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.”