A rough sketch, from my sister, who's one of those billions of normal souls that get by in life swell without reading a single book. I believe one of my stories here stirred something in her. So she mails this sketch of an idea for me to re-work on, and see if it shapes up good enough for my blog.
I was struck when I read it, a strange, bitter-sweet tale. And I decided to post it here just as she had mailed it to me. Do let me know if you did enjoy it as much as I did. It is not titled, and here's how it goes...
************
A girl who was all alone, dint need friends or people for her to talk to or be with her coz she was living in such a place which had so many wonderful things, rather living things. To talk about, waterfalls from up above the sky, half way thru a bridge this was entangled with creepers with small colorful flowers. At one end of the bridge there was a tunnel like opening and at the other end this girl had made a house for herself a small hut made of dried leaves and hay and some wood. Inside the hut had nothing in it but a stack of hay with a small pillow made of hay again where this girl used to sleep.
The girl had big blue eyes, blonde hair that was so silky and soft. She was 3 feel tall, quite chubby coz was very healthy eating all different kinds of fruits all over the forest. Had no fear of any animal coz she hadn’t seen one till then. It looked like there were no dangerous animals in the forest. Lucky or good for the girl. She used to wakeup really early by the chirping of a bird which used to fly to her hut every morning. This bird had bright red color on its neck, it had a long beak and blue feathers all over.
For our convenience lets call the bird MIGHT.
Might used to fly to her hut every morning, no idea or reason why. Might used to make such lovely and melodious sounds that the girl used to enjoy it and wakeup with a smile every morning. She used to wakeup and go to the river stream and clean herself with the water and some leaves which gave some lather and made her really look fresh. Those leaves had a fragrance like rose and freshness like the first rain after a hot summer. Then she used to eat berries on the tree which looked like it bent down for her to reach it. Sumptuous, Big, RED, transparent, juicy sweet and sour Berries with no seeds absolutely.
The girl used to eat some and give some to Might. Might used to bring some really precious, shiny stones everyday and give then to the girl. Girl had collected them all and kept them in her hut. Might used to stay with her all day long, go to the places the girl used to go and sing lovely melodies to her on the way.
Could the girl speak?
She used to make exactly the same sounds as the bird, exactly the same melodious sounds like the bird. Might used to give her the precious stones and fly away by the sunset after the girl slept.
One night the girl followed Might to see where it went, Might flew like an eagle up above the sky and vanished.
The girl came back disappointed and lied down on her bed. Next day, she dint wakeup the bird dint come, there was a lot of silence all around everything looked still. No movement absolutely. The girl woke up with a shock to realize that Might was not there, the waterfalls stopped and the river stream was dry. The berries were so high the girl couldn’t reach them; the precious stones that the girl had collected from Might looked like they were alive, yellowish red Milky Way in the stones started to roll all over the stones.
She dint understand why it was happening and what was happening. She stood there watching them. Suddenly the girl could hear the same sounds from a distance and when she looked back it was Might, it came like a swift and Sat by the stones. The stones started to move, one stone cracked and a bright Red little birdy came from it. In a few seconds all the stones uh uh Eggs started to hatch. Might is a rare bird that found the girl reliable and kept the eggs safely with the girl and waited till the eggs hatched. The girl was so happy to find so many friends.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Monday, August 21, 2006
Story #5. It's Just Skin.
"Just what do you have in mind!" I demanded in irritation.
"Yaar, Pranav, don't get upset, please. I need your help. I can't… I can't face her. God, after her call from the clinic, I don't have it in me," Rajesh pleaded, tinny and pathetic over the line.
I tried to knead away the headache, my brow burning. It was 10 o’clock, Saturday morning, in the office beginning to bustle with the activity of a fresh new day.
I had been nursing my frozen shoulder, cursing the overheated laptop that let up finally after an all-night effort to finish the critical market report. My eyes burned with strain. I could smell my unwashed mouth, dry with too many cigarettes the night before. And I was fretting over the presentation due to start in an hour.
That was when my cell phone shuddered in its vibration mode.
Rajesh started an obscure lament about society and disability and what not; I was not paying attention to him. In fact, I was turning over in my sleepy mind my wife's cold silence over the phone last evening. I had desperately tried to explain why I couldn't make it to our anniversary dinner. That was when he caught my attention with Sheela’s name, and I realized something was wrong.
With a loud sigh, I tried to marshal my emotions.
"Rajesh, I understand you’re worried, man. But talk to Sheela first. I mean, it's not life threatening, right? Bloody hell, it’s just her skin! Why, the doctor’s assured her that things will be fine with her. You’re just hyper reacting, yaar."
"But what about future? What about our offspring?" his thin wail sailed over the line.
In a mind clear and bold in financial planning, he hid a vein of deep self-centredness. I should know, as his close, discerning friend over decades. I learned to work around it, after initial missteps.
But ever since he fell in love with Sheela, our one sensible common friend from college, he had seemed different. In her company, he relaxed more, gave freely, shared willingly. It was curious to watch the change in him, but I had felt glad for him, in private.
"C’mon, Rajesh. There’s no guarantee it will pass on to your children. We can ensure preventive treatment, just in case.”
The selfish streak that had lain dormant for years broke out in a rabid rash now. All it took was for Sheela to discover to her alarm a few white patches on her cheek that appeared out of nowhere. She had actually called me to ask if I knew any skin specialists.
But, with Rajesh, a simple extension of commitment was what it needed to rear its ugly head.
"No, Pranav. Out of the question. I can’t take chances like that," he said, surprising me.
"My family won't agree with this, yaar. I can't take it myself," he offered in a low tone.
I was incensed. "Family? You wretch! I thought you loved her. All the romance since college, what was that about?"
"I know, I know. But I never knew this… this thing would develop in her." He was agonizing, like a child.
“Are you telling me the only thing that mattered to you was a body without blemish?”
My sarcastic hiss silenced him for a few seconds. I pictured Sheela’s endearing beauty, and felt guilty immediately.
He resumed with a surprising calm, in a hardened voice. A line had been crossed somewhere.
"You know better than that. But I have limits to my compassion, friend. At least I have to think of my offspring, for my family's sake. You know, love is all good, but you need social acceptance."
I could see that coming. His father was an affluent financier well known in the city, more successful in the family trade than his forefathers. He was infamous for his compulsive religious orthodoxy. Rajesh often complained while in college over the time he lost in attending the elaborate family prayers in the estate shrine every morning. He used to say there was more ritual than faith.
“What social acceptance? This involves just you and Sheela, and she needs your support now. Are you saying you won’t accept her now because of a sudden loss of pigment?” I rallied.
“It’s not simple as that, all things considered. It’s … it’s embarrassing. Society won’t accept her with white patches and all. I know how particular my family is about religious beliefs. They will deem it a portent, a symbol of some sin or sacrilege in her previous life. We’re calling for misery. Why, remember how we used to taunt that poor tailor’s son in school? Those horrible jokes about the father of Pandavas, you know?”
“But Rajesh, it was wrong, we were wrong. We were kids and knew no better. And our society’s blind sometimes. You can’t rationalize superstition. There’s not a shred of logic in public acceptability. Listen, man, people stigmatize in ignorance-”
“Ha, you’re forgetting this is India, my good sir. It doesn’t matter what you believe personally. In fact pox on you if you harbour anything different. It’s all about conformity. My father grudged me my clean shave for years. You know how he dotes on a moustache, going on about how a real man should grow it thick and twirl it at the ends. I gave up and grew one. So much trauma over a stupid strip of facial hair! I’ve learnt independent thinking is all fine, but within limits. You outgrow it when you’re an adult. At any rate, my family won’t accept a physically unfit daughter-in-law, especially one who could pass something untoward to their heirs.”
He was grumbling with a blend of hate and helplessness. It felt like he was reveling in an insular logic.
“Sheela is what - just a child bearer to you? Next you’ll be telling me, you actually doubt if she will bear you boys, thanks to her vitiligo!”
He was silent for a few seconds.
“Pranav. What matters to me most is my family. Is it wrong to respect its legacy? You may not like it, but that’s what’s made me. That’s who I am. And do you think the decision is easy for me to make?”
I snorted bitterly.
"Oh, is this the same legacy you told me about? How much, did you say… three hundred million in silver? You’ve made your choice then? Between this LEGACY and your love!"
Later, I felt he had held back his venom at this outburst. But I was plodding on.
"All right. So you leave her for this legacy. Let’s say your parents find you another girl, and all’s well with the world, eh? Life’s not a zero-sum game, yaar. What if your parents’ choice develops a disability herself? What then? Your family’s willing to live with that? You are trying to escape from fate, Rajesh."
Quiet. The distance between us was growing every second.
“What if she bears girls, one after the other? What would happen to her? And your family with its dreams of boys and heirs, what would they do then?”
What he shot back next will remain with me a long time.
“In this country, girls make their own destiny.”
I couldn’t speak.
“Pranav, I am an only son. I owe it to them. And I know about zero-sum games. Just call it cutting losses. It’s social blight for anyone with disabilities. And I cannot partake in it,” he said quietly.
“You are unbelievable, Rajesh,” I recovered a little.
He sighed, irritated, “Yaar, this society decides our manhood. What’s new? I can’t justify my duty to anyone. It just is. In spite of myself.”
“Then do it, for God’s sake. Why tell me?!”
"I... I need your help."
"What? I thought you got all the help you need from your FAMILY!"
I knew that must have stung, but I was past caring. He ignored the barb and continued.
"I called her back, after her call. She was coming over to see me. I told her no, I'm meeting you in the next half-hour for lunch, so she might as well come to your office. She was happy, said something about friends being the best people to share troubles with. In fact, she should be there any time now."
There was a catch in his voice that my senses tingled at.
"What are you telling me, man?"
"I’m not coming. Tell her for me."
"Look, man. She loves you." That was more the truth, it was clear now. It was the last shot in spite of the heavy air of finality between us. It was a plea.
Click.
I sat shocked, cradling the receiver. The phone on my desk buzzed. The number blinking on it showed it was the front office calling.
Sheela must be here already, with her innocent smile.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Yaar, Pranav, don't get upset, please. I need your help. I can't… I can't face her. God, after her call from the clinic, I don't have it in me," Rajesh pleaded, tinny and pathetic over the line.
I tried to knead away the headache, my brow burning. It was 10 o’clock, Saturday morning, in the office beginning to bustle with the activity of a fresh new day.
I had been nursing my frozen shoulder, cursing the overheated laptop that let up finally after an all-night effort to finish the critical market report. My eyes burned with strain. I could smell my unwashed mouth, dry with too many cigarettes the night before. And I was fretting over the presentation due to start in an hour.
That was when my cell phone shuddered in its vibration mode.
Rajesh started an obscure lament about society and disability and what not; I was not paying attention to him. In fact, I was turning over in my sleepy mind my wife's cold silence over the phone last evening. I had desperately tried to explain why I couldn't make it to our anniversary dinner. That was when he caught my attention with Sheela’s name, and I realized something was wrong.
With a loud sigh, I tried to marshal my emotions.
"Rajesh, I understand you’re worried, man. But talk to Sheela first. I mean, it's not life threatening, right? Bloody hell, it’s just her skin! Why, the doctor’s assured her that things will be fine with her. You’re just hyper reacting, yaar."
"But what about future? What about our offspring?" his thin wail sailed over the line.
In a mind clear and bold in financial planning, he hid a vein of deep self-centredness. I should know, as his close, discerning friend over decades. I learned to work around it, after initial missteps.
But ever since he fell in love with Sheela, our one sensible common friend from college, he had seemed different. In her company, he relaxed more, gave freely, shared willingly. It was curious to watch the change in him, but I had felt glad for him, in private.
"C’mon, Rajesh. There’s no guarantee it will pass on to your children. We can ensure preventive treatment, just in case.”
The selfish streak that had lain dormant for years broke out in a rabid rash now. All it took was for Sheela to discover to her alarm a few white patches on her cheek that appeared out of nowhere. She had actually called me to ask if I knew any skin specialists.
But, with Rajesh, a simple extension of commitment was what it needed to rear its ugly head.
"No, Pranav. Out of the question. I can’t take chances like that," he said, surprising me.
"My family won't agree with this, yaar. I can't take it myself," he offered in a low tone.
I was incensed. "Family? You wretch! I thought you loved her. All the romance since college, what was that about?"
"I know, I know. But I never knew this… this thing would develop in her." He was agonizing, like a child.
“Are you telling me the only thing that mattered to you was a body without blemish?”
My sarcastic hiss silenced him for a few seconds. I pictured Sheela’s endearing beauty, and felt guilty immediately.
He resumed with a surprising calm, in a hardened voice. A line had been crossed somewhere.
"You know better than that. But I have limits to my compassion, friend. At least I have to think of my offspring, for my family's sake. You know, love is all good, but you need social acceptance."
I could see that coming. His father was an affluent financier well known in the city, more successful in the family trade than his forefathers. He was infamous for his compulsive religious orthodoxy. Rajesh often complained while in college over the time he lost in attending the elaborate family prayers in the estate shrine every morning. He used to say there was more ritual than faith.
“What social acceptance? This involves just you and Sheela, and she needs your support now. Are you saying you won’t accept her now because of a sudden loss of pigment?” I rallied.
“It’s not simple as that, all things considered. It’s … it’s embarrassing. Society won’t accept her with white patches and all. I know how particular my family is about religious beliefs. They will deem it a portent, a symbol of some sin or sacrilege in her previous life. We’re calling for misery. Why, remember how we used to taunt that poor tailor’s son in school? Those horrible jokes about the father of Pandavas, you know?”
“But Rajesh, it was wrong, we were wrong. We were kids and knew no better. And our society’s blind sometimes. You can’t rationalize superstition. There’s not a shred of logic in public acceptability. Listen, man, people stigmatize in ignorance-”
“Ha, you’re forgetting this is India, my good sir. It doesn’t matter what you believe personally. In fact pox on you if you harbour anything different. It’s all about conformity. My father grudged me my clean shave for years. You know how he dotes on a moustache, going on about how a real man should grow it thick and twirl it at the ends. I gave up and grew one. So much trauma over a stupid strip of facial hair! I’ve learnt independent thinking is all fine, but within limits. You outgrow it when you’re an adult. At any rate, my family won’t accept a physically unfit daughter-in-law, especially one who could pass something untoward to their heirs.”
He was grumbling with a blend of hate and helplessness. It felt like he was reveling in an insular logic.
“Sheela is what - just a child bearer to you? Next you’ll be telling me, you actually doubt if she will bear you boys, thanks to her vitiligo!”
He was silent for a few seconds.
“Pranav. What matters to me most is my family. Is it wrong to respect its legacy? You may not like it, but that’s what’s made me. That’s who I am. And do you think the decision is easy for me to make?”
I snorted bitterly.
"Oh, is this the same legacy you told me about? How much, did you say… three hundred million in silver? You’ve made your choice then? Between this LEGACY and your love!"
Later, I felt he had held back his venom at this outburst. But I was plodding on.
"All right. So you leave her for this legacy. Let’s say your parents find you another girl, and all’s well with the world, eh? Life’s not a zero-sum game, yaar. What if your parents’ choice develops a disability herself? What then? Your family’s willing to live with that? You are trying to escape from fate, Rajesh."
Quiet. The distance between us was growing every second.
“What if she bears girls, one after the other? What would happen to her? And your family with its dreams of boys and heirs, what would they do then?”
What he shot back next will remain with me a long time.
“In this country, girls make their own destiny.”
I couldn’t speak.
“Pranav, I am an only son. I owe it to them. And I know about zero-sum games. Just call it cutting losses. It’s social blight for anyone with disabilities. And I cannot partake in it,” he said quietly.
“You are unbelievable, Rajesh,” I recovered a little.
He sighed, irritated, “Yaar, this society decides our manhood. What’s new? I can’t justify my duty to anyone. It just is. In spite of myself.”
“Then do it, for God’s sake. Why tell me?!”
"I... I need your help."
"What? I thought you got all the help you need from your FAMILY!"
I knew that must have stung, but I was past caring. He ignored the barb and continued.
"I called her back, after her call. She was coming over to see me. I told her no, I'm meeting you in the next half-hour for lunch, so she might as well come to your office. She was happy, said something about friends being the best people to share troubles with. In fact, she should be there any time now."
There was a catch in his voice that my senses tingled at.
"What are you telling me, man?"
"I’m not coming. Tell her for me."
"Look, man. She loves you." That was more the truth, it was clear now. It was the last shot in spite of the heavy air of finality between us. It was a plea.
Click.
I sat shocked, cradling the receiver. The phone on my desk buzzed. The number blinking on it showed it was the front office calling.
Sheela must be here already, with her innocent smile.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Vitiligo - a specific type of leukoderma, depigmentation of epidermis. Common sign is white patches over face, neck, hands etc.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Humble Erratum.
Goodwill from friends over the internet has prompted me to post a little corrigendum.
The stories (marked by numbers/ '#') I have posted here are pure fiction, completely imagined - though they do have a certain basis in real life experience. Yet, fundamentally nothing but fancy.
Reader reactions have been heart-felt. Grateful self bows humbly.
The stories (marked by numbers/ '#') I have posted here are pure fiction, completely imagined - though they do have a certain basis in real life experience. Yet, fundamentally nothing but fancy.
Reader reactions have been heart-felt. Grateful self bows humbly.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Story #4.
Momentary Distraction Of a Tired Headhunter.
His eyes are glazing over. He is light headed now.
He feels completely wrung of sweat in this stunning swelter. Odd, he thinks, and smiles to himself. Something tickles the edge of his vision and he turns to see.
He is transfixed.
Ahead, a huge head has risen from the earth; its enormous maw gapes open pouring out hundreds of large black scarabs. And the hideous stream is endless: bristling in the noon glare, scuttling in great hurry, welling up at him as they farm out busily in all directions. With eyes wide and hair on end, he turns his head around in a slow arc.
Chaos swirls around him in furious, disobedient ecstasy. Beast and machine meet in a roaring flux. He is the petrified eye of a fearsome whorl. He is helpless, in the middle of fume and fury.
He is the target on an altar of senseless duty.
******************
A shudder wakes him from his reverie.
The sun feels wedged in the sky without release. The earth's heat has enveloped him in a roiling embrace. It is Saturday afternoon, the rush-hour traffic giddy with relief from a week of work.
He is on a makeshift post on the junction island. He stands under its narrow metal dome, its gnarled skirts eaten by rust. In the shame of its shade, his vigour has pooled at his feet, unable to rise. All around him is a reek of burning fuel and an insistent drone to destinations. In the distance the multiplex is disgorging its noon show crowds.
And he has been gazing in distraction at it.
People heave out in a fever of multilingual cacophony. The stale conditioned air sighs out invisibly in their wake. Their heads glisten curiously in the noon sun, as they stream out arguing, laughing, gesturing...
He shakes his head to clear it of the eerie daydream.
He has allowed his tired mind to take over. He mutters a curse on power cuts, his quick glance lashing at the traffic light pole, dead since morning. His shoulders scream from constant signaling. Intense, stark heat has sponged him of all sap. He is just a uniformed automaton in a dry drench of grit. Apathy mocks, taunts, spits at him. Smog has obscured everything. Stick out his tongue, and he could probably taste it.
Hatred is uncoiling in him fast. He is hungry, ready, his head hunter's eyes keen and seeking. Time to quench, the jam be damned.
There.
He skips off the platform and loops into the slow traffic, blocking the speeding yuppie on a sleek executive bike. He motions him to the curb with a superior air. The flustered biker blinks at him, aware of the hefty fine and highhanded barbs to come.
The constable mentally re-orders the formidable check list - driver's license, pollution control, vehicle registration, insurance, number plate, inter-state transfer papers. Such a large net to cast and he has already felt one inviting snag: the missing helmet. The latest decree for driver safety this year, the easiest to enforce on these rowdy hordes.
Ah, to indulge in sweet, luscious revenge - violation by traffic violation.
His eyes are glazing over. He is light headed now.
He feels completely wrung of sweat in this stunning swelter. Odd, he thinks, and smiles to himself. Something tickles the edge of his vision and he turns to see.
He is transfixed.
Ahead, a huge head has risen from the earth; its enormous maw gapes open pouring out hundreds of large black scarabs. And the hideous stream is endless: bristling in the noon glare, scuttling in great hurry, welling up at him as they farm out busily in all directions. With eyes wide and hair on end, he turns his head around in a slow arc.
Chaos swirls around him in furious, disobedient ecstasy. Beast and machine meet in a roaring flux. He is the petrified eye of a fearsome whorl. He is helpless, in the middle of fume and fury.
He is the target on an altar of senseless duty.
******************
A shudder wakes him from his reverie.
The sun feels wedged in the sky without release. The earth's heat has enveloped him in a roiling embrace. It is Saturday afternoon, the rush-hour traffic giddy with relief from a week of work.
He is on a makeshift post on the junction island. He stands under its narrow metal dome, its gnarled skirts eaten by rust. In the shame of its shade, his vigour has pooled at his feet, unable to rise. All around him is a reek of burning fuel and an insistent drone to destinations. In the distance the multiplex is disgorging its noon show crowds.
And he has been gazing in distraction at it.
People heave out in a fever of multilingual cacophony. The stale conditioned air sighs out invisibly in their wake. Their heads glisten curiously in the noon sun, as they stream out arguing, laughing, gesturing...
He shakes his head to clear it of the eerie daydream.
He has allowed his tired mind to take over. He mutters a curse on power cuts, his quick glance lashing at the traffic light pole, dead since morning. His shoulders scream from constant signaling. Intense, stark heat has sponged him of all sap. He is just a uniformed automaton in a dry drench of grit. Apathy mocks, taunts, spits at him. Smog has obscured everything. Stick out his tongue, and he could probably taste it.
Hatred is uncoiling in him fast. He is hungry, ready, his head hunter's eyes keen and seeking. Time to quench, the jam be damned.
There.
He skips off the platform and loops into the slow traffic, blocking the speeding yuppie on a sleek executive bike. He motions him to the curb with a superior air. The flustered biker blinks at him, aware of the hefty fine and highhanded barbs to come.
The constable mentally re-orders the formidable check list - driver's license, pollution control, vehicle registration, insurance, number plate, inter-state transfer papers. Such a large net to cast and he has already felt one inviting snag: the missing helmet. The latest decree for driver safety this year, the easiest to enforce on these rowdy hordes.
Ah, to indulge in sweet, luscious revenge - violation by traffic violation.
Story #3.
Breathe
There she stands peeking from behind the tree, her slender arm parting the hedge where it has thinned. It is a warm, breezy afternoon.
She watches the tall man crossing the street, walking away from her. Unaware of her vigil, he has a lazy swagger, the mark of a man retreating from a private, satisfying frenzy. A bead of sweat rolls down and rests in the cleft of her upper lip. She shifts weight on her feet. She is ready.
She draws her breath in deep, deep, and holds it.
As if in response, the wind hesitates. There is an abrupt, fierce brightening as the sun slips out between the clouds. Everything grows still and silent, with the noon shadows darkening. Her heart thuds hard. She is holding her breath now, eyes intent on the figure across the street.
He stops and coughs loudly, raising a hand to his chest. He is puzzled and looks around towards her house. But he cannot see beyond the murk of the wood’s edge.
She continues her hold on her breath, watching, waiting.
It has been a beautiful courtship, her first. His tutelage began sober and disinterested, intent on a proper education for her. But youthful beauty and a juvenile infatuation have worn his defenses down. The privacy in the large quiet mansion has been so tempting today.
Her eyes do not waver. The man gasps, his eyes wide, his whole being desperate for air. He struggles with a heart beginning to collapse. She is unmoved but for her terrible will.
She had not known what to expect, but it had not been pleasurable. Yet she had smiled up at him in innocence and love and pain, a little dismayed by his rough and unfeeling needs. When she looked into his eyes, her heart grew cold. Unknown to himself, his eyes had shown an animal sating itself. That was when she knew. She had lain there under him, as her world swirled inside.
Before he left, she had held him with a long, lingering kiss, while he professed ineffectual, adult loyalties to her.
The man is now whooping loudly, sucking at the air. He’s kneeling on the pavement, helpless. His head jerks urgently, and his hands claw at his throat. She has grown still as a statue. Her eyes remain on the figure now struggling with itself and dying.
When he had entered her, for a few precious moments, she had felt vulnerable. She had felt the deep wonder of being a woman. She had felt lost, unwilling to be found again.
The figure is now still, prostrate on the pavement, frozen in the grotesque dance of death.
She straightens, wiping her tears, her long sigh releasing the breath the world has held. She has recalled her breath of love to herself, the one she gave him when she had kissed him. Now her breath is heavy as she remembers the warning she has ignored:
'Find your kind.'
There she stands peeking from behind the tree, her slender arm parting the hedge where it has thinned. It is a warm, breezy afternoon.
She watches the tall man crossing the street, walking away from her. Unaware of her vigil, he has a lazy swagger, the mark of a man retreating from a private, satisfying frenzy. A bead of sweat rolls down and rests in the cleft of her upper lip. She shifts weight on her feet. She is ready.
She draws her breath in deep, deep, and holds it.
As if in response, the wind hesitates. There is an abrupt, fierce brightening as the sun slips out between the clouds. Everything grows still and silent, with the noon shadows darkening. Her heart thuds hard. She is holding her breath now, eyes intent on the figure across the street.
He stops and coughs loudly, raising a hand to his chest. He is puzzled and looks around towards her house. But he cannot see beyond the murk of the wood’s edge.
She continues her hold on her breath, watching, waiting.
It has been a beautiful courtship, her first. His tutelage began sober and disinterested, intent on a proper education for her. But youthful beauty and a juvenile infatuation have worn his defenses down. The privacy in the large quiet mansion has been so tempting today.
Her eyes do not waver. The man gasps, his eyes wide, his whole being desperate for air. He struggles with a heart beginning to collapse. She is unmoved but for her terrible will.
She had not known what to expect, but it had not been pleasurable. Yet she had smiled up at him in innocence and love and pain, a little dismayed by his rough and unfeeling needs. When she looked into his eyes, her heart grew cold. Unknown to himself, his eyes had shown an animal sating itself. That was when she knew. She had lain there under him, as her world swirled inside.
Before he left, she had held him with a long, lingering kiss, while he professed ineffectual, adult loyalties to her.
The man is now whooping loudly, sucking at the air. He’s kneeling on the pavement, helpless. His head jerks urgently, and his hands claw at his throat. She has grown still as a statue. Her eyes remain on the figure now struggling with itself and dying.
When he had entered her, for a few precious moments, she had felt vulnerable. She had felt the deep wonder of being a woman. She had felt lost, unwilling to be found again.
The figure is now still, prostrate on the pavement, frozen in the grotesque dance of death.
She straightens, wiping her tears, her long sigh releasing the breath the world has held. She has recalled her breath of love to herself, the one she gave him when she had kissed him. Now her breath is heavy as she remembers the warning she has ignored:
'Find your kind.'
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Story #2.
Eating a peach for the first time.
I found this piece of advice, rummaging in my uncle's desk.
He passed away last month, after a decade of mild dementia inflicted gently on him from a lifetime of psychiatric practice in a frenetic city. I had volunteered for his care, the other relatives unwilling to take care of a loony old widower. I am a middle aged bachelor seasoned with self-imposed abstinence from familial hazards, on the verge of a sabbatical from journalistic career in Mumbai and living atop a weather beaten building close to the Gateway of India.
He died an old – very old - child. I’m sure he approved living with me, though I have a ticklish suspicion that it was more because of the deep love for chocolate I shared with him.
I was his favourite nephew. Ever since I gurgled in his lap, his cheerful directness had always disarmed me without fail, as did his unabashed hugs on all my birthdays. Wherever he is now, he stills holds in good confidence my confusion over career choice, and my first painful jilt.
He was a gentle, intelligent and accomplished man who could not father children, who had deteriorated in loneliness after his wife’s death. That was when I decided to bring my surrogate father home.
He was so well mannered, clean of habit and well ordered that I had no qualms bringing up my colleagues and friends for nightcaps. They were all deceived in the first meeting, until they were led into the bright, festooned party halls in his head. A few returned to renew acquaintance with him, their deference to his whimsical wisdom only growing. A likely emotional response of tired middle aged hacks in the unrelenting, frantic melee of life in Mumbai.
Some time back, he had discovered the internet, and with a child like glee, graduated rapidly to creating a blog with a pseudonym in which he argued about the primacy of matter over mind. His poor online audience was enthralled, knew no better and offered him great traffic. He was so abstruse, so obscure in his monologues that I used to indulge in them myself whenever I needed to unwind the knots in my writer’s head.
I had put him to sleep many times fighting between tears and laughter over his ideas expounded during dinner. This was to be his latest update. And I decided that the last post to his blog shall go online.
Pre Script: I remember, he had so enjoyed the little satchel of peaches I brought home two months back. I thought it was somehow charming to see this wizened child slavering over them, endearingly silly. Had I known better - which the following last update of his reveals, I would have filled my pad with fruits of every kind, every day, all within his arm’s reach. It would have made him happy, I think.
*******************************************************
EATING A PEACH FOR THE FIRST TIME
You should try it, eating a peach for the first time.
Not again, not after, not now if you have done it before - simply for the one and only 'first' time. You could never enjoy a peach the same way again, trust me.
Try it, with any fruit, I dare you. I might have eaten a million bananas,
but the very first one should have been one of the most important experiences in my life.
But now it's gone, inaccessible, irretrievable, forgotten - overwhelmed completely by all the subsequent tastes, smells, textures and the mighty meanders of growing up without spontaneous awareness of simple things in life...
If one'd done it already, then it's over, beyond you forever. The leading edge of one's faculty for sensory REdiscovery is blunted, in the case of something you have eaten once.
Tasting something for the first time happens only once, doesn’t it?
It is an irreversible process, unrewindable, unrecordable, unrewritable and unburnable for posterity. You cannot bring it back, in other - simpler - words. It can only be done once, and once done, stays done, and becomes undoable thereafter - the first taste of something. For example - a peach.
TO WIT, ONCE:
It is odd that innocence is never recognized till it's lost. Take the case of a child. Everyone knows that. Which is why everyone loves them, and envies them for their delicate, simple, sincere, guileless ways. Classically, is it that one loves a child for something one lacks or has lost? Or is it tacit acknowledgement of a virtue that once existed in oneself? Or is it a convoluted transaction where by an adult could somehow hope to transfuse their dark life fluid with fresh innocence, while the young is bled of it to decay towards adulthood?
TO WIT, TWICE:
Capture is exciting, rousing, invigorating; recapture is yawn, humdrum, ho-hum, glum.
Pioneers are about climax and discovery. And then, followers walk in in hordes, turn a single delicate experience into a collective stimulation, turn an experiment into a fad, trend, tradition and orthodoxy. Theory is laced with superstition, added to perversion, shaken with ignorance, stirred with ego, poured into punitive preaching, delivered on iced dogma.
The world is force fed thus. And the meek shall inherit.
NOW TO THE MARROW OF THE MATTER:
The peach is a fascinating fruit: I found yesterday.
The delicate blush makes the colour a celebrated favourite among women. Skin velvety to touch; when licked - a curious coarse powder coat on your tongue; rich, sumptuous inside, firm and full outside, a certain self-possession with a tinge of lividity - voluptuous; prise it apart, a quiet yielding in your hands; the heart - the crimson and calloused seed - is a mild visual shock, nestling safe, wet and sticky in the juicy loin; tiny flecks of red (from seed) in the centre of the other half; the texture is thick, lumpy, golden fibre, the smell a pleasant, secretive acidity; sink your teeth into the deceptively dry flesh and you can hear faint snaps as the little live fibres break; the syrup is faintly abrasive, makes you want to grate your teeth.
A little surprise, for it feels like a mild, gentle version of a pineapple, but with a neater, drier and just as rich soul of its own....
Ah....should try the Kiwi next.
But I lose my case with Lemon, Orange, Pineapple, Sugar Cane, Water Melon, Apple, Banana, Guava, Plum, Papaya, Grape, Pomegranate, Sapote, Jack fruit, Mango, Custard Apple, Cantaloupe, Pear, Berry, Cherry, Fig, Date, Strawberry, Gooseberry...
NOTE:
Eating fruits is healthy, and should be done at a distance from a meal.
Distant in time, not in space. So there.
Eating fruits in season is better. Eating them regularly is much better. The best part is there's tremendous variety in them. The so-so part is we get only those more suited to our tropical climes (I live in India).
Come to think of it, there’s not much to choose between humans and simians suffering this experiential angst.
TO UNWIT, FINALLY:
Serendipity is simply superb, as long as one holds up the torch of ignorance long enough. Put it down, sup on a peach and put it up again.
Ignorance can be a useful thing, if you are blessed with good memory. There could actually be a case for maintaining it, but of course, with programmed relapses to knowledge, to allow for functioning in survival. To not know yet is a blessing, as long as you enjoy the experiences that life rations.
Live life, long or short is beside the point.
I found this piece of advice, rummaging in my uncle's desk.
He passed away last month, after a decade of mild dementia inflicted gently on him from a lifetime of psychiatric practice in a frenetic city. I had volunteered for his care, the other relatives unwilling to take care of a loony old widower. I am a middle aged bachelor seasoned with self-imposed abstinence from familial hazards, on the verge of a sabbatical from journalistic career in Mumbai and living atop a weather beaten building close to the Gateway of India.
He died an old – very old - child. I’m sure he approved living with me, though I have a ticklish suspicion that it was more because of the deep love for chocolate I shared with him.
I was his favourite nephew. Ever since I gurgled in his lap, his cheerful directness had always disarmed me without fail, as did his unabashed hugs on all my birthdays. Wherever he is now, he stills holds in good confidence my confusion over career choice, and my first painful jilt.
He was a gentle, intelligent and accomplished man who could not father children, who had deteriorated in loneliness after his wife’s death. That was when I decided to bring my surrogate father home.
He was so well mannered, clean of habit and well ordered that I had no qualms bringing up my colleagues and friends for nightcaps. They were all deceived in the first meeting, until they were led into the bright, festooned party halls in his head. A few returned to renew acquaintance with him, their deference to his whimsical wisdom only growing. A likely emotional response of tired middle aged hacks in the unrelenting, frantic melee of life in Mumbai.
Some time back, he had discovered the internet, and with a child like glee, graduated rapidly to creating a blog with a pseudonym in which he argued about the primacy of matter over mind. His poor online audience was enthralled, knew no better and offered him great traffic. He was so abstruse, so obscure in his monologues that I used to indulge in them myself whenever I needed to unwind the knots in my writer’s head.
I had put him to sleep many times fighting between tears and laughter over his ideas expounded during dinner. This was to be his latest update. And I decided that the last post to his blog shall go online.
Pre Script: I remember, he had so enjoyed the little satchel of peaches I brought home two months back. I thought it was somehow charming to see this wizened child slavering over them, endearingly silly. Had I known better - which the following last update of his reveals, I would have filled my pad with fruits of every kind, every day, all within his arm’s reach. It would have made him happy, I think.
*******************************************************
EATING A PEACH FOR THE FIRST TIME
You should try it, eating a peach for the first time.
Not again, not after, not now if you have done it before - simply for the one and only 'first' time. You could never enjoy a peach the same way again, trust me.
Try it, with any fruit, I dare you. I might have eaten a million bananas,
but the very first one should have been one of the most important experiences in my life.
But now it's gone, inaccessible, irretrievable, forgotten - overwhelmed completely by all the subsequent tastes, smells, textures and the mighty meanders of growing up without spontaneous awareness of simple things in life...
If one'd done it already, then it's over, beyond you forever. The leading edge of one's faculty for sensory REdiscovery is blunted, in the case of something you have eaten once.
Tasting something for the first time happens only once, doesn’t it?
It is an irreversible process, unrewindable, unrecordable, unrewritable and unburnable for posterity. You cannot bring it back, in other - simpler - words. It can only be done once, and once done, stays done, and becomes undoable thereafter - the first taste of something. For example - a peach.
TO WIT, ONCE:
It is odd that innocence is never recognized till it's lost. Take the case of a child. Everyone knows that. Which is why everyone loves them, and envies them for their delicate, simple, sincere, guileless ways. Classically, is it that one loves a child for something one lacks or has lost? Or is it tacit acknowledgement of a virtue that once existed in oneself? Or is it a convoluted transaction where by an adult could somehow hope to transfuse their dark life fluid with fresh innocence, while the young is bled of it to decay towards adulthood?
TO WIT, TWICE:
Capture is exciting, rousing, invigorating; recapture is yawn, humdrum, ho-hum, glum.
Pioneers are about climax and discovery. And then, followers walk in in hordes, turn a single delicate experience into a collective stimulation, turn an experiment into a fad, trend, tradition and orthodoxy. Theory is laced with superstition, added to perversion, shaken with ignorance, stirred with ego, poured into punitive preaching, delivered on iced dogma.
The world is force fed thus. And the meek shall inherit.
NOW TO THE MARROW OF THE MATTER:
The peach is a fascinating fruit: I found yesterday.
The delicate blush makes the colour a celebrated favourite among women. Skin velvety to touch; when licked - a curious coarse powder coat on your tongue; rich, sumptuous inside, firm and full outside, a certain self-possession with a tinge of lividity - voluptuous; prise it apart, a quiet yielding in your hands; the heart - the crimson and calloused seed - is a mild visual shock, nestling safe, wet and sticky in the juicy loin; tiny flecks of red (from seed) in the centre of the other half; the texture is thick, lumpy, golden fibre, the smell a pleasant, secretive acidity; sink your teeth into the deceptively dry flesh and you can hear faint snaps as the little live fibres break; the syrup is faintly abrasive, makes you want to grate your teeth.
A little surprise, for it feels like a mild, gentle version of a pineapple, but with a neater, drier and just as rich soul of its own....
Ah....should try the Kiwi next.
But I lose my case with Lemon, Orange, Pineapple, Sugar Cane, Water Melon, Apple, Banana, Guava, Plum, Papaya, Grape, Pomegranate, Sapote, Jack fruit, Mango, Custard Apple, Cantaloupe, Pear, Berry, Cherry, Fig, Date, Strawberry, Gooseberry...
NOTE:
Eating fruits is healthy, and should be done at a distance from a meal.
Distant in time, not in space. So there.
Eating fruits in season is better. Eating them regularly is much better. The best part is there's tremendous variety in them. The so-so part is we get only those more suited to our tropical climes (I live in India).
Come to think of it, there’s not much to choose between humans and simians suffering this experiential angst.
TO UNWIT, FINALLY:
Serendipity is simply superb, as long as one holds up the torch of ignorance long enough. Put it down, sup on a peach and put it up again.
Ignorance can be a useful thing, if you are blessed with good memory. There could actually be a case for maintaining it, but of course, with programmed relapses to knowledge, to allow for functioning in survival. To not know yet is a blessing, as long as you enjoy the experiences that life rations.
Live life, long or short is beside the point.
What happened today...
I moved my earlier posts on rediffblog to this here nest. There. That should explain it.
Story #1.
"Come down, little bird!"
‘No. NO! I can fly. I am ready.’
‘No, little bird. Not yet, there’s still time for you. Oh please, you haven’t healed yet. Come down! Here, hop on to my hand now.’
‘I am healed! I am healed! You just won’t let me get away, won’t let me FLY away…’
‘Oh darling, why can’t you…wait! Flap your wing! Please! You know, like all you birds do when you fly? Just a couple of times for me? Please?’
‘Uh...like this?’
‘No, no, you little rascal! The RIGHT wing! Yes. Yes. That’s right. That’s the one! Now, flap it.’
‘….Uh..hurts.’
‘See? See? That’s why, darling… Your wing isn’t right. You can’t fly! If you jump off, you will fall. You won’t fly. You will fall and hurt again.’
‘But why?! Why does my wing hurt? Ohhh!’
‘Don’t cry, poor bird, stop crying. Your wing is broken. You hurt it, remember? The last time you wanted to fly? You came all by yourself and took off! Never even told me. I would have shown you where, I would have shown you how. But you just jumped, and fell. And broke your poor little wing.’
‘I don’t know… I don’t know. I…I…want to get into the sky…’
‘Little bird, you are not ready yet…trust me, won’t you? I have been good to you, haven’t I? Haven’t I?! Here, I won’t give you the sting, ok?’
‘Really? N-no sting?’
‘Oh yes! No sting, no needle for my little tweetie bird. No more sewing of the poor broken wing. I'll leve it well alone. But now, my darling will get the sweets, the hugs and the kisses.’
‘Ummm…’
‘Come on, little bird. Let me help you, darling. Let me heal you, let me give you enough strength, and teach you how to hold flight in high winds. It is time to get better now.’
‘Ok….I love you.’
‘I love you too. You know that, don’t you? Yes, hop on to my hand… right there in my palm…yes! There, that’s my sweet, my lovely and sensible little bird. He’s a smart birdie, he’ll get better, his wing won’t hurt anymore and he’ll fly away soon.’
*******************************************************
The nurse turns around to the petrified intern watching the scene. Her whole being reeks of fear and sweat. But her eyes are relieved and clear.
Her instructions come out to him rapidly in a low monotone:
‘Get me the jacket double quick and help me with it. Then go page the doctor and tell him No. 11 has had the attack again. He’s all right; I'll stay with him, but he needs his calming shot. If it's intravenous, let me handle it. Get the resident psychiatric counselor too. And on your way, ensure you notify the electrotherapy team. Move!’
As he hurries away, he throws a brief glance back over his shoulder. The elderly nurse has already helped down the scrawny man off the railing of the second floor balcony. She is ushering him into the room, muttering tender words into his ear, her hand firmly on his shoulder.
The intern, new to the asylum, has heard of ‘the bird’. His heart had jumped into his throat when he spotted a lanky figure high up on the building, struggling on to the overhang of the second floor, his legs on the thin railing trembling. He had been assisting the nurse in calming the old woman that stood tearing at her wispy hair in the lawn across the building, her head bloodied already. They had rushed up, desperate to reach in time.
A 'flight' occured last month, one hot afternoon. The asylum had edged into a restful peace as the inmates sought slumber after a heavy meal. The bird enjoyed an unescorted half hour. Then he found a 12-foot ladder left unmanned by the janitor in the corridor connecting two patient wings.
In a fit of glee, he decided to launch himself from atop this ladder and soar to the high roof. He fell and broke his right arm. The same nurse was roused with his screaming. Later, she had raised a ruckus with the warden over shoddy attention to procedure in the asylum:
‘The bird’s progressing fast, doctor! Every time he flies, he finds a higher perch to do it from.’
‘No. NO! I can fly. I am ready.’
‘No, little bird. Not yet, there’s still time for you. Oh please, you haven’t healed yet. Come down! Here, hop on to my hand now.’
‘I am healed! I am healed! You just won’t let me get away, won’t let me FLY away…’
‘Oh darling, why can’t you…wait! Flap your wing! Please! You know, like all you birds do when you fly? Just a couple of times for me? Please?’
‘Uh...like this?’
‘No, no, you little rascal! The RIGHT wing! Yes. Yes. That’s right. That’s the one! Now, flap it.’
‘….Uh..hurts.’
‘See? See? That’s why, darling… Your wing isn’t right. You can’t fly! If you jump off, you will fall. You won’t fly. You will fall and hurt again.’
‘But why?! Why does my wing hurt? Ohhh!’
‘Don’t cry, poor bird, stop crying. Your wing is broken. You hurt it, remember? The last time you wanted to fly? You came all by yourself and took off! Never even told me. I would have shown you where, I would have shown you how. But you just jumped, and fell. And broke your poor little wing.’
‘I don’t know… I don’t know. I…I…want to get into the sky…’
‘Little bird, you are not ready yet…trust me, won’t you? I have been good to you, haven’t I? Haven’t I?! Here, I won’t give you the sting, ok?’
‘Really? N-no sting?’
‘Oh yes! No sting, no needle for my little tweetie bird. No more sewing of the poor broken wing. I'll leve it well alone. But now, my darling will get the sweets, the hugs and the kisses.’
‘Ummm…’
‘Come on, little bird. Let me help you, darling. Let me heal you, let me give you enough strength, and teach you how to hold flight in high winds. It is time to get better now.’
‘Ok….I love you.’
‘I love you too. You know that, don’t you? Yes, hop on to my hand… right there in my palm…yes! There, that’s my sweet, my lovely and sensible little bird. He’s a smart birdie, he’ll get better, his wing won’t hurt anymore and he’ll fly away soon.’
*******************************************************
The nurse turns around to the petrified intern watching the scene. Her whole being reeks of fear and sweat. But her eyes are relieved and clear.
Her instructions come out to him rapidly in a low monotone:
‘Get me the jacket double quick and help me with it. Then go page the doctor and tell him No. 11 has had the attack again. He’s all right; I'll stay with him, but he needs his calming shot. If it's intravenous, let me handle it. Get the resident psychiatric counselor too. And on your way, ensure you notify the electrotherapy team. Move!’
As he hurries away, he throws a brief glance back over his shoulder. The elderly nurse has already helped down the scrawny man off the railing of the second floor balcony. She is ushering him into the room, muttering tender words into his ear, her hand firmly on his shoulder.
The intern, new to the asylum, has heard of ‘the bird’. His heart had jumped into his throat when he spotted a lanky figure high up on the building, struggling on to the overhang of the second floor, his legs on the thin railing trembling. He had been assisting the nurse in calming the old woman that stood tearing at her wispy hair in the lawn across the building, her head bloodied already. They had rushed up, desperate to reach in time.
A 'flight' occured last month, one hot afternoon. The asylum had edged into a restful peace as the inmates sought slumber after a heavy meal. The bird enjoyed an unescorted half hour. Then he found a 12-foot ladder left unmanned by the janitor in the corridor connecting two patient wings.
In a fit of glee, he decided to launch himself from atop this ladder and soar to the high roof. He fell and broke his right arm. The same nurse was roused with his screaming. Later, she had raised a ruckus with the warden over shoddy attention to procedure in the asylum:
‘The bird’s progressing fast, doctor! Every time he flies, he finds a higher perch to do it from.’
My Zeitgeist
Lot’s happened in self’s life before.
Life gently bobbed on, in the Gulf of Ennui...
anchored on the Isle of Complacency. You know - modern life’s seductive, misleading, intoxicating - dulls your senses and plays the Piper, with your inner sense of direction.
And you end up feeling in control - somebody/something else’s.
Happens, don't you see?
well, it was happening to me, and I wasn't seeing it yet. that was when there was this li'l bolt from the blue.
Ding-a-ling!
Oh nothing, just a friend remarking about how we both are pushing 30. Still, made me think about a particular glass - half-filled or half-empty or some such thing. In the right mood, makes ya thirsty, what?
Thus.
Realized, and set to settin' things right right away.
For one dizzy, heave-ho high,
before dear old doddering death drums on the door.
One gotta lotta do. And you gotta do it yourself.
You know, life's not meaningful, till it's meaningful.
Live. and live now.
well, if you wanna feel nice while you are at it, let live too.
There you have it:
the feisty gist, the gutsy gusto,
the bee in the bonnet, the manic manifesto,
my zeitgeist, and the rummy thing.
P.S.: But one can't forget:
it's the journey that matters, not the destination. Life's one wizard's back pack, full of surprises of the anticlimactic kind. I just tell meself:
better or worse, it's yetta come! heh.
Life gently bobbed on, in the Gulf of Ennui...
anchored on the Isle of Complacency. You know - modern life’s seductive, misleading, intoxicating - dulls your senses and plays the Piper, with your inner sense of direction.
And you end up feeling in control - somebody/something else’s.
Happens, don't you see?
well, it was happening to me, and I wasn't seeing it yet. that was when there was this li'l bolt from the blue.
Ding-a-ling!
Oh nothing, just a friend remarking about how we both are pushing 30. Still, made me think about a particular glass - half-filled or half-empty or some such thing. In the right mood, makes ya thirsty, what?
Thus.
Realized, and set to settin' things right right away.
For one dizzy, heave-ho high,
before dear old doddering death drums on the door.
One gotta lotta do. And you gotta do it yourself.
You know, life's not meaningful, till it's meaningful.
Live. and live now.
well, if you wanna feel nice while you are at it, let live too.
There you have it:
the feisty gist, the gutsy gusto,
the bee in the bonnet, the manic manifesto,
my zeitgeist, and the rummy thing.
P.S.: But one can't forget:
it's the journey that matters, not the destination. Life's one wizard's back pack, full of surprises of the anticlimactic kind. I just tell meself:
better or worse, it's yetta come! heh.
Oh, India, India.
We are quite a citizenry, by all counts.
A large, largely ungovernable nation. The busy buzz of diversity, in unity. The struggle for sustained subsistence, straining at the ever-restraining leash of philosophical confusion. The surging economic indicators. Narrow, limited choice for gainful occupation. The relentless onslaught of riled and razed research on leading campuses in business publications.
One state government is defrauded by gamely commercial imposters, another imports potable, bottled water from a parched neighbour, while denying it a share of the river; one holds rights and growth of a whole population to ransom, while another twists tolerance into narrow nationalism.
Prosperity hoodwinking the hordes in the hinterlands. The urban mis-identification with the ethos of responsible consumption. The evanescent empathy with empowered social effort. Rampant female infanticide, Hippocrates be damned.
When will we really, collectively access the pleasures and pains of the citizen's Right to Information Act?
IT ploughs a remarkably deep furrow in the social consciousness for economic opportunity. While educational disciplines like Sciences, Arts and Social Studies face alarming under-enrollments. The vigorous wakes of corruption, child abuse and eco-decay.
The under-subscribed reality of Consumer Price Index. MMS is in, meditation is out. Murder of wild life and the mis-placed, mad din of media playing tag with the celebrated. And we tut-tut over traffic, tolls on income, temples?
Personal grooming, propagated pornography, Page 3's paid PR and pub hopping. The heat and dust of real estate, and reckless wreck of ground water resources. Debut and debunk of dubious initiatives like double taxation.
Weakening medical, pediatric and pension support, emergency response, crime control, sponsored sport and trust in familial values. The truth about internet growth in India, and the falsehood of political correctness. Marauding hordes of mobikes and the automotive, and the silly road rage. The assault of the incremental innovation, and consumer delirium. The cityscape raped by the Discount.
When was the last time you saw a sparrow, hopping busily? In a decade, as environmentalists and scientists project, you will be pointing out most of the species in encyclopaedias for your toddlers.
Lead me to economic salvation, not fundamentalist oblivion. Give me not over-branded emoting, but pure, pristine acting. Allow me integrity, not a furtive squeeze on a crowded bus. Spare me the media hype and commercial overkill, just let me at the game. Leave out the platitudes -fight against poverty, AIDS, the woman's emancipation and absolutely negating need for Reservations. I am just trying to quit smoking.
Cut out the spurious TV drama targeting narrow demographics, deliver entertainment for all audiences. Stop meaningless exposes and sting operations on the burnt out and irrelevant industry; don't sell me under-quality baby health products, toss me my treats in quality packaging, and keep your worms in your spic-n-span western labs.
we are the third world, they say. Our brothers are brown, black and unfortunately termed yellow too. We are the Orient. We bow, when we do, to the divine in one and all. And while we are inscrutable, we had once learnt to live with nature, with differences and with the self. Much before they even learnt to cover their nether parts. Many great religions, still alive today, have been born in our bosom.
Now they call the cradle-continent dark, they abused its rights and hope once, and now they ready themselves to corrupt its commerce and future economies, what is left of it anyway. They even claim patents over herbs of nature, soon to package breathing air, mind you.
Carnation in the button hole, silicon smile on the touched up visage, the pocketed hand kerchief warm with blood, the lust of hatred and xenophobia under the carpet, the million broadcast misdemeanours of a mis-directed missionary zeal of a super power.
Niggardly, suspicious Asian sisters. One believes in the phony absolution of FDI, the other in economic necessity underscoring national security, another in national security drawing a hood over identity crisis.
Many more pawning their people in labour camps to kickbacks from humongous western MNCs eyeing silly overspending Asian consumers, and politico-econo-military patronage from covetous, meddlesome countries. Mis-representation of hungry, young nations at superfluous, international altars and subtle, raging wars over energy resources.
If it is disinterest, we should have been one 'enlightened' billion. If it's apathy, we are a pathetic populace. If we are confused and passive, then we are really corrupt. And fie on us, if we think we are powerless.
All there
Something absolutely pointless, but curious nevertheless.
Stand in a busy, bustling market place, junction or even in the cool, plush throng of the most popular multiplex, on a Saturday evening. And close your eyes.
Think of a colour, try to visualize it in a shape, any shape. Focus for a couple of moments on it.
Then open your eyes. And start a slow sweep, a leisurely scan - of 180 degrees, from either left or right. Unhurried. Languid. Deliberate. Measured.
Notice how the colour you visualized earlier springs out at you, from every nook, cranny, corner, space and place all around you? In all shapes, sizes, forms, textures and shades, above, level, below, angles...doesn't it?
Interesting. Pointless, but fun nonetheless.
Stand in a busy, bustling market place, junction or even in the cool, plush throng of the most popular multiplex, on a Saturday evening. And close your eyes.
Think of a colour, try to visualize it in a shape, any shape. Focus for a couple of moments on it.
Then open your eyes. And start a slow sweep, a leisurely scan - of 180 degrees, from either left or right. Unhurried. Languid. Deliberate. Measured.
Notice how the colour you visualized earlier springs out at you, from every nook, cranny, corner, space and place all around you? In all shapes, sizes, forms, textures and shades, above, level, below, angles...doesn't it?
Interesting. Pointless, but fun nonetheless.
High-derabad, my home.
This unique, torrid, frantic spot on the atlas isn’t all about IT,
pipe dreams o' the bit pipe o' the digital type or the subsequent hype, you know.
Hyderabad is dry, intoxicating air, Irani Chai, yummy Biryani,
'light le yaar' life, dirt cheap delicious burgers,
most profilic beer guzzlers in India, exploding food choice,
possibly the best movie theatres in the country, heady cosmopolitan culture,
ridiculous traffic, denizens desperate for nightly do’s, heavy swaying buses,
lotsa students, enigmatic time keepers, sizzling summers, dime-a-dozen net cafes,
real cool winters, ship shape shopping plazas,
snazzy bungalows, festering slums, soupy cinema,
sizzling chaat, slip shod buildings, holi, sankranti,
christmas, mohurrum, …and then IT.
Like all native city lovers, I believe - Hyderabad’s a place to retire, to work, to party and then some. What’s needed when you come down is attitude - yours, cause like we believe here:
the more the mayhem, the merrier.
pipe dreams o' the bit pipe o' the digital type or the subsequent hype, you know.
Hyderabad is dry, intoxicating air, Irani Chai, yummy Biryani,
'light le yaar' life, dirt cheap delicious burgers,
most profilic beer guzzlers in India, exploding food choice,
possibly the best movie theatres in the country, heady cosmopolitan culture,
ridiculous traffic, denizens desperate for nightly do’s, heavy swaying buses,
lotsa students, enigmatic time keepers, sizzling summers, dime-a-dozen net cafes,
real cool winters, ship shape shopping plazas,
snazzy bungalows, festering slums, soupy cinema,
sizzling chaat, slip shod buildings, holi, sankranti,
christmas, mohurrum, …and then IT.
Like all native city lovers, I believe - Hyderabad’s a place to retire, to work, to party and then some. What’s needed when you come down is attitude - yours, cause like we believe here:
the more the mayhem, the merrier.
Vexing Huxley
Vexing Huxley
Hmm.
Grappling with Aldous is quite some thing - all in its own class.
'Eyeless in Gaza'. An extremely frustrating read, gets you all fickle and fretting and phasing out every 5 minutes to fumigate in the freezing balcony. Yet his observations are so penetrating, cutting so deep into the psyche of each of his characters, with such a haunting cadence in his pace, populated with subtle byways into his fixations with the metaphysical, mystical and mesmeric.
Nothing escapes his incisive nib - children, men with scattered emotional lives, women with dubious morality, the social theatre and such. The most devastating aspect is his understanding and rendering of the stress and strain of fragile innocence, and the ungainly gait of growing up while losing step with the deep rivers of one's soul, in the lives both infantile and juvenile.
Yet, his writing so feels like a grand rhythm in an overview, but with innocuousness all through upon close inspection...picture this: a mesmering necklace, handmade, painstaking, precious, but strung together with rare gems not quite matching either in character or contrast. Yet, somehow, they make sense and a beautiful necklace.
Except, when you wear it, Huxley's comprehension of the human life will turn it into a biting choker.
Sigh. The point remains, the case just won't rest:
Oh, be vexed with Huxley, and dare you veer away, but in vain.
Hmm.
Grappling with Aldous is quite some thing - all in its own class.
'Eyeless in Gaza'. An extremely frustrating read, gets you all fickle and fretting and phasing out every 5 minutes to fumigate in the freezing balcony. Yet his observations are so penetrating, cutting so deep into the psyche of each of his characters, with such a haunting cadence in his pace, populated with subtle byways into his fixations with the metaphysical, mystical and mesmeric.
Nothing escapes his incisive nib - children, men with scattered emotional lives, women with dubious morality, the social theatre and such. The most devastating aspect is his understanding and rendering of the stress and strain of fragile innocence, and the ungainly gait of growing up while losing step with the deep rivers of one's soul, in the lives both infantile and juvenile.
Yet, his writing so feels like a grand rhythm in an overview, but with innocuousness all through upon close inspection...picture this: a mesmering necklace, handmade, painstaking, precious, but strung together with rare gems not quite matching either in character or contrast. Yet, somehow, they make sense and a beautiful necklace.
Except, when you wear it, Huxley's comprehension of the human life will turn it into a biting choker.
Sigh. The point remains, the case just won't rest:
Oh, be vexed with Huxley, and dare you veer away, but in vain.
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