Before Dark

It was getting dark. I had fifteen minutes or less. She had not sounded too keen when I called this morning and requested for a meeting. But when we met, it was like always, like we had never separated, really glad to be together. We have been in touch for more than forty years, nearly all our life. I had seen her last twenty years back. Then, we separated. I went abroad to the west. She went back east to her country. She married, had three kids. We exchanged e-mails every few years, just one per person each time. We never talked about meeting. I never asked about her husband or her kids. This morning, I landed in her city, checked into a hotel and called her hospital number at the Neurology department where she works. I told her that I am in her city for a day and that I wanted to meet her, just for half an hour or so. Casual conversation lasted five minutes. We sipped Chinese tea and laughed over some old joke. I gave her my medical report. I studied her graying hair, her eyes and shamelessly let my eyes take in the rest of her. I was glad that I had not forgotten all that. When she raised her head, I was staring straight at her lovely eyes. I will try to forget the tears. It will not be difficult, I guess. But will I remember her smiling eyes then? I told her that I might forget her soon. I told her that I have always loved her. I tried to make it sound trivial and joked that I might forget that soon. She did not say anything. Or maybe she did. The darkness is creeping in and the shadows are lengthening.

I Dreamt I Was Killed

I dreamt I was killed at dusk:

Took the hit while remembering a prayer,

A bullet, a knife or a cardiac attack felt like arrows of kama,

Thought of an old laughable act, flailing-arms-crying-ma

But I stood silent till the last thought vapourized.

Those crazy eyes stared at me, massacring everyone,

I returned a crazy loving smile, recognizing my killer,

That hopping on one leg, those locks of matted hair

I should have said thank-you-o-god-you-latecomer

But I stood silent till the last thought vapourized.

That dream erased my nightmares, nearly.

I nearly forgot the lives I killed each day.

There was love’s death, divorce, suicide of the soul,

And a bewildering loneliness on a stage with no role,

I faced the unseeing crowd, a joker with no words, wide-eyed fool.

A tourist, a foreigner till I was a stranger in native land,

Raped, tortured, a mere plaything, forsaken and forgotten,

In solitary confinement, with emptiness, without rest,

And a fading drip-drip-drip of hope, that’s the cruelest.

I faced the unseeing crowd, a joker with no words, wide-eyed fool.

My Funny Valentine...?

MY FUNNY VALENTINE…?

Note: Last year, around this time, I wrote ‘My Funny Valentine’…this year, the same theme came with a pause and a question mark…probably, fiction is getting closer to truth.

I could have stopped my husband when he left me. Why didn’t I? Answers to that keep popping up frequently, sounding correct and true. I nearly convinced myself with one answer, the one which said that I had been praying for it. Did that help me understand why he left on Valentine’s Day six years back? He was trying to be vindictive by choosing that day. For him, it is a special day.

The six years started feeling long and tedious when the separation ended and the loneliness took over. It seemed familiar, a lot like those days after the death of a close one – there is always that day when the living bid farewell with hasty promises to be around; and, the dead are truly gone, even the memory like an old bulb fades fast lingering intermittently for a while before the final blackout. Memories and promises wilted with fading light but that decaying bouquet was comforting before the long empty days marched in.

It is not really true that the last six years were lonelier than the rest. In fact, the first few months were quite crowded. I had frequent visitors arriving at their own convenience without intimation or invitation assuming that I was free and ready to receive them. They wanted to know my story or to tell their own story. They were keen to advise or sympathize or empathize or whatever. Some did not disguise their interest in the fall from grace and some found in it a balm or an energizer for their own needs and purposes. Some were in the same state and happily welcomed me to their club - a club with members waiting to end their membership. I know that I am being harsh. I am sure I would have felt thankful if I had derived some comfort or benefit from any of them.

After that casual lot had lost interest, the insistent barged in - those who felt they had to help actively, a trouble really but nothing severe, most mildly irritating, some even amusing. One section of the ‘concerned’ lot spread the news of my apparent need for company via gossip and printed media. My reluctance, selectivity and lack of cooperation confused them. How or why could I be selective and especially in my state, they wondered. Another section took the easier way to help and advised a single life. It did sound appealing to me since maintaining status quo involved only manageable troubles on my own rather than the traumatic risks that I expected with another. That is the excitement of life – isn’t that how people brush aside such fears? When that life destroys income, security, dreams, hopes and even the will to dream or hope, is it still excitement, I would like to ask those who pontificate without experience.

Two years trudged past and I was settling down to a comfortable tedium when life suddenly changed by pure chance. I bumped into Rekha at a mall. Just like in the old days when we were inseparable best friends, she gave a whoop of joy and hugged me. I felt drab and unkempt next to her. It was always like that, even in school. In those old photos of us, I look scruffy and she appears unruffled. I knew that she was still single. I could not make out how much she knew about me. After leaving school, we used to meet at get-togethers but never managed to be together, just the two of us. We could not talk for long at the mall since she had prior engagements. But, we quickly made plans to meet for lunch at the best Chinese restaurant in town the next Sunday.

  Though we had each other’s mobile number and email address, we did not contact each other till that Sunday. I was nervous and I could not trust myself with any contact that was not face-to-face. The nervousness excited and troubled me and left me dazed and dissipated. I could do little else, restless and sleepless. I dredged through old carefully forgotten or carelessly remembered memories. In the last year at school, we used to sleep over at each other’s place after combined study for the board exams. I tried to remember how it felt having her soft body next to mine in my bed. She had kissed me once, on my cheeks and lips. She did that only once, the once that recurred in a million thoughts. I guess she expected me to reciprocate and when I could not, she must have decided not to pursue it any further.

I went for that Sunday lunch trying my best to look good and elegant. We sat at a corner table which offered privacy. We joked and laughed about irrelevant stuff and leaned towards each other while we chose from the menu. I tried to name her perfume and I watched her face closely while she smiled.

I am not too sure if I continued to watch her face when she started talked about her love, or rather, loves. She told me about how she was being torn apart by her love for a Muslim colleague and her duty towards her family. I muttered the expected questions mechanically. I listened to her and comforted her when she cried. She told me that she has to marry the man her father had chosen. A good attractive man she has learned to love in couple of meetings, she added very quickly. As soon as we shared the expenses, I used some excuse to escape from there. During the rickshaw ride back home, I could not hold back my laughter any longer. That night, I must have cried. I remember only the laughter over that joke about a love that turns out to be something worse than unrequited, nearly comical and hardly original. To say that I was not bitter then would be so evidently false. But I can say truthfully that I did not realize that bitterness till a few months later when love showed its face yet again, though in a very different avatar.

 I can’t remember a time without Anand. We grew up together. We kept in touch even when his family migrated to the US. The contact between us was never frequent but the friendship was always there, like a reassuring and supporting hand. When I had told him about my marriage, he had wished me well. He gave me a lovely wedding gift and then, for the first time, disappeared from my life. I did not try to reach out to him during those years even though I needed his friendship. He did not get in touch even after my husband left. I contacted him after my debacle with Rekha. During our first call, Anand confessed to me that he had never married because he had been waiting for me. He called me his soul-mate. It sounded romantic and lovely. He was doing well in Switzerland and I dreamt of living over there. Our e-mail communication increased, we talked lots on the phone too and confided nearly all. Most veterans would advise wisely that it is not a great idea to talk too much to a love before marriage. That did not seem to be true.

 It did not seem true till the edifice started crumbling. It is tough to pinpoint the source of fracture. Divergent views on rather inconsequential matters, mismatched expectations, old fears in new guise, intuition or bad omens, whatever – I have tried hard to bracket the exact cause but without success. The memory of the final act still remains quite clear. He had come to India for a brief official visit. I suggested a dinner at that favourite joint, the best Chinese restaurant in town. As if to challenge a jinx, I led him to the same corner table. It was quite romantic when we held hands. During the break between the main course and the dessert, he casually mentioned a brief and old flame which he pursued while I was still married and described that ‘the highlight of her profile was her Adam’s apple’. I interrupted his loud guffaw over his own joke with ‘and yours is a pot belly’. Even today, I do not know if that acerbic retort was pre-planned. Anyway, from that moment on, it was nearly a race to the exit. I didn’t get to laugh in a rickshaw that time because he dropped me home. But laughter did follow later that night or during the many post-mortem of that failed love.

After that, I have stayed true to an old recurring dream. He came to me first when I was thirteen. I wrote poems about him. He then came to me the night before my wedding. I wrote about him in my diary. When my husband read that diary without my permission and asked for details, I refused to divulge anything. Now, he comes to me more often. He was mine, he is mine. I will not let the bitter world without touch within our relationship.

Not Really A Story

Not Really A Story

 [click here to download]

This is a selection of short stories and ‘poetry’ from the 3 collections of Swapna & New Nonentities (Musing, Voiceless New Nonentities and Without Reason).

I would truly appreciate any feedback regarding this process of discarding, selecting, editing and arranging; and, of course, the selected stories and ‘poetry’.

Fare Thee Well

Without Reason

For once, let me be true. I am doing this without reason. I think that is true.

Without Reason

 [click here to download this third collection of stories and poems]

References:

Collection 1: Musing [click here to download]

Collection 2: Voiceless [click here to download]

Collection 3: Without Reason [click here to download]

Check This Out

Here are some photos taken during a trip.

For more on the trip, check out: http://justoneavatar.blogspot.com/2011/04/story-tellers-sabbatical.html

Office

There’s no poetry in my office.

It is ten feet by ten feet, a tight pack

Of four places – for me and another

And two love-birds that coo elsewhere.

Open windows face the shut door.

Two nameless trees wait for me

To hop on, to climb, to descent, to go

Somewhere, anywhere, but I stay.

I watch the ants perfect a straight march.

I have named the spider in the left corner.

There is plenty to do till the other arrives.

Then, I put on a busy show of being clever.

The other opens my shut door,

Standing there, quietly waiting

For me, to move, remove, my feet,

Post siesta, from the other's chair.

I glare and stare and challenge.

But, it is a duel the other refuses

With a bloody smile in those eyes,

Those eyes could see, really, see.

I could, if I stretch my arms,

Knock the other down, or touch.

When the other cried, close by,

I did not touch. I am not that kind.

The Best Thing

The Best Thing

As a baby in pink or blue, or red-faced

when dress tangled with curls or pudgy limbs;

Gurgling, shitting, smiling, spitting, suckling,

they called my wily charm sheer innocence.

As a precocious nymph at Iyengar bakery,

bread, butter, I pirouetted, cake too, I pointed;

The young men glanced, the old men drooled,

they locked me in dirty dungeons, dreams of desire.

As a pioneer late or a wordy poet, at Loharu Junction,

at desert’s edge, with the photogenic, the heat,

A lorry driver, a loud woman enter exit a shady shed,

they walked past me, a mirage biting dust, unseen.

As a lover, a partner in strange beds, homes

with half-lies, faked orgasms, true charades,

The barter for old times’ sake, to be safe, secure, I gave,

they looked at me with pleasure, that as love, I took.

As an old hag with tattered hopes, shattered defense,

easy to be cynical, bitter, wise, stoic, bloody fool,

The truth is easier – while I find, lose, misplace,

they keep their best thing in their world, not me.

School Reunion

Today, I attended my school reunion. It is a pleasure to see those faces and to remember one of the best phases of my life.

Usually, it is held in the last week of December when those abroad come to these shores. This time, for some reason, they requested for the first Sunday of February. I try to get there early, around 10 am, along with the organizers. I like to grab my seat and watch my old mates enter. People start trickling in at around 11 am. There is ample time to mingle till lunch is served at 1 pm. 

Till a few years back, the party used to be held at a friend’s farm. Then, the venue shifted to the new Taj in town. The cost of attendance has shot up but it is really worth saving for. I have attended every party since inception. And, to make it memorable, something always happens.

Till five years back, alcohol used to be served. That year, one of the oldies groped a mate’s wife and the scene got ugly. That wife was sporting a rather indecent décolletage and her sari kept slipping all the time. She made such a big fuss. That popular guy was always like that, even during our school days. Anyway, he let bygones be bygones and never misses these reunions. The other one (he is a bit weak in the spine, everyone knows) and his wife have not attended since then; really, quite unfortunate and unforgiving.

A year or two after that, two kids created a bit of a flutter. Around lunch-time, the respective parents realized that their wards were missing. It was fun actually, searching and shouting for them. The two were found on the terrace, discussing Physics they said but nobody believed that. Some advised the parents to take it cool. But they left immediately. The guy and the girl, they belong to two churches. Anyway, since then, even kids are not allowed. Most find it easier now to let their hair down. Till date, none of the adults have gone missing. That would have been interesting.

I love to watch them enter, with their casual wear and the careful carelessness. It is so different from my usual life. The new Alumni secretary Mathew received everyone at the door. This time, Zach was the last to come. Poor chap, his wife is an invalid and it is beginning to show on him.

Mathew greeted him at the door, ‘Hey Zach, great to see you here.’

‘Hi.’ I could make out that Zach was trying to fit the face with a name.

Unperturbed, Mathew introduced himself, ‘I am Mathew. We were together in XI A. I went to ‘C’ division in XII.’

‘Ah!’ Zach responded and the two joined the others.

I got up from my seat ready to flit from one group to the next. Most of them have aged so gracefully and done quite well.

I went to the large lot in the middle. It is not like the early days when the ones from abroad used to stand apart. Nearly everyone from everywhere get together these days: comparing notes about kids’ education in Portland, Sydney and Bangalore; the latest in Kochi, Dubai and London; life in Singapore, Mumbai and Vancouver; opportunities in Shanghai, Technopark and Frankfurt. It is amazing to hear how they adapted, the nasal twang, the tough life when they come to India, the recession, the uncertainty and how they had to settle for a vacation at Aspen or Cyprus.

I left that lot and joined Shekhar and Deepthi who were standing a little away. We watched as Gopi made his way through the crowd towards us.

Shekhar whispered to Deepthi, ‘There he comes…Go-pee…your love. What was that song he used to sing for you?’

Deepthi hushed him, ‘Shhh…poor chap…he is in a miserable state now…a widower, divorced too.’

‘Which order?’

‘How does it matter?’

‘If divorced and then a widower, still rich; otherwise, bloody poor…’

‘Shekhar, shut up!’ Deepthi hissed. Gopi reached us.

Shekhar greeted him, ‘Ah! Gopi! We were just talking about you…how are you, old man? Look, let me leave you two love-birds alone…’ Laughing, Shekhar moved quickly without acknowledging Deepthi’s stare.

I followed him to Shajeeb (I.A.S.), Suresh Namboothiri (doctor) and Rajeev (professor). Those three are always together. Till 2008, they were into stocks. They claim that they exited when the index touched 21k. Now, they are into real-estate.

Shajeeb was asking Rajeev, ‘I am trying to get that hill near Technopark…and develop it, man…only one more acre to get. It is your brother-in-law’s land, man...any chance of getting it, man?’

Rajeev confided, ‘He is in a tough position now…up to his neck in debt…his latest venture has also flopped…prawns, he managed to flop with…prawns! Only my brother-in-law can manage that. I can introduce you…good time to approach him to sell that land…’

Shajeeb replied, ‘Wonderful, man…’

‘Don’t forget the brokerage for me…’ Rajeev joked rather seriously.

‘Of course, man, of course…’ Shajeeb smiled widely, indicated that he has to go to the loo and left.

‘Bloody Muslim…they are grabbing everything…’ Rajeev told the others.

Shekhar, the Cupid, entered the fray and needled Suresh, ‘Oye Suresh! Your daughter married recently, right? You didn’t call us…’

Suresh reluctantly nodded but refused to comment.

Rajeev joined in, ‘Come on, Suresh…her guy is from my caste…it is not too low, you know…chin up…you look as if she married a mongrel!’

Suresh also indicated that he has to go to the loo and left the scene.

‘Bloody Brahmin…’ Rajeev remarked.

Shekhar moved to another group and stood behind Anna. In school, he used to sit behind Anna. She is a dentist and he has got a perfect set of teeth.

I moved away to join a gang of ‘girls’. The professionals compared their trips abroad. The homemakers talked about their social welfare groups. They talked collectively about an absent gang-member,

‘Oh, she has become so girlie these days…can you imagine…she was so tomboyish…now, she is all sari, gold and lehenga…Lehenga at this age…can you imagine…’

They discussed the old days, the tricks they played in boarding school, the old teachers (dead and alive). They took stock of the gang-members. With regard to another absentee, Sheetal, they came to the conclusion

‘She was definitely not in our gang…’ Sheetal is the daughter of a Party leader. ‘She got a job in that co-operative bank, you know…courtesy the Party.’ The gang was definitely against that Party.

It was close to lunch-time when I heard a commotion. I knew it…something always happens.

The whole lot crowded near the entrance. I could hear a few remarks from the front,

‘Shit, man…is she dead?’ That must have been Shajeeb back from the loo.

‘Yeah, not long though…hey Mathew, was she in our class?’ Was it Suresh or another doctor in the group?

‘Hmm…I think she was in ‘B’…don’t you remember her? She was just like this even then…’ Mathew’s voice came clear.

‘What? Dead even then…?’ Shekhar had to quip. Someone mentioned that we should call for an ambulance or something.

‘Damn! Right before lunch…’ Some of the girls grumbled.

I looked at myself, that slumped figure that used to be me. I felt like announcing, ‘Well…for once…I am the soul of the party…’

That sounded cheap and used. How about, ‘Add spirit to your group…’ or…

I felt sad for spoiling their party, my last reunion.

I should not have tried to be one of them…