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?
Monday, February 22, 2010
48 Hours To Live
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
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.”
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.”
Friday, February 12, 2010
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?”
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?”
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
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?”
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?”
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