that time and said that it’s easy with this type of window lock – an old type which can be nudged open from the outside with a small blade and closed in a similar fashion. Was it you who helped the police?” I asked but Shokie merely shrugged. I turned to the young man,

“When did she die – you mentioned that you found her at eleven. I am sure I saw her outside around half past nine.”

“Did you? Was she with someone?”

“Yes.” I hesitated and then added, “With that son of the Industries Minister.”

“She was supposed to be his…you know, mistress, keep, right?” Sid asked.

“From what I saw, he looked like the toy boy.” I replied with distaste for sullied reputation. “But…how was she found…could you tell me?”

“We got a call…around ten fifty. When we managed to open the door, she was in the throes of the last struggle and then died. The hangman’s knot was cruel – it was a slow strangulating death. We think that the killer must have set it up for us and then, called us.”

“But why…that sick bastard!” I looked horrified. “Did the killer call from her place?”

“That would be too easy, right? No, it was from a mobile.”

“Have you traced it?” I asked.

“Yes, to a shop outside this enclave. Do you know the blind paanwallah?”

“Of course,” I replied.

“You were there last night, weren’t you?” Shokie’s accusations irritated once again.

“Yes. Last night and nearly every day, I have gone for my half-pack for the night.”

“True, people there said so. It also seems quite a few people make use of the paanwallah’s mobile without his knowledge.”

“Did the people there also say that they saw me using the mobile?”

“No. They wouldn’t, would they?” Shokie taunted. I clenched the cushions and held back my desire to hurt, by word or action. I turned to Sid, “Do you know if there were other visitors?”

“Yes, it was enough to check with the security person at the gate. From eight to eight forty, her fiancé; from nine to ten, the minister’s son; at ten past ten, a taxi came with two men and they left at ten twenty. So, we have a very narrow window of opportunity…about thirty minutes…for the crime.”

“Who were the two men?” I asked.

“We managed to find the men. Do you know Rosie’s history?”

“No.”

“Luckily, she kept a diary. Reshma till ten, pills and steroids for development of the child artiste, from then on the era of Rosie, stage-managed by her wily mother. No father to talk about…Well, that man was her long lost father…now, on scene for her riches…maybe, she told him to get lost.” Sid informed.

“Jagratha!” I exclaimed.

“What?” both of them queried together.

“Jagratha – an old Malayalam detective film…it’s nearly the same plot.”

“Who was the killer?” the young man asked.

Before I could speak, Shokie said “The father. He was the father of the fiancé, too.”

Sid replied “Bull-crap!” and added, “Well, novels and movies are usually based on real crime.”

“Here, it seems to be topsy-turvy, right? Was that the intention?” Shokie asked me.

“How would I know?”

“Don’t you?”

I could not hold back my anger any longer. “Have you been told to frame an innocent to save some bastard – like one of those V.I.P. visitors?”

I asked to be excused for a moment. I gathered the mugs and went to the kitchen. From there, I tried to eavesdrop and only caught the following,

“I am sure that’s the murderer…but…what’s the motive?”

I returned to the drawing room. They were standing. Sid asked me,

“Do you mind if we search?”

“Do you have a warrant? Just to be correct, you know. Anyway, what do you expect to find?” I asked.

Shokie entered the fray, “Hopefully some drug or chloroform used to sedate while Rosie was being hanged? Maybe, the light-weight step-ladder, too? How about footprints, shoes, clothes? But, we won’t find any, will we?” I kept quiet.

At the door, Shokie turned to me and asked,

“Just for fun…if you were the one who committed this crime, what would be the motive?”

I stared back for a while as if I was thinking hard and then said,

“Simply…murder…without motive…just because I could.”

I stared at those dark eyes. Those dead eyes, dead after seeing too many dead murdered people. Dead like mine.

Those eyes will keep on staring, prying, violating privacy, till there’s some evidence…or, till I die…or maybe, I will be the Moriarty for this Sherlock.

I woke up, thrashing against those images of dark depths, my nightclothes drenched with sweat,

“What a nightmare!”

But, was it the dream that woke me up?

It must have been the banging on the front door that woke me up. There were two – one in uniform and the other in black. I opened the door cautiously, “Yes?”

The man in uniform stepped forward,

“I am Inspector Sid of the local police station. This is Shokie, our consultant for difficult crimes. We are here because of a crime. Rosie was found dead.”

For God’s Sake, Listen!

“Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darlin’…”

Arjun stretched comfortably on the back seat of his firm’s sedan and sang this first line of the title song from “High Noon”^[1]. The driver turned with an amused look. Arjun smiled back. He felt happy and quite contented with life.

The 10-day business trip to London was a success in the company of looters ^[2]. And, it included a great weekend with wonderful weather for shopping and walking. As the car moved slowly from the airport to Saki Naka, he hardly looked outside while recollecting the time at Canary Wharf, on the tube, on the Embankment, to the Tate Modern, crossing over to St. Paul’s, the latest books and movies, classics too…what a life!

A slight bump with another car shook him out of his reverie. He started making plans for the rest of the day. He wanted to get back home, have a long bath, relax in his armchair, watch the new DVD of “High Noon”…and, of course, spend time with his wife Shanthi.

He saw the Chinese restaurant at Saki Naka. That is where they had gone, before his London trip, to celebrate their fourth wedding anniversary: a cosy lunch and tender loving care for dessert. The thought made him urge the driver to go faster.

Right then, he got a call from his wife. What a coincidence, he thought.

Arjun: I was just thinking about you.
Shanthi: Have you reached?
Arjun: Yes. Just passed Saki Naka. Close to that Chinese place, remember?
Shanthi: Yeah. Arjun?
Arjun: Yupp, that’s me…don’t wear it out. Sorry, old joke, huh? Feels great to be back and I’m waiting to be with you.
Shanthi: Arjun…I’ve moved out.
Arjun: What?
Shanthi: I don’t want to live with you…I mean…I want to pursue other interests.
Arjun: Interests?
Shanthi: I have to…separate…live…without you.
Arjun: Have to?
Shanthi: Damn it! Stop sounding like your Woody Allen movies, please.
Arjun: What do you want me to sound like? Rhett Butler? Frankly my dear and $#%&ing crap…
Shanthi: Stop shouting, Arjun. Will you please, for once, for God’s sake, listen?
Arjun: Don’t tell me to listen.
Shanthi: OK…
Arjun: When did you decide?
Shanthi: I shifted 10 days back.
Arjun: Wonderful…did you wait for my flight to leave?
Shanthi: Arjun! It’s not easy for me.
Arjun: So…what’s next?
Shanthi: Do you want to meet? I thought it would be best without meeting.
Arjun: See you when I see you, is it? Fine.
Shanthi: I have taken the car and the microwave.
Arjun: The home theater?
Shanthi: Thought you might need it. I have left the fridge and the washing machine, too.
Arjun: Thanks.
Shanthi: If there’s anything I have forgotten, could you drop me an email?
Arjun: Sure. A living-out relationship ^[3], is it?
Shanthi: Maybe…after six months or so, my lawyer could get in touch with yours. OK?
Arjun: Hmm…
Shanthi: Take care, Arjun.
Arjun: (silent)
Shanthi: Bye. Love you.
Arjun: Me too. Good luck, kid!

The car had reached his apartment and the driver waited outside with the baggage. Arjun stepped out, thanked and gave a generous tip to the driver, nodded at the security guards and took the lift to 13D.

Shanthi had remembered to cancel the milkman but not the newspaper-wallah. Arjun gathered the old newspaper and magazines lying inside on the floor. Just out of habit, he started cutting out articles which caught his eye and made quick notes on post-it. The IPL tamasha ^[4], the war between the Maoists ^[5] and the government ^[6]…Arjun knew what he was doing, procrastinating.

He unpacked and had a long shower. It was late evening and he felt as if the four walls were closing in on him. Claustrophobia, was it? He wanted to take a long walk. But, that’s not a great idea in suburban Mumbai. He left the flat and nearly took the lift to the basement car park before he remembered that Shanthi had taken the (their) car. He took an auto-rickshaw and gave directions to a bar-cum-restaurant he (they) liked.

Arjun took the usual table. Not sentimental, he reasoned, it’s just the best. The waiter took his order: a double portion of crispy fried chicken (dry and spicy), Shanthi’s favourite cocktail and a cigarette pack. Shanthi used to be the adventurous one while he stuck to single malt and cigarettes. Her cocktail was: iced vodka over chopped bloody-hot green chilly. As he took the first sip, he had to blink back the tears and gasp, “Fire-and-ice. Damn you girl.”^[7]

It was after the waiter had placed the second glass of the same cocktail that he asked himself, “Why? What was wrong with us?”

What did she mean by “pursue other interests” - another man, career, hobbies? Arjun had no clue about what she wanted to do in life. He assumed that she was happy with her current job, to be his wife, partner, friend, philosopher, guide, $#%&-buddy, whatever. What did she want? Is it something which she couldn’t do…with him?

A normal healthy, wealthy and lucky couple we were, Arjun thought. Vacations together, enjoying books and movies together, investing together, sharing responsibility. They were a great couple, weren’t they?

Was it because of kids or rather, the lack of it? But, both had agreed to postpone that – quite indefinitely. Arjun didn’t give a damn about propagating his genes. At best, he could tolerate kids for a few hours at a stretch and that too, if they were reasonable and mature. As for Shanthi, though she did talk about her biological clock, she never seemed too keen about kids either. At least, they never fought on that issue, Arjun recollected.

Was it sex-related? But, they were “better than average” as judged by most surveys ^[8]. According to the same journals, by way of frequency, choice of position and place, what-not, they were supposed to be “great”. They were passionate most of the time and quite often, at the same time. Didn’t they enjoy it? He did, didn’t he, and, Shanthi? Well, they had never fought on that issue either, Arjun remembered.

Was it because of family? But, they hardly saw them.

Were there terrible fights? Well, nothing really abnormal. Like any maturing relationship, the fights were just getting meaner, louder and the stretches of post-fight silence were lengthening, but it was never really unreasonable, he reasoned. As per current fashion, they had had a few sessions with a counsellor. They discontinued when they heard that the counsellor is an alleged paedophile. Maybe, it would have helped if they had not discontinued, Arjun wondered.

And love? Arjun grimaced. For him, love was like God. When times are good, one assumes that it’s there; when times are bad, one hopes that it’s there; and at other times, who really cares^[9]? He respected her, he trusted her, he cared for her, isn’t that love-or-whatever-in-action, Arjun justified.

Why?

On the TV at the bar, an advertisement for some bike suggested, “Thinking is such a waste of time.” That sure helps ^[10].

Arjun left the place and returned to his flat. He reclined comfortably in his armchair, watching “High Noon” and singing along,


“Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darlin’…
Wait, wait along…”


BACK TO POST [1] For details about this great movie with Gary Cooper and Grace Kelly, please visit http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0044706/. A video of this song seems to be available at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QKLvKZ6nIiA&feature=related.

BACK TO POST [2] This is with reference to investment bankers and the case of fraud filed by the SEC against Goldman Sachs. Do you think financial reforms will happen? Please read Paul Krugman’s blog titled “Looters in Loafers”: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/19/opinion/19krugman.html?partner=rssnyt&emc=rss. The SEC might lose the battle but that’s not the point, is it? Michael Lewis wryly points out that GS “did nothing worse than live by the ethical assumptions of your market -- any money-making event short of obviously illegal is admirable” in http://preview.bloomberg.com/news/2010-04-22/bond-market-will-never-be-same-after-goldman-commentary-by-michael-lewis.html. GS suggests that the case is just politics. Who was it who said “The word 'politics' is derived from the word 'poly', meaning 'many', and the word 'ticks', meaning 'blood sucking parasites'.” Does that mean politics is a synonym for investment banking?

BACK TO POST [3] There seems to be a lot of debate about live-in relationships and pre-marital sex. Is it not a personal matter? The debate seems to have dragged in even Krishna and Radha. Lesser mortals (like social networking sites which require a herd mentality for survival) try to be mature and compromise, build a proper ‘network’ of contacts, lead a ‘moral’ life and balance longevity and expectations. Is it not true that idiots, heroes and Gods in every culture decide their own life – and, the masses follow?

BACK TO POST [4] Note 1: Has Shashi Tharoor stopped tweeting? Note 2: Does Tharoor represent Trivandrum? Note 3: Tharoor will at least have his ol’ common room buddies but where will Modi go? Note 4: Do you think this will lead to anything substantial? Why didn’t the government or the IT department conduct normal checks during the last three years?

BACK TO POST [5] Note 1: Is Arundathi Roy OK with Maoists using kids? Aren’t there other representatives of the tribals? Reference: Arundathi Roy’s article: http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?264738

BACK TO POST [6] Note 1: The PM has asked the civil service personnel to fight Naxals with development, and he has also pointed out that such underdeveloped regions and people are easy prey for extremist organizations. Note 2: If the government had someone to talk to (say, a social worker among the tribal people), what would they say? Will they prevent large-scale relocation of poor helpless and voiceless people? How do they plan to include without imposing an alien culture? How do they plan to educate and improve the standard of living? Will they bring in industries in a phased manner? Ministers and governments will change but the plan for social reform should not change for at least two to three generations.

BACK TO POST [7] Statutory warning: cigarettes and alcohol are injurious to health and more importantly, injurious to the health of those around you. If you are in solitary confinement and ready to take care of yourself, go ahead at your own risk. Some also believe that eating chicken is also injurious to health. Of course, it is probable that you might die sooner in a traffic accident or a terrorist attack.

BACK TO POST [8] A source (though not very reliable) once revealed that journalists have a software tool to “fill out” these surveys. In the first version, the tough questions delved on the missionary and who-on-top and from then on, with each version, it was a test of the geeks’ imagination.

BACK TO POST [9] A comrade once said, “It’s just a sentimental manifestation of materialism imposed upon us by crony capitalism” or, some combination or permutation of the same. For capitalists, since multi-billion dollar industries revolve around love, “anything marketable is certainly worth it”. For others, the glorified four-letter word serves multiple purposes: (a) family love – used to be the cheapest way to have a group of people to protect property and wealth; these days, it is advisable to restrict this to one spouse and utmost two children. (b) patriotism – is there another way to recruit soldiers? (c) platonic love – if either or both are repulsive or inconvenient. (d) romantic love – it is best when the lovers, one or both, meet an early death; if Shakespeare had allowed Romeo and Juliet to live happily ever after, he would not have been the Bard but a blogger. (e) etc. Some claim that humans are the only animals capable of love. Of course, we are the only animals capable of creating nuclear weapons and synthetic CDOs, too.

BACK TO POST [10] I guess I have to apologize for experimenting with footnotes on a blog even though I agree with Noel Coward who said, "Having to read footnotes resembles having to go downstairs to answer the door while in the midst of making love." Maybe, the person at the door is a better companion than the one upstairs. I wanted to write a simple happy love story but it is tough to separate the characters and the world in which they live. What do you think?

Avatar

Once in a while, I decide to try out a new avatar. Nothing dramatic – far from that actually – merely exploring the many universes I could inhabit with a few trivial decisions. Let me give you two examples.

---xxx---
Job:

I got sick of seeing the same old faces and decided to attend a few interviews. And, I got a decent job offer. For some reason, I rejected the offer. I think I gave the excuse that I expected an indecent offer.

It could not have been the numbers that mattered. I started my professional career with a paycheck of USD 60 (I repeat, monthly paycheck) but, I joined that institution based on an irrational good feeling which turned out to be right.

I did not get a good feeling at this new place.
• Maybe, it was because I heard the Big Boss use the four-letter word with a very junior employee. (Trust me, I am not puritanical but I believe in a fair fight.)
• Or maybe, I did not like the restrooms. (I do not know why they decided to have thin walls in the restroom and the Big Boss’ office.)
• Or possibly, the HR person resembled my real-estate broker. (I am being unfair to my real-estate broker but for some strange reason, all the HR people I have known resemble my real-estate broker – all except one, but she left HR to become a real-estate broker.)

Moral of the story :

Good feelings? (Use the four-letter word.) To accept good offers, forget good feelings.

Matrimony:

I joined one of the many online matrimonial sites. To those virgins who have never frequented these online adult websites, let me say that the good ones cater to a wide variety of fetishism in men and women: single, in the process of being single, divorced, without issue, with issue but without liability, normal, disabled, etc.

I curbed my inclination to be verbose and along with the mandatory inputs such as age, sex, misleading vital statistics (athletic, average, slim, etc.), entered my succinct proposal: “Looking for a trustworthy companion.”

It started off well. I was informed, “Congrats! So-and-so has expressed interest in you.”

The interested person turned out to be:

“Caring, stable, upper middle class, well-employed, preference for partners working in European countries, innocent divorce following marriage three years back which lasted few weeks, with loving six-year old child not living together.”

Since I consider an “innocent” divorce to be fictitious, I declined interest.

Then, the virus/bug/glitch occurred when I started expressing interest in suitable characters. Strangely, in all cases, my interest was being declined before I expressed it.

I contacted the administrator of the site. I received a quick (discomforting though succinct) reply: “Time-zone problem.”

I have not figured out the “time-zone” problem. One of my nasty friends offered the explanation, “Probably, you have been blocked – trustworthy people do not look for trustworthy companions.”

Moral of the story :

For company, do not look for fictitious characters. (Use the four-letter word again.)

---xxx---
That could have been the new avatar. With a few trivial decisions, one of my many lives disappeared in a space-time worm-hole. Picture me with a companion, working somewhere in Europe, earning plenty and whispering sweet loving four-letter words to my boss.

(n.b. Any resemblance to fiction is purely coincidental.)

Suicide

When Sylvia wrote
I-have-done-it-again,
You and I ooh-aah-ed;
Of what use is that
To dust six feet under?


In the good well he was found,
And his kid still quite fresh
Hanging from the new fan,
So was it with Sita and Sati,
Honour, despair, fine words.


Cowards, idiots at least;
With bulging eyes, bloated
Carcass, shit-smeared,
Not even a pretty sight,
Exiting with no encore.


Let’s be fair.
How long
Will I care
When you’re use-
Less, dead or alive?


But, you’ve nothing to kill,
By my hand or yours;
On a strange silent path,
Poor, alone and dreaming,
Hardly a page three dreary.


With a fine company of ghosts,
Madmen not so street-smart,
Worthless dead in worthy wars,
Faceless, voiceless, lifeless,
You live a suicide every day.

Madness

I’m not in chains, not yet,
room-bound, maybe;
With six windows 
and the Net, I’m not really 
Not free.


How did it start,
you ask, don’t you?
I didn’t do 
what others did.
That’s it.


Then they whispered
and spoke in signs;
Interfered, controlled,
incapacitated, isolated.
It’s easy.


It’s tough to sit and talk,
to listen, not to judge;
It’s tough to understand,
we know it all, 
Don’t we?


Threw it all away, they say, 
spitting phlegm, excreting, 
vomiting, sweating, crying,
Threw it all away, I say,
But me, my mind.

Not Meant To Care, My Friend

i wish i could be the one
to carve your tombstone, 
              my friend.


the final deed to speak of your worth,
your life, all that, o crap, you know that.
as it was, let it be, all the way mere mirth,
with a clown’s mask at an ol’ jester’s death.


while you suck in last life breath,
let me whisper the pleasant truth;
for we are mature, to bear even that,
salt upon wounded life, bleed not that.


a joke it was, between you and me,
when we did time, timed it didn’t we?
so engaged in life, with so little love to part,
two stories, two storytellers, two worlds apart.


when you pass on:
shall i comfort you,
that i will think of you,
i wish to be with you –
     but surely, why lie?


it would hurt my intelligence
to feign ignorance of your need
for my love, but we are friends.
not meant to care, are we, 
                my friend?

His Brother’s Wedding

Do you believe in Fate? I try not to.

When the psychologist confirmed my suspicions about why I can’t (would not, he said) have a baby, I didn’t say, “My Fate!”

When I was a kid, I used to play with my neighbour, a girl named Vasanthi. She was twenty years older but played just like my cranky kid cousins. The elders used to praise my patience and understanding. Such a nice kid and so mature; that too, without even having younger siblings, they said. I didn’t tell them that Vasanthi was OK; that my kid cousins were not OK, and any younger siblings would have been definitely NOT OK.

After Vasanthi, there was Das, my uncle’s son. Though he was my cousin, he called me maman (uncle). I never played with him. He was younger than me by a few years and quite shy. More truthfully, I had other company. Like Kochumon.

Kochumon’s father Shanku-maman is related to my mother. Not exactly a first-cousin or even a second-cousin, my mother used to tell me, but still like an elder brother. Since his parents died when he was very young, Shanku-maman was brought up by my mother’s parents. He married very late, that too, a shrew. Kochumon is their eldest son. They have another son and a daughter. Even before his first birthday, people referred to him as simple and no one even thought of giving him a name other than the pet-baby name, Kochumon.

He is a few months older than me. Whenever I visited my mother’s village, I sought his company. The other cousins used to thrash me in carroms, cards, kabbaddi and worse, they could climb trees and eat raw mangoes with salt and chilly powder. They seemed to know everything and I seemed sickly. Next to Kochumon, I was OK.

When Sathyan, the all-in-all helper, used to take me to the aaru (river), Kochumon would come along. While Sathyan swam in the deep, we sat on the steps, usually silent and happy in our own little worlds. A few years later, when the aaru did not reach the steps after being spoiled by indiscriminate sand mining, I still went with Kochumon. When I cried, he just stood next to me watching me cry, still silent. We were still in our own little worlds.

I remember seeing him on two more occasions in the years that followed. He disappeared from my world while I gathered degrees, joined great places to study and work, made money. Even the person I knew as “I” disappeared from my world for a long time.

Last year, I started seeing the psychologist. I started rebuilding my world. I discarded a lot (paper, photos, CDs, books, movies, money, job, friends, acquaintances, relatives) and tried to gather only that which I wanted to keep (there is no list at present). I thought about Kochumon. But, he seems to have been discarded. My parents tell me that he is in some home for people like him, that he has been there for a long time, even before his parents died. Why, I asked people. Who will take care of him, people asked me.

A month back, I met his brother. Or rather, his brother had come home to invite my parents for his wedding. And since I was there, I was also invited. Was that Fate? It does not matter, does it?

I managed to find Kochumon three weeks back. It took some tact and deception. I could not ask his siblings. Even my relatives in the village were not too keen about discussing the matter. In my notes, for the next visit to the psychologist, I have jotted, “Is it collective guilt? Or, just minding one’s own business?” Anyway, every village has loose tongues. I found two, at the Sivan temple and at the tea-shop. A few queries about the wedding, the location of the hall, those invited and those who are not and that discussion eventually led to more intimate details, grudges and the skeletons started tumbling out of the closet.

I found him in a home for the retarded. It is run by a semi-government organization. The warden helped me find him. I didn’t notice much about the place or the facilities. I didn’t want to. Or maybe, it was just because I was too busy trying to recognize Kochumon in every face out there.

He was having breakfast (or was it brunch?). I have changed too much and I was not surprised when he didn’t recognize me during that visit. I could recognize only his eyes. Still like a puppy. I didn’t stay for long during that visit or the other visits since then. Just a few minutes, silent, just like old days.

On the day of his brother’s wedding, I got there early with new clothes for him. I helped him dress. We got to the hall well before muhurtham. From the hall-gate, we could see his brother standing outside, inviting friends and relatives, talking and hugging.

Kochumon tugged at my hand. Come, let’s go in, I said. He shook his head. Ok, we don’t have anyone there, do we, I asked. He shook his head again.

My gift, he said.

I smiled and wanted to hug him. I might be simple but you are definitely not, I wanted to say. Once again we were silent and in our own little worlds.

I left him at the home. Maybe, I will keep visiting him.

You see, I can’t take care of anyone, especially people I love, like Kochumon. That is why I can’t have a baby either. What if my baby is like Kochumon? When I am not there, what if my baby is discarded? I can discard myself. But, no one should discard my baby.

Musing In Bullet Points

There are days when one thinks/speaks/acts in bullet points.

It was so on Friday morning. Possible reasons:

• G’s call on Thursday



• India-Spain hockey match (till 22:00, right?)



• Schindler’s List (23:00-02:00???). I had forgotten that this movie has a scene in which a kid jumps into a toilet/shit-pool as in Slumdog Millionaire, though there is nothing comic here. I remembered watching this movie at the Plaza theatre on M.G. Road, Bangalore. There used to be a grand old hall with wooden floor at the Plaza (if I remember correctly) – and, during the interval of that movie, groups stood silently, some with wet eyes, most looking down puffing fags like it was their last breath.



• Who the %$#@ set the alarm at 05:30?



• Very Very Heavy Indian-cum-Continental breakfast (artery clogging cardiologically risky but yummy stuff) (06:30-07:15) watching the break of dawn over Powai lake.

At Mumbai airport, I met an old pal Arjun who seemed to be in a similar bullet-point-state. On his way to Ahmedabad in a somber two-piece and an extremely loud tie, we talked

• Hi.



• Hullo, Arjun! What’s up?



• Thinking…there used to be a time when I used to think that I am special, that the airhostess smiling at me. She doesn’t even see me, does she?



• Huh…



• Byeeee.



• Take care.

On the flight, I read

• In the Indian Express/The-Economist-page, I read an article “Intellectual Fireworks” on Arthur Koestler: “Like many intellectuals who profess their love for humanity as a whole, Koestler had problems dealing with real human beings, especially women. He expected his girlfriends and wives to serve as maids and secretaries.”



• I felt good because I am not an intellectual and I certainly do not love humanity in any part.



• In the March 2010 edition of Jet Wings, the Tarot assured me: “Someone seriously exciting is coming your way. Don’t miss them.”



• It must have been that gorgeous person standing behind me during check-in. Trust my luck to miss exciting stuff. But, do I really want serious stuff?

I think I recognized a few people at the airport and in the flight:

• Harsha Bhogle (cricket commentator), was it? To Delhi? Maybe it wasn’t him. I don’t particularly like his style of commentary.



• A.K. Antony (Union Minister, Defence)? Economy class to TVM. I have always admired him, especially when he used to submit resignation letters to his bosses.



• Prakash Karat(CPI-M big honcho)? Economy class to TVM. Recently, after reading his interview with Ian Rankin in The Hindu, I found that we are both fans of crime fiction. I would have liked to talk to him about that and possibly give him a copy of my books-review “Crime As A Hobby”. Well, he was lucky and we stuck to our rows.



• As you might have guessed, I do not have any affiliation to the Left/Right/Centre/etc. Isn’t it more fun to bash everyone?



• Anyway, there I was basking in the happy state of sharing Economy Class with two VVIPs. But, every white cloud has a dark lining. When we deplaned, those two pushed off in the bus reserved for people in the First Class.



• I know I am being childish but it would have been nice if they had come along with the rest of us in the economy class, right?

Judges & Pontius Pilate

There are times when you have to listen.

My relative G called me on Thursday, around 7:30 pm. She had been at a Family Court that whole afternoon and I knew I had to listen (even though I was in an autorickshaw doing hop-skip-and-jump on the link road between L&T and Powai).

To state her case briefly: she has been in an abusive (physical, mental, etc.) marriage for nearly 22 years, period.

She tried to explain all that to the judge but the judge said that it’s minor stuff. Try it (marriage, not abuse) once again under the supervision of the court, he said.

G asked me what he meant. After getting hit, should I go and show the bruise, she asked. And, what can I show when he tortures me mentally, she cried.

I asked her whether she had explained how her husband had never taken any interest in bringing up the kids.

Yes, she said. When she told the judge that her husband did not know anything about the kids’ education, the judge said that he didn’t know about his kids’ education and such petty affairs either.

I tried to tell her the cliché that the judge is trying to save the marriage at any cost.

Her reply before hanging up was, “Yeah, like Pontius Pilate, the judge can wash his hands and claim to be innocent of the blood that will flow.”

48 Hours To Live

48 hours to live, that’s it.
        (He, God Dr Sahib, said.)
Cried and begged, I did.
        (Wasted moments,
                  He shrugged.)


For a moment I thought –
        (Reflection does wonders, they say;
         Not mine, an old fat mug face I see) –
48 hours ain’t too short,
                        I do realize.


I felt alive, so-dead-alive.
        Similes, metaphors et al
                 Marched past –
        But there’s no time
                 For prose or verse
        In this last role;
A few snaps,
That’s all.


I can’t show you all.
        (O don’t you wish, you cheeky buggers.)


In a train, by the window;
        Crowded, touched, territory invaded;
            Sweaty armpits, lush greenery,
        Same ol’ sand bank, a river preserved pickled,
Strange, the village kids don’t wave no more.
        Opposite, a dirty oldie, another hirsute brute,
            Two loud couples hormones and all.
        Next to me, a young mother, her mother,
            Two more bottoms filling every space.
        She turns to me, behind her shawl, feeding
            Her baby, that gurgling sucking brat,
        With my arm shielding her, my eyes without,
Hiding the pain within, no time for my own,
        She smiled, when she left, the young mom;
            With the uncaring brat bawling still.


Upgraded, for a change, to a seven-star hotel,
        Far separated, antiseptic, sterile,
            by the pool,
               in the spa,
                  on white soft bed,
               I crushed the side
            next to me,
Alone and crushed.


It wasn’t all dismal.
        Just censored
        By your govt.
With few hours to live
        You don’t give a hoot
        For what’s right & wrong.


Now, on the flight
        (still in style)
back to the grave.
        Stuck-ups mostly
        Maybe shy;
           A Brit lady next to me
           Scratching her leg,
Reading lonely planet
Without a word;


If we did,
Maybe, it would be like old days –
great hosts and lucky guests.


With just an hour left that’s not a worry,
I can’t waste anymore on you.


What shall I do?
     For fun,
             Shall I bungee-jump
without the rope?

From Behind The Calm

It is a beautiful day in February. While the plane readied for landing, I studied the beautiful fresco – this city, laced by the light brown beaches, the blue-green sea merging with the azure calm extending from those depths to the plains carpeted by coconut trees and the green hills with the topi of grey stone.

“It has to be so,” he had said, “when you return…ready…”

His place is close to the city centre, a non-descript house with living quarters on the ground floor and his room upstairs. During the taxi-ride from the airport, I tried to remember the first meeting.

It was an April after the first shower with the smell of earth in the air, and I reached his house just before dusk. His wife politely advised me to try the next day but I waited outside the gate. Much later that night, I saw a woman leaving the house and I watched her walk away.

When I looked back at his house, I saw him at the gate studying me. He must have seen a sorry bedraggled figure. He is young, of medium height, fair, lean and when I got closer, I saw only his eyes, tired, soft and caring, and totally focused on me.

“Please come,” he said. When we were inside, he asked his wife, “Is there kanji (porridge) for us?” I started to speak but he begged for silence, head lowered with his left forefinger at his lips. We sat side by side on a bench at a long table within, finished the meal and then, went upstairs.

It is an empty white room. He must have seen doubt on my face, “Did you expect gods and demons? Aren’t they here?” He added, “Before…there used to be symbols, each symbol with a story…what are stories for?” I listened in silence. “To suit one’s needs, hopes, thoughts. A mirror’s enough, isn’t it? With me – the mind will do…and uncluttered space, without distraction. Some call it insanity, some…black magic…it’s just…the power of the mind.” We talked the whole night. Close to dawn, he told me what I had to do.

As I was leaving, he said, “My part will work but remember…it could strike…you or them.”

I left promising to return only when he calls, living according to how he had prescribed. I lived outside this state, in small flats in big cities, ready to shift with a suitcase and light bedding, a plate and a mug. For lunch, I forced myself to have a full meal and, water or coffee with biscuits for breakfast and supper. No sex, alcohol or tobacco; no company of any sort; no contact other than a few phone-calls per month to avoid unnecessary enquiries.

At first, I felt lost, defeated and disinterested. Then, I could barely sleep, always feeling raw, bitter and frothing rage. Finally, I lost sense of time and space, and stopped waiting for his call. Then, at all times, I saw them…the people who destroyed me…and, I started feeling that they had already ceased to exist. He called me two weeks back.

Today is the kind of day when I can return – a day so beautiful, peaceful and calm.

We are in his room, leaning against opposite walls, silent and static, focusing on each other’s eyes. I remember his words,

“…it could strike…you or them.”

I could feel his eyes enveloping me and I heard:

From behind the tranquil calm,
In the guise of hope play their role,
They come to wreck and harm,
Not the body but the immortal soul.

Divorce

Today, the case might end. When it started, I dreamt of a grand courtroom ending – a chance to explain the case, about justice and what should be right, why truth should prevail and all that naïve gobbledygook.

I am standing in the dusty courtyard of the Family Court. It is a leased house and the courtroom is in the drawing room. I am hanging onto the front window, like an untouchable outcaste, waiting for my name to be called. Proceedings started at eleven and since my case is only three years old, I expect the call around half past twelve. It is tough here, more so with the only urinal being the compound wall. There is company, of course. Like Ravi (5-year veteran whose wife decided to be celibate after the first kid) and Shajeeb (his case, only a year old, involving three kids). But today, I wanted to think once more about my case.

I have heard people refer to my lawyer as “paatta” (cockroach). I got him because he handled my cousin’s case (alleged abuse, dowry, forced abortion and such). One evening three years back, my lawyer asked me, “What problem should we say caused it?”

I replied, “Incompatibility.”

He gave me a blank stare, shaking his head from left to right, his left nostril twitching.

“She’s never there.” I tried to explain. “And, that’s the best part.”

“Separated?”

“Yes – she comes and goes on some weekends.”

“That’s not separated. Insane?”

“That would explain everything!”

“Infidelity?”

“I wish!”

“Not you…”

“She…no…I don’t think so.”

“Abuse?”

“It’s mental…”

“Have you hit her?”

“No!”

“Kids?”

“No.”

“Didn’t she like it?”

“She’s ok with kids.”

“Not that…”

“Oh…no, no…I mean, she likes it. But…she’s selfish…”

“You…ok?”

“Of course!”

“Did you two fight?”

I laugh.

“At first, it’s with her periods; then, whenever she’s there; finally, only when we talked.”

He did not look convinced.

“When was it? She called me outsourced coolie…that I’ve an inferiority complex…frustrated…When we visited her Doctor Uncle, they talked about their U.S. relatives, about her trips abroad. Then, he asked me about my trips and, she told him that I’ll be going for training to Manchester. I said that that’s not true. It started right there…again…complex, underachiever, even my folks, third-rate she says.”

He merely stared.

“A few weeks back, she invited her boss for lunch. What started it? Maybe, when I couldn’t talk to him in Hindi; or maybe…when I admitted that I eat beef. When he left, she started screaming that I had sabotaged her career…that I want her as a servant. We have already got four, why would I need one more?”

He mumbled, “That’s normal…right…wear and tear.”

“If there’s nothing to fight about, it’s about my old diaries, or the stories I write. If it’s a love story, she accuses me with an affair. Always…anything, everything…some freedom…respect…trust?” Why did I present this weak stuff at the end? “I can’t write!”

“So? It’s just a hobby, isn’t it?”

Sensing that he could lose a client, he quickly added

“Don’t worry. We’ll write the usual in the petition, ok? Not easy case…no…they’ve all the trump cards – you…we…don’t have anything.”

What he said turned out to be right.

It might end now only because she has better things to do – finally, an amicable settlement. I am lucky. I lost only my career and some virile years of my life.

Recently, I tried to write. But…somehow…I have lost it.

I can hear them calling my name in the courtroom. When the judge asks me, all I have to say is “Yes, sir.”

One Night Stand

I’ve always hated two things, deaths and marriages. These days, old people too. I tried the second, long back, and got only the bad stuff. The other two are too close for comfort. Death I can handle but not old people – with their selfish ways, bad breath, farting whenever and wherever. I used to hate kids too but at eighty-two, it’s easy to swat them away.

I’m usually not so cantankerous. But I’ve always been nervous before her visit.

This is only the second time she’s come to my place. The first time, she was in her teens – an ugly duckling she was and how she developed since then! I usually met her at her place, even when her nasty mother was alive.

I can hear the doorbell ringing. The maid takes her time but finally brings her to my room.

“Hi, kid! You look great.” I wasn’t lying. She has aged but she looks good, even at seventy eight.

“Hi! Long time since anyone called me that.” She didn’t bother to lie either. “Your maid told me about your night in the gutter! Look at you! And, shuttling between here and the town five times in a day, what were you thinking?”

“I can’t carry much. Had to bring the shopping in small lots?”

“Can’t you take someone with you?”

“Do you?” She didn’t reply to that. “It got dark a bit early. I got out of the bus, took a few steps in the wrong direction and…”

“She told me…how you were missed next morning and people finally finding you in that gutter.”

“It was a hole, not gutter! Anyway, leave that.”

“How are you?” she asked softly.

She sat on the chair next to my bed, looking straight at me – sitting the same way, straight back, legs close, feet crossed at the ankles. She saw me looking and I said the usual,

“Geisha…”

“How you wish!”

I reached for a cigarette, my companion these days. It helps to kill appetite and nobody is complaining except the maid.

“When did you start that?” she asked me.

“Recently…ten, fifteen years back.”

“Do you mind not smoking? A bit sensitive these days, price of old age – the package deal, aches and pains and breathlessness. Damn nuisance!”

I put the cigarette away. “So, are you married?”

She laughed. “Aren’t you abrupt? Why…are you going to propose?”

“Well, I’ve always proposed.”

“Whatever.” She must have seen me frown at that word, touchy about being a matter of no consequence. “You had your chance.” Now, she was trying flattery.

“Well?”

“Still once married but…I wrote to you about him, didn’t I?”

“Is it still that guy – some hot shot at your old Univ.? Isn’t he young?”

She raised her eyebrows, probably her way of telling me politely that the interesting ones tend to be so in our current circumstances or that I should mind my own business. “Sixty. He’s now pushing for some commitment. You know me…not even in my good days! What about you? Did you get around to searching…actively, I mean?”

“Yeah, for a while I searched among the second-hand lot – the widowed and the divorced. Nasty lot – they can’t forget the first one!”

“What about the unmarried?”

“Unmarried at this age, must be faulty…knowing my luck, most probably a virgin, too. Anyway, they usually have great expectations…the first time and all that…”

“Come on…”

“Didn’t you?”

She thought for a while before replying, “Strange. I can’t even remember the first one. Now, I try to remember only the current affair. It wouldn’t do if I forgot any detail, would it? People are waiting to pronounce Alzheimer’s on you…feel so insecure at times. At least, I don’t have kids waiting to put me in a home.”

“You wanted kids, didn’t you?”

“Long back…and you…”

“Kids…me?”

“No…I meant, what have you been up to?”

“Been reading the puranas…old-age reading…most of our gods had problematic love affairs, you know. Loss of trust, need for desertion, illegitimate kids…Siva, Rama, Krishna…thank God it was all written then…certainly would’ve raised some mad dog’s hackles if written these days. When I’ve the energy…and the will…I try to do that…”

“Still anti-establishment…the maverick?”

“I experimented too long…with my life…should’ve learned from others…and, experimented on others. No…I…just lost.”

“But…you would’ve done the same given a second chance, right?” She smiled with her cliché and for a moment, I thought it was because she could accept losers. Anyway, I always gave women with a smile a lot of leeway, and hers is not the best.

“Probably…my God likes losers, hates match-fixers. He’s a discarded God, my God! You…still an atheist?”

“I tried being agnostic…but it’s too much trouble. Whatever…should not matter now, I think. I wouldn’t even trust Him…or Her…with my problems.”

“You know what my problem is…lived a wee bit too long…most of the great guys died at thirty three…imagine them middle-aged or old dealing with hypertension, prostate problems, what-not…”

I reached for a glass of water, feeling tired but wanting more. I raised my glass to her, “Here’s to looking at you, kid!”

“Gross…be original…”

“Let’s have sex.”

“Yeah, right…” she laughed a bit too heartily, probably trying to imagine the scene. It hurts but I laughed with her. Wiping her own eyes, she asked quite seriously, “We keep meeting once a decade or so, right…why?”

“Something to smile about…like a one night stand…”

“Will we have one more?”

Kiss Of Death

It is late at night, probably one or two, and she looks at the full moon. There is also light streaming in from the street – maybe, from a street lamp or from some strange neighbour’s house. Her nightclothes are drenched with sweat. The same dream has been recurring frequently for the last three months: her husband waking up in the middle of the night; having sex roughly with her cold body; and, it is when he slaps her dead face that she wakes up.

She turns her head to the right and she can see the naked body of her husband in the light, only partly covered by a thin blanket. There is a nauseating smell in the room, of dried sweat and stale cigarette smoke. She can hear the drops falling from a leaking faucet in the bathroom, the ticking of the bedside clock and her husband’s heavy breathing.

She senses a movement in the shadows on the left, close to the almirah, but even before she could turn her head, a damp cloth is pressed firmly covering her mouth and nose; and she can feel the sharp blade of a razor against her jugular prompting her not to struggle. Before losing consciousness, she hears the intruder whisper in her ear, “Time.”

She regains her senses slowly, still feeling the pressure of the blade. She is now lying on the right side of the bed and the intruder remains in the shadows. She sees her husband in a semi-conscious state bound and gagged to a chair, next to the bed. Slow silent seconds tick incessantly. Her husband wakes up with a start, struggling uselessly against the rope and frantically looking at her and the intruder.

“Stop moving. I’ll kill you.” the intruder orders her husband and he complies immediately. She and the intruder watch her husband choking and screaming silently against the gag, scared and pleading with round bulging eyes. “…your wife can save you…if she wants…” she turns her head to look at the intruder, “…she should kiss me well.”

The intruder moves her closer to the shadows, not touching her body or her face but without removing the blade from her neck. She leans forward and her lips are close to the intruder’s face and she can smell a delicate and musky scent. She glances at her husband once more and in his eyes, she can see him begging her.

She stares at the intruder’s face. It is in the shadows except for the lips and the lower part of the face. She wants to see the intruder’s eyes but she cannot. She looks at the full lips ready for her touch. She moves closer nearly leaning into the intruder. She pauses for a few moments, with her eyes closed and hardly breathing. Then, moving away from the intruder’s lips, she gives an air-kiss near the intruder’s left cheek, not even touching. Behind her, her husband watches this and faints.

The intruder moves away from her towards the door – without a touch, without a word. Neither does she move or speak. Her eyes seem cold and dead in the night-light, following with an unblinking stare till the intruder slips out of the room. The lamp somewhere outside is switched off.

Now, in the moonlight, we can see in her eyes a look very common in places of worship – defeated, forsaken, helpless and alone. Listening to time ticking into the past without really bringing in the future, waiting for another God and in the near-silence we can hear her cry softly, “Time?”