Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Happy New Year 2009 to All!
“What the caterpillar calls the end, the rest of the world calls a butterfly.”
Sunday, December 28, 2008
The First Hot Summer
It was the warm summer of 1988.
It was a hot June. A swelteringly hot June. Cool breezes were rare. The rains had a month to go before they could come tap-tapping on the windows.
The red dust from the iron ore mines settled around us all like a burning gaze. The crackling red haze sucked the chlorophyll from leaves and turned them into rust. White was a forbidden colour: it took hard labour to wash the blood illusion from hardy clothes and hardier knees.
The heat drove all souls inside. Heatstrokes were the new gossip of the day. People conversed everywhere about carrying onions to work, of beginning work at 6am and being home long before noon to escape the punishing sun. Housewives cribbed about losing precious space to their early-home husbands.
And us?
For four inquisitive curious 10-year-olds, unscheduled weather meant unscheduled playing times. Oh yes, we could go for a trek into the neighbouring hills inhabited by the origines, lie hidden in foliage while being stalked by a curioser hungry cow, chased out by wild scared people using primitive wooden bows, wash the grime off at the broken water pipe and come home and blithely say “I was at Lija’s house…Aunty didn’t want us to leave in the heat.”
Oh yes, it was a summer of tasted adventures. And you know how it is – adventures are addictive. Get into one and you come out wanting to get into another as soon.
We did too. Our little foray into the abandoned mine at the edge of town was a slightly scarier affair than the mountain trek. Actually, calling it a mine is kind. It looked more like a miniature cave cut into the side of the chapped and chipped hillside. The mouth was taller than Roy’s uncle (he was rumoured to be 6 feet 3, though Shahid’s brother says he is just 6) and wide enough for 8 kids to walk in a line (we tested that, you know).
On a hot day, the cave was a salivating find. We had a cricket bat and a ball, a little scrabble box, a set of English comics about little known Indian superheroes clothed in snakeskin, cool-dude-leather pants and geeky bell-botts. So we behaved like good little children and spent two hours playing 5-over cricket matches, a five-minute crawling game of scrabble which soon spiralled into a raging fight about cheaters and then slumped down in the cool earth to read the comics. So now, what were we to do? Go into the cave, of course. We walked into the cave – past 20 feet, the light from the mouth gave out and our heartbeats spiked with the thrill of darkness. We kept up a pretence of the lingering scrabble fight and elbowed, jostled and pulled at each other to bite down on the rising fear of getting lost.
We had no light with us. The cave got progressively darker. We could feel the air getting mustier and the cave walls growing mossier as we went deeper. The ground was an odd mixture of mulch, pebbles, shallow holes and small crests. We held hands - Liza and Shahid, Roy and I – with Shahid spooking us with tales of lost children and mothers going insane and fathers turning into drunks interrupted only by Roy whining about being home late and being beaten to a pulp by his older brother. We were at the verge of a nervous breakdown with all this talk when Liza decided to play our principal Sister Olive and read out the riot act with me nodding and seconding her every word (This didn’t help much initially as the boys couldn’t see me so I had to say ‘Yes’ after every sentence from Liza and I realised then what a ‘yes man’ was).
We set out again with calmer hearts and minds resigned to having made a foolish mistake. All four of us linked hands and took shorter and shorter turns to walk on the left side. This person’s job was to navigate the cave by keeping in touch, literally, with the scraggly mossy rotting walls. After a lifetime of stumbling, falling followed each time with screams and rambled prayers, we seemed to have turned some corner and saw a distant light. That was the breaking point. We stood still. Someone screamed. Someone said something about holding hands and going slow. Then four pairs of feet were running towards the light.
There was some sliding, some panting, some jostling as we tried to maintain our balance in this headlong rush to reach the light first. Then someone fell, there was the pervading sound of screams - one moment I was flying on my legs and the other I was flying on my back. My mouth fell open and I could not breathe. My legs were hurting, my knees and elbows were wet and I closed my eyes. Some moments later, I saw the light rushing towards me and I shot out into its blinding arms. I slid and skidded to a stop on my side and I looked up to see bushes all around me. I heard the sound of a plop as if a rock had been thrown into water. I tried to right myself and the movement of my left foot dislodged a little rock and I was sliding again only to fall into water. Shallow water, thankfully.
I heard laughter. Blinking, I pushed my wet hair off my face and stared into the face of Roy. Roy was looking up and laughing as Liza followed us into the water. Shahid had managed to hold on to a bush and he managed to right himself up. All of us looked at each other and the relief of having come out of the cave was too much for us to take. We began laughing and taunting each other about how scared the other person was in the cave. Getting out of the water, we took stock of our injuries – there were numerous scratches all over our bodies and while it would be difficult to escape punishment altogether, we thought we could hide some of the major ones with the help of Liza’s older sister, who has often shown a softness towards our group.
Later, we realised that this shallow water body was the town river and we were lucky that it was summer or we could very well have been drowned that year.
I could tell you what we learned from this experience, except we didn’t. The next summer, we began the ritual of morning walks and came across an old elegant car with chipped paint standing alone in the nearby forest with blood splotches around its trunk and an empty sack lying nearby. I could also tell you about the fair stranger we met one powerless evening on our way back from our tuitions, who wanted us to show him the way to a part of town and then insisted that we walk him down this street and the next. Needless to say, we ran away on both occasions.
It was a hot June. A swelteringly hot June. Cool breezes were rare. The rains had a month to go before they could come tap-tapping on the windows.
The red dust from the iron ore mines settled around us all like a burning gaze. The crackling red haze sucked the chlorophyll from leaves and turned them into rust. White was a forbidden colour: it took hard labour to wash the blood illusion from hardy clothes and hardier knees.
The heat drove all souls inside. Heatstrokes were the new gossip of the day. People conversed everywhere about carrying onions to work, of beginning work at 6am and being home long before noon to escape the punishing sun. Housewives cribbed about losing precious space to their early-home husbands.
And us?
For four inquisitive curious 10-year-olds, unscheduled weather meant unscheduled playing times. Oh yes, we could go for a trek into the neighbouring hills inhabited by the origines, lie hidden in foliage while being stalked by a curioser hungry cow, chased out by wild scared people using primitive wooden bows, wash the grime off at the broken water pipe and come home and blithely say “I was at Lija’s house…Aunty didn’t want us to leave in the heat.”
Oh yes, it was a summer of tasted adventures. And you know how it is – adventures are addictive. Get into one and you come out wanting to get into another as soon.
We did too. Our little foray into the abandoned mine at the edge of town was a slightly scarier affair than the mountain trek. Actually, calling it a mine is kind. It looked more like a miniature cave cut into the side of the chapped and chipped hillside. The mouth was taller than Roy’s uncle (he was rumoured to be 6 feet 3, though Shahid’s brother says he is just 6) and wide enough for 8 kids to walk in a line (we tested that, you know).
On a hot day, the cave was a salivating find. We had a cricket bat and a ball, a little scrabble box, a set of English comics about little known Indian superheroes clothed in snakeskin, cool-dude-leather pants and geeky bell-botts. So we behaved like good little children and spent two hours playing 5-over cricket matches, a five-minute crawling game of scrabble which soon spiralled into a raging fight about cheaters and then slumped down in the cool earth to read the comics. So now, what were we to do? Go into the cave, of course. We walked into the cave – past 20 feet, the light from the mouth gave out and our heartbeats spiked with the thrill of darkness. We kept up a pretence of the lingering scrabble fight and elbowed, jostled and pulled at each other to bite down on the rising fear of getting lost.
We had no light with us. The cave got progressively darker. We could feel the air getting mustier and the cave walls growing mossier as we went deeper. The ground was an odd mixture of mulch, pebbles, shallow holes and small crests. We held hands - Liza and Shahid, Roy and I – with Shahid spooking us with tales of lost children and mothers going insane and fathers turning into drunks interrupted only by Roy whining about being home late and being beaten to a pulp by his older brother. We were at the verge of a nervous breakdown with all this talk when Liza decided to play our principal Sister Olive and read out the riot act with me nodding and seconding her every word (This didn’t help much initially as the boys couldn’t see me so I had to say ‘Yes’ after every sentence from Liza and I realised then what a ‘yes man’ was).
We set out again with calmer hearts and minds resigned to having made a foolish mistake. All four of us linked hands and took shorter and shorter turns to walk on the left side. This person’s job was to navigate the cave by keeping in touch, literally, with the scraggly mossy rotting walls. After a lifetime of stumbling, falling followed each time with screams and rambled prayers, we seemed to have turned some corner and saw a distant light. That was the breaking point. We stood still. Someone screamed. Someone said something about holding hands and going slow. Then four pairs of feet were running towards the light.
There was some sliding, some panting, some jostling as we tried to maintain our balance in this headlong rush to reach the light first. Then someone fell, there was the pervading sound of screams - one moment I was flying on my legs and the other I was flying on my back. My mouth fell open and I could not breathe. My legs were hurting, my knees and elbows were wet and I closed my eyes. Some moments later, I saw the light rushing towards me and I shot out into its blinding arms. I slid and skidded to a stop on my side and I looked up to see bushes all around me. I heard the sound of a plop as if a rock had been thrown into water. I tried to right myself and the movement of my left foot dislodged a little rock and I was sliding again only to fall into water. Shallow water, thankfully.
I heard laughter. Blinking, I pushed my wet hair off my face and stared into the face of Roy. Roy was looking up and laughing as Liza followed us into the water. Shahid had managed to hold on to a bush and he managed to right himself up. All of us looked at each other and the relief of having come out of the cave was too much for us to take. We began laughing and taunting each other about how scared the other person was in the cave. Getting out of the water, we took stock of our injuries – there were numerous scratches all over our bodies and while it would be difficult to escape punishment altogether, we thought we could hide some of the major ones with the help of Liza’s older sister, who has often shown a softness towards our group.
Later, we realised that this shallow water body was the town river and we were lucky that it was summer or we could very well have been drowned that year.
I could tell you what we learned from this experience, except we didn’t. The next summer, we began the ritual of morning walks and came across an old elegant car with chipped paint standing alone in the nearby forest with blood splotches around its trunk and an empty sack lying nearby. I could also tell you about the fair stranger we met one powerless evening on our way back from our tuitions, who wanted us to show him the way to a part of town and then insisted that we walk him down this street and the next. Needless to say, we ran away on both occasions.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
The Beginning (5/?)
“You have to tell Pa.”
“Yes” A dolorous sigh. “I have to tell Pa and Cirill. You be with Vicky. Vicky and Denziel are volatile together. I find myself tingling with fear and anticipation whenever they get together chasing some ‘feeling’.” The brothers share an indulgent look which is only broken when Shashi follows it up with, “If you are with them, I need only fear for you.” Benjy scoffs at this but cannot hide his little smirk. He stands up with a hand on his brother’s left shoulder and gives a slight squeeze.
“Stay here with Ryan. We will bring them to you.”
A nod is the only answer. For now. Benjy walks out of the room and as he turns to shut the door behind him, he looks into the room. Shashi is striding towards the little alcove that houses little wooden bookcases. But they house no ordinary books – this innocuous place is where the maps are kept. Benjy nods to himself. Of course. Shashi - the chronic worrier. The only one who would insist that coins had a third side. If only, to avoid being surprised by such a thing ever.
But this train of thought is scary too. As difficult it is to surprise this brother of his, the uncomfortable truth is that someone has managed to surprise him. Not many people know them. Oh, many people know them, are acquaintances and even friends. But there are only a handful of people scattered across the world who actually ‘know’ them and know about them and their family. And many of these are family friends who have stood together for long. He has grown up counting them all as extended families. The siblings have been brought up on legendary stories of friendship and kinship connecting generations amongst these families.
They are all secretive families and any restless elements within them could have done this. Benjy is afraid for the first time.
He walks down the corridor to his room and begins to throw together a bag: not many clothes – a pair of jeans and three shirts, no, make it two shirts. This one still has a trace of tea that he spilt on it a week back. Ma says you must not be caught dead in dirty clothes. An absent laugh. But Ma’s true words go “You must not be caught dead in dirty underwear.” So, by a force of habit induced over 20 years of living with her, Benjy has picked out a week’s supply of underclothes that his mind hardly registered. Which is just as well. For he has packed only two pairs of socks and if he was aware of his actions, he would have shocked himself at the probability of stinking feet.
Mechanically, he counts down the necessities: brush and tongue cleaner (well, you didn’t think that a woman who wanted you to wear clean under clothes would let you walk out the house without a pink tongue), deodorant (he is vain like that – Vicky would have mercilessly teased him now), a sweater vest and scarf and his cell phone charger.
He zips up the bag and walks out the room.
“Yes” A dolorous sigh. “I have to tell Pa and Cirill. You be with Vicky. Vicky and Denziel are volatile together. I find myself tingling with fear and anticipation whenever they get together chasing some ‘feeling’.” The brothers share an indulgent look which is only broken when Shashi follows it up with, “If you are with them, I need only fear for you.” Benjy scoffs at this but cannot hide his little smirk. He stands up with a hand on his brother’s left shoulder and gives a slight squeeze.
“Stay here with Ryan. We will bring them to you.”
A nod is the only answer. For now. Benjy walks out of the room and as he turns to shut the door behind him, he looks into the room. Shashi is striding towards the little alcove that houses little wooden bookcases. But they house no ordinary books – this innocuous place is where the maps are kept. Benjy nods to himself. Of course. Shashi - the chronic worrier. The only one who would insist that coins had a third side. If only, to avoid being surprised by such a thing ever.
But this train of thought is scary too. As difficult it is to surprise this brother of his, the uncomfortable truth is that someone has managed to surprise him. Not many people know them. Oh, many people know them, are acquaintances and even friends. But there are only a handful of people scattered across the world who actually ‘know’ them and know about them and their family. And many of these are family friends who have stood together for long. He has grown up counting them all as extended families. The siblings have been brought up on legendary stories of friendship and kinship connecting generations amongst these families.
They are all secretive families and any restless elements within them could have done this. Benjy is afraid for the first time.
He walks down the corridor to his room and begins to throw together a bag: not many clothes – a pair of jeans and three shirts, no, make it two shirts. This one still has a trace of tea that he spilt on it a week back. Ma says you must not be caught dead in dirty clothes. An absent laugh. But Ma’s true words go “You must not be caught dead in dirty underwear.” So, by a force of habit induced over 20 years of living with her, Benjy has picked out a week’s supply of underclothes that his mind hardly registered. Which is just as well. For he has packed only two pairs of socks and if he was aware of his actions, he would have shocked himself at the probability of stinking feet.
Mechanically, he counts down the necessities: brush and tongue cleaner (well, you didn’t think that a woman who wanted you to wear clean under clothes would let you walk out the house without a pink tongue), deodorant (he is vain like that – Vicky would have mercilessly teased him now), a sweater vest and scarf and his cell phone charger.
He zips up the bag and walks out the room.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Saturday, December 6, 2008
The Beginning (4)
Benjy picks up the phone singing away in his pocket. He takes the call and for a minute can only listen to the furious stream of rant coming from the other end.
A terse "Vicky!" stuns the caller in mid-rant. “If Abaeze wants you and Denziel off the plane to Nigeria, please listen to him. Abaeze knows his territory better and Djavon can blend in better than Denziel. We would listen to you if we were in Rio, wouldn’t we? So you can wait in Johannesburg or go to Cairo. You are in a better position to decide that.”
“We will stay here for a day – no leads but just a couple of niggles. I will call again tonight. Djavon will call you once they reach.” And the line goes dead.
Benjy pockets the cell and looks up at Shashi who asks, “Abaeze? You think he will still be able to help on his own soil?”
That was the question, wasn’t it. Abaeze may want to help but he will need the help of his family to get any requisite information. It has been years since they have had any direct relations with the Yoruba clan. They would like to believe the clan is wholly on their side, at least Abaeze’s father is. But unless the whole clan cooperated, this trip could at best be a goose chase and at worst, an open-eyed disaster.
“Vicky will call tonight. Ryan needs to stay back. And so do you. Jasmine and Janet are safe here with the kids. I have called in the siblings – I expect them here by tomorrow noon. Sharon and Jeevi have been informed – so they will watch out. And Jeevi will look in on Sharon before flying back. Nigeria is a good bet but that’s for Abaeze and Djavon to handle. I think as usual, Vicky’s niggle could turn into a hunch. Knowing Vicky, Shahbaaz will await them in Cairo. I will fly out to Cairo, Shashi. And Pa needs to know all this. That would…”
“Clarity of thought indeed, Benjy. Everyone scattered all over the place. And alone. And bring in Pa into this too why don’t you? This is what they want. Whoever has done this wants us to scatter. We are weakest like this. They shouldn’t be travelling. Jeez! The familiar is the safest place right now! You of all people should know this!”
The unexpected outburst has startled the younger twin into a silence which gradually turns into silent seething.
“God, Shashi! Don’t you see? Even if you had asked them to stay back, they will come here. We are scattered if everyone stayed where they are. This will keep us together.”
“You and Vicky at two opposite ends of a continent is a damn good way of keeping together!”
“But we will meet in three days!”
A snort of disgust from the older twin and Benjy flies into the defensive. “How else will we look for them?”
“I will go.”
“Not happening!”
“What do you want me to do staying here…? They will look at me and…” He walks towards the window and slumps against it.
“They will still see you, Shashi.” The words only garner a shake of the head and that patented snort.
Of them all, Benjy can understand the way his thoughts are running wild. Benjy remembers his moment of complacency and the consequences that arose of that moment. “Slip ups happen.” His voice is kind but firm enough to get through. “I need to be out there with Vicky. If Nigeria is right, we will have to rethink. But if Vicky is right, then we will have to begin from Cairo.”
The shoulders slump further.
He is a man who has prided himself on being the eldest of the Quartet, even if he is only older by mere minutes. He has looked out for them ever since they were six years old and his smaller sized twin had been in tears after being bullied by the neighbourhood 8-year-olds. In the long term, it had resulted in the boys being submitted to everlasting sarcastic barbs from the scathing Vicky and a devastating shrug off from the popular Jasmine. But that day, the three boys were subjected to split lips, puffed up eyes and week-long bruises from Shashi. Of course, it had not cut him any slack from his parents and had earned him a good beating from his father for not taking the matter to a grown-up and for physically hurting the boys. But it had been worth it. It brought him undying loyalty from his siblings and blatant hero worship from his brother.
Over the years, there have been several such instances. Not because Benjy couldn’t stand up for himself but rather because he liked to let big brother watch his back. And there have been rather interesting times when Benjy has insisted on answering a slight towards Shashi. Benjy serves his revenge cold – one among many similarities that he shares with Vicky. Vicky, who is all fire to Jasmine’s ice – even in this situation, he can spare a chuckle for his exasperatingly enigmatic family.
In an enlightening moment, he realises that for Benjy and Vicky, this is payback time. The thought strangely relaxes him. He trusts them and they always know the road they walk down. That’s all that matters right now.
A terse "Vicky!" stuns the caller in mid-rant. “If Abaeze wants you and Denziel off the plane to Nigeria, please listen to him. Abaeze knows his territory better and Djavon can blend in better than Denziel. We would listen to you if we were in Rio, wouldn’t we? So you can wait in Johannesburg or go to Cairo. You are in a better position to decide that.”
“We will stay here for a day – no leads but just a couple of niggles. I will call again tonight. Djavon will call you once they reach.” And the line goes dead.
Benjy pockets the cell and looks up at Shashi who asks, “Abaeze? You think he will still be able to help on his own soil?”
That was the question, wasn’t it. Abaeze may want to help but he will need the help of his family to get any requisite information. It has been years since they have had any direct relations with the Yoruba clan. They would like to believe the clan is wholly on their side, at least Abaeze’s father is. But unless the whole clan cooperated, this trip could at best be a goose chase and at worst, an open-eyed disaster.
“Vicky will call tonight. Ryan needs to stay back. And so do you. Jasmine and Janet are safe here with the kids. I have called in the siblings – I expect them here by tomorrow noon. Sharon and Jeevi have been informed – so they will watch out. And Jeevi will look in on Sharon before flying back. Nigeria is a good bet but that’s for Abaeze and Djavon to handle. I think as usual, Vicky’s niggle could turn into a hunch. Knowing Vicky, Shahbaaz will await them in Cairo. I will fly out to Cairo, Shashi. And Pa needs to know all this. That would…”
“Clarity of thought indeed, Benjy. Everyone scattered all over the place. And alone. And bring in Pa into this too why don’t you? This is what they want. Whoever has done this wants us to scatter. We are weakest like this. They shouldn’t be travelling. Jeez! The familiar is the safest place right now! You of all people should know this!”
The unexpected outburst has startled the younger twin into a silence which gradually turns into silent seething.
“God, Shashi! Don’t you see? Even if you had asked them to stay back, they will come here. We are scattered if everyone stayed where they are. This will keep us together.”
“You and Vicky at two opposite ends of a continent is a damn good way of keeping together!”
“But we will meet in three days!”
A snort of disgust from the older twin and Benjy flies into the defensive. “How else will we look for them?”
“I will go.”
“Not happening!”
“What do you want me to do staying here…? They will look at me and…” He walks towards the window and slumps against it.
“They will still see you, Shashi.” The words only garner a shake of the head and that patented snort.
Of them all, Benjy can understand the way his thoughts are running wild. Benjy remembers his moment of complacency and the consequences that arose of that moment. “Slip ups happen.” His voice is kind but firm enough to get through. “I need to be out there with Vicky. If Nigeria is right, we will have to rethink. But if Vicky is right, then we will have to begin from Cairo.”
The shoulders slump further.
He is a man who has prided himself on being the eldest of the Quartet, even if he is only older by mere minutes. He has looked out for them ever since they were six years old and his smaller sized twin had been in tears after being bullied by the neighbourhood 8-year-olds. In the long term, it had resulted in the boys being submitted to everlasting sarcastic barbs from the scathing Vicky and a devastating shrug off from the popular Jasmine. But that day, the three boys were subjected to split lips, puffed up eyes and week-long bruises from Shashi. Of course, it had not cut him any slack from his parents and had earned him a good beating from his father for not taking the matter to a grown-up and for physically hurting the boys. But it had been worth it. It brought him undying loyalty from his siblings and blatant hero worship from his brother.
Over the years, there have been several such instances. Not because Benjy couldn’t stand up for himself but rather because he liked to let big brother watch his back. And there have been rather interesting times when Benjy has insisted on answering a slight towards Shashi. Benjy serves his revenge cold – one among many similarities that he shares with Vicky. Vicky, who is all fire to Jasmine’s ice – even in this situation, he can spare a chuckle for his exasperatingly enigmatic family.
In an enlightening moment, he realises that for Benjy and Vicky, this is payback time. The thought strangely relaxes him. He trusts them and they always know the road they walk down. That’s all that matters right now.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The Beginning (3)
“I slept off.” He sits hunched, guilt oozing off him for having taken some ease while his family’s fate remains unknown.
“Djavan called. She was approached by an airport employee. Apparently, she told her that there was a call for her from Johannesburg. The girl does not remember the man at the kiosk.”
“And he of course was not the usual guy.”
“No. The man who runs the kiosk was inside. But he often sends out his office boys for such call errands, so she didn’t suspect anything. The man at the kiosk remembers Steph rushing out of a booth and asking him to connect her to New York.”
“To Me”
The twin ignores the breathed out words.
“He said that he remembers her because she had this most blinding smile. He could not get through to the number. He kept getting the busy signal.”
A rushed intake of breath. “That explains the persistent calls to buy credit cards.”
“She walked out saying she will try calling from outside the airport. Djavan is not clear about the sequence of events from there on. But something or someone convinced her to take a taxi. The taxi driver remembers her because she got down outside a block of offices and then walked back the way she came. There was a traffic light just ahead of where he dropped her and the light had just come on. So he noticed her walk back till almost the end of the block and then lost her as the light turned.”
The younger twin pauses and sneaks a look at the brother with a reputation as the stoic in the family. He is still hunched down on the sofa but his face is angled slightly to the window beyond. Benny isn’t sure what he can say but no words can be a balm now. He gazes for a while at his brother’s face and then resumes with a sigh.
“Djavan is down in Johannesburg. And Abaeze is there too though he believes they have been flown out of Africa…
The sharp trring of the cell phone startles them both.
“Djavan called. She was approached by an airport employee. Apparently, she told her that there was a call for her from Johannesburg. The girl does not remember the man at the kiosk.”
“And he of course was not the usual guy.”
“No. The man who runs the kiosk was inside. But he often sends out his office boys for such call errands, so she didn’t suspect anything. The man at the kiosk remembers Steph rushing out of a booth and asking him to connect her to New York.”
“To Me”
The twin ignores the breathed out words.
“He said that he remembers her because she had this most blinding smile. He could not get through to the number. He kept getting the busy signal.”
A rushed intake of breath. “That explains the persistent calls to buy credit cards.”
“She walked out saying she will try calling from outside the airport. Djavan is not clear about the sequence of events from there on. But something or someone convinced her to take a taxi. The taxi driver remembers her because she got down outside a block of offices and then walked back the way she came. There was a traffic light just ahead of where he dropped her and the light had just come on. So he noticed her walk back till almost the end of the block and then lost her as the light turned.”
The younger twin pauses and sneaks a look at the brother with a reputation as the stoic in the family. He is still hunched down on the sofa but his face is angled slightly to the window beyond. Benny isn’t sure what he can say but no words can be a balm now. He gazes for a while at his brother’s face and then resumes with a sigh.
“Djavan is down in Johannesburg. And Abaeze is there too though he believes they have been flown out of Africa…
The sharp trring of the cell phone startles them both.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Cowards, To Thee I Say...
I am a girl, a daughter, a woman, a professional, a secular individual, an Indian and a global citizen.
In each of my roles, I have my own unique set of responsibilities. I have different dreams. I aim for different goals. I demand my different rights.
As a girl, I am responsible for taking care of myself. As a girl, I want to be happy and dream of living the perfect life in a fairy tale.
As a daughter, I am responsible for the happiness and comfort of my parents. As a daughter, I aim to keep my parents satisfied and proud of me even while living life independent of their pressures and ambitions. I have the right to be loved and criticised for who I am and not for my gender.
As a woman, I am responsible for being fair but not unsoft in my dealings with the world. As a woman, I aim to use my female instincts to dust off unwarranted and undeserved males while preening for the one I want. As a woman, I have the right to live life on my own terms and not on terms dictated by the dominant force at a given time and place. As a woman, I demand my right of choice. As a woman, I demand a country and a world where future generations are still left with a world viable and strong enough for their share of foibles and follies.
As a professional, I am responsible for delivering on my job. And then, a little more. As a professional, I aim to touch the loftiest star in my skies while keeping my integrity alive. As a professional, I demand that I be identified by my work and not by my gender.
As a secular individual, I am responsible for understanding my religion and the other person’s religion. Short of that, I am responsible for acting maturely and fairly and acquaint myself with ‘perspective’. As a secular individual, I dream of a world where religions remain personal quirks like favourite brands of toothpaste and not badges of identity. As a secular individual, I am demand that as I do not judge others by their religion, let them not judge me by mine; that I be given the right to live and grow and see my generations thrive in a land undiluted by hate mongered in the name of Gods.
As an Indian, I am responsible for understanding the complex honeycomb concept of India and never dismissing my nation’s achievements and shames and missed buses in catchphrases of the moment. As an Indian, I dream of a world where India is known and seen by the world through the prism of who she is and not in terms of who she inks a deal with. I dream of an India where equal opportunity exists for people of all caste, religion, ethnicity, region and sex; and I aim to not be dismissive of the still births faced on the journey towards being that India.
As an Indian, I demand the right to not be hijacked by other people’s war in my own land. As an Indian, I demand the right to not be held hostage to the whims and moneys of jobless and idle satans. As an Indian, I demand that my country be acknowledged for her strengths and may no Indian or non-Indian tarnish that with gratuitous exposition on her scabs.
As a global citizen, I am responsible for understanding the uniqueness of the world we inhabit – the fascinating rainbow of skin and eye colours, of thoughts and beliefs, of faiths and rituals, of tribes and races, of soils and life. As a global citizen, I am responsible to be not selfish enough to pawn the future of this world. I aim for a world where citizens will not be identified by their colour of skin or length of their clothes. I aim for a world whose people understand the value of this earth we inhabit and who realise that only in togetherness shall we survive and prosper.
As a global citizen, I demand that personal quibbles be solved over a cuppa in a coffee house and not in gunbattles. As a global citizen, I demand that politicians and leaders in all garbs think of countless voiceless me’s in this world before embarking on violent carthages rather than just thinking of their own personal I’s.
As a girl, a daughter, a woman, a professional, a secular individual, an Indian and a global citizen, I demand the right to reclaim my space. I demand that my country be returned to me, for jobless thoughtless cowards have no right to wreck the fabric in the weaving of which they had no hand and dried no sweat.
As a girl, a daughter, a woman, a professional, a secular individual, an Indian and a global citizen, I say to all ye cowards now – Take your fight somewhere else. This country has stood by you for 60 years and when it chastised you for bleeding her, you turn on her like your age old enemy. You have no honour. My country and her people pride themselves in being honourable. Yes, we have had great moments of shame. Yes, we have made inerasable mistakes in judgement. But if we cannot sit across a table and talk, then you do not deserve to hear ‘fair trial’.
A frustrated and despairing person’s curse be on all you cowards: “May you all rot in your special Hell.”
In each of my roles, I have my own unique set of responsibilities. I have different dreams. I aim for different goals. I demand my different rights.
As a girl, I am responsible for taking care of myself. As a girl, I want to be happy and dream of living the perfect life in a fairy tale.
As a daughter, I am responsible for the happiness and comfort of my parents. As a daughter, I aim to keep my parents satisfied and proud of me even while living life independent of their pressures and ambitions. I have the right to be loved and criticised for who I am and not for my gender.
As a woman, I am responsible for being fair but not unsoft in my dealings with the world. As a woman, I aim to use my female instincts to dust off unwarranted and undeserved males while preening for the one I want. As a woman, I have the right to live life on my own terms and not on terms dictated by the dominant force at a given time and place. As a woman, I demand my right of choice. As a woman, I demand a country and a world where future generations are still left with a world viable and strong enough for their share of foibles and follies.
As a professional, I am responsible for delivering on my job. And then, a little more. As a professional, I aim to touch the loftiest star in my skies while keeping my integrity alive. As a professional, I demand that I be identified by my work and not by my gender.
As a secular individual, I am responsible for understanding my religion and the other person’s religion. Short of that, I am responsible for acting maturely and fairly and acquaint myself with ‘perspective’. As a secular individual, I dream of a world where religions remain personal quirks like favourite brands of toothpaste and not badges of identity. As a secular individual, I am demand that as I do not judge others by their religion, let them not judge me by mine; that I be given the right to live and grow and see my generations thrive in a land undiluted by hate mongered in the name of Gods.
As an Indian, I am responsible for understanding the complex honeycomb concept of India and never dismissing my nation’s achievements and shames and missed buses in catchphrases of the moment. As an Indian, I dream of a world where India is known and seen by the world through the prism of who she is and not in terms of who she inks a deal with. I dream of an India where equal opportunity exists for people of all caste, religion, ethnicity, region and sex; and I aim to not be dismissive of the still births faced on the journey towards being that India.
As an Indian, I demand the right to not be hijacked by other people’s war in my own land. As an Indian, I demand the right to not be held hostage to the whims and moneys of jobless and idle satans. As an Indian, I demand that my country be acknowledged for her strengths and may no Indian or non-Indian tarnish that with gratuitous exposition on her scabs.
As a global citizen, I am responsible for understanding the uniqueness of the world we inhabit – the fascinating rainbow of skin and eye colours, of thoughts and beliefs, of faiths and rituals, of tribes and races, of soils and life. As a global citizen, I am responsible to be not selfish enough to pawn the future of this world. I aim for a world where citizens will not be identified by their colour of skin or length of their clothes. I aim for a world whose people understand the value of this earth we inhabit and who realise that only in togetherness shall we survive and prosper.
As a global citizen, I demand that personal quibbles be solved over a cuppa in a coffee house and not in gunbattles. As a global citizen, I demand that politicians and leaders in all garbs think of countless voiceless me’s in this world before embarking on violent carthages rather than just thinking of their own personal I’s.
As a girl, a daughter, a woman, a professional, a secular individual, an Indian and a global citizen, I demand the right to reclaim my space. I demand that my country be returned to me, for jobless thoughtless cowards have no right to wreck the fabric in the weaving of which they had no hand and dried no sweat.
As a girl, a daughter, a woman, a professional, a secular individual, an Indian and a global citizen, I say to all ye cowards now – Take your fight somewhere else. This country has stood by you for 60 years and when it chastised you for bleeding her, you turn on her like your age old enemy. You have no honour. My country and her people pride themselves in being honourable. Yes, we have had great moments of shame. Yes, we have made inerasable mistakes in judgement. But if we cannot sit across a table and talk, then you do not deserve to hear ‘fair trial’.
A frustrated and despairing person’s curse be on all you cowards: “May you all rot in your special Hell.”
Monday, November 24, 2008
Akin to my mother's vintage pickle...
A Chris Rock nugget:
You know the world is going crazy when the best rapper is a white guy, the best golfer is a black guy, the tallest guy in the NBA is Chinese, the Swiss hold the America's Cup, France is accusing the U.S. of arrogance, Germany doesn't want to go to war, and the three most powerful men in America are named 'Bush', 'Dick', and 'Colon'.
You know the world is going crazy when the best rapper is a white guy, the best golfer is a black guy, the tallest guy in the NBA is Chinese, the Swiss hold the America's Cup, France is accusing the U.S. of arrogance, Germany doesn't want to go to war, and the three most powerful men in America are named 'Bush', 'Dick', and 'Colon'.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
The Beginning (2)
The mazes run round him in circles with the colours flying off them in whirlpools. He can see a slip of paper swirling in their midst. He knows instinctively that he must get to that paper. He doesn’t know why he must get it but that it is important he does.
He can hardly see anything but he is single-minded and he will try as long as necessary to get that.
There must be some force somewhere looking kindly upon him for the swirling whirlpools subtly change direction towards him.
He extends out his arm and reaches into the elemental blizzard playing havoc around him…when all of a sudden the vision in front of him blurs and he feels a sudden sense of vertigo. Jolted, he tries to anchor himself to his desperate need…but the swirls are getting out of his control fast.
He tries to hold on but there is nothing to moor him and he can feel the salt taste of dread and frustration on his lips. With it, comes another sound – it has a warm brown aura and he turns his face into the voice for solace.
“Shashi! Wake up!”
The voice comes from over his left shoulder which is being held in a firm grip to gently shake him awake.
He blinks open his eyes to orient himself. He is lying tucked into the divan at the base of the far window in the hotel room. He is still wearing the slacks and a blue button down shirt from yesterday…Enough to tell him that he fell asleep worrying and fearing for his young family. He rubs sleep from his eyes and sits up pressing both hands to his temple as he finds himself waking up with a headache.
------------------------------------ <3 <3 <3 -----------------------------------
He can hardly see anything but he is single-minded and he will try as long as necessary to get that.
There must be some force somewhere looking kindly upon him for the swirling whirlpools subtly change direction towards him.
He extends out his arm and reaches into the elemental blizzard playing havoc around him…when all of a sudden the vision in front of him blurs and he feels a sudden sense of vertigo. Jolted, he tries to anchor himself to his desperate need…but the swirls are getting out of his control fast.
He tries to hold on but there is nothing to moor him and he can feel the salt taste of dread and frustration on his lips. With it, comes another sound – it has a warm brown aura and he turns his face into the voice for solace.
“Shashi! Wake up!”
The voice comes from over his left shoulder which is being held in a firm grip to gently shake him awake.
He blinks open his eyes to orient himself. He is lying tucked into the divan at the base of the far window in the hotel room. He is still wearing the slacks and a blue button down shirt from yesterday…Enough to tell him that he fell asleep worrying and fearing for his young family. He rubs sleep from his eyes and sits up pressing both hands to his temple as he finds himself waking up with a headache.
------------------------------------ <3 <3 <3 -----------------------------------
Friday, November 21, 2008
Sunshine and Sunflowers
So, it was a memorable day: An awesome morning, meeting two very nice people for the first time, trepidation and happiness warring equally with each other, an intimate and informal setting, a deliciously simple spread followed by an evening of joyful abandon.
Ah...such abandon. Have you ever stealthily splurged on delicious creamy chocolate ice-cream and had to surreptitiously lick your lips and fingers to hide the evidence from approaching footsteps?
Ah then...you will understand the aura of teenage giggles that seemed to embrace us yesterday evening. The pecks on the cheek in the semi darkness, the whispers of 'so all roads have led us here', the elevating feeling of togetherness, the weight of apprehension gone...
After almost six years - of being in various places across the country and having played various roles in this relationship - this is the time for a new role, for another beginning...
We have revelled and rejoiced in every turn that we have travelled down. And Joy, it has been a wonderful journey so far: equal parts stroll, saunter gallop, linger, nuzzle and dance entwined.
And the gamesome stallion that you are - you will face some heat from this filly when next we cross paths untill the paths shall twine and merge.
I cannot help but...
Everywhere I look, I see warm sunshine across the land and bobbing sunflowers as far as the eye can see.
Ah...such abandon. Have you ever stealthily splurged on delicious creamy chocolate ice-cream and had to surreptitiously lick your lips and fingers to hide the evidence from approaching footsteps?
Ah then...you will understand the aura of teenage giggles that seemed to embrace us yesterday evening. The pecks on the cheek in the semi darkness, the whispers of 'so all roads have led us here', the elevating feeling of togetherness, the weight of apprehension gone...
After almost six years - of being in various places across the country and having played various roles in this relationship - this is the time for a new role, for another beginning...
We have revelled and rejoiced in every turn that we have travelled down. And Joy, it has been a wonderful journey so far: equal parts stroll, saunter gallop, linger, nuzzle and dance entwined.
And the gamesome stallion that you are - you will face some heat from this filly when next we cross paths untill the paths shall twine and merge.
I cannot help but...
Everywhere I look, I see warm sunshine across the land and bobbing sunflowers as far as the eye can see.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Phah...
Scrambled brain pickled in the brine of sourpussery incremental of a wretched mindfuck.
*HEROES - Take A Bow*
*HEROES - Take A Bow*
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Prop 8: Civil society? What civil society?
Steven Colbert's heartfelt comment on the passage of Proposition 8 in California.
The state of California in the US has passed Proposition 8 which amended the state Constitution to restrict the definition of marriage to a union between a man and a woman. Under this, people of same sex cannot get married.
It overrode a recent California Supreme Court decision that had recognized same-sex marriage in California as a fundamental right.
There is uncertainty over the status of already existing same sex marriages. While some legal experts believe these will be preserved, others think they could be overruled and declared illegal.
I can only imagine what I will feel if a government suit were to walk into my house one happy evening and say that my marriage is nullified because because my spouse looks/behaves differently and has different (read: own) opinions on everything and because these discomfit other people?
No. I will not allow it. As long as my ways of life and living do not kill and maim people and destroy property, I will demand to exercise my rights. Because I do my duties. And more.
Especially as I live in a country, which like the US, offers civil freedom of expression and who I love and marry is an expression of my persona.
A fascinating point: About 70% of Blacks and 60% Latinos voted for Prop 8 while 53% of Whites and Asians opposed it. Illuminating that communities who would know a thing or two about segregation would vote for segregation.
From an Indian perspective, the Prop 8 is fascinating because here in my country - homosexuals are punishable by law because of a 100-year-old edict.
The state of California in the US has passed Proposition 8 which amended the state Constitution to restrict the definition of marriage to a union between a man and a woman. Under this, people of same sex cannot get married.
It overrode a recent California Supreme Court decision that had recognized same-sex marriage in California as a fundamental right.
There is uncertainty over the status of already existing same sex marriages. While some legal experts believe these will be preserved, others think they could be overruled and declared illegal.
I can only imagine what I will feel if a government suit were to walk into my house one happy evening and say that my marriage is nullified because because my spouse looks/behaves differently and has different (read: own) opinions on everything and because these discomfit other people?
No. I will not allow it. As long as my ways of life and living do not kill and maim people and destroy property, I will demand to exercise my rights. Because I do my duties. And more.
Especially as I live in a country, which like the US, offers civil freedom of expression and who I love and marry is an expression of my persona.
A fascinating point: About 70% of Blacks and 60% Latinos voted for Prop 8 while 53% of Whites and Asians opposed it. Illuminating that communities who would know a thing or two about segregation would vote for segregation.
From an Indian perspective, the Prop 8 is fascinating because here in my country - homosexuals are punishable by law because of a 100-year-old edict.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Beginning
"Where are they?"
"They were waiting for the connecting flight to New York in Johannesburg." "We will bring them home."
A bitter laugh. "The very words I said six years ago."
"And you kept them, didnt you?"
The voice catches. "I did nothing then. It was all you."
"Then I will do it again. You know that."
"I trust you."
"I always keep your trust."
Strangled laugh. "You get enough opportunities."
Low voice. "We couldnt know." "God, none of us thought..."
"We have known this. Always." A hard grip on the other's wrist. A voice hoarse. "I want them."
"It is obvious that we have lived a sham. We built the destiny that we are living today. Word for word. Act for act." A hand on broken-hearted shoulders. "Maybe what we created for ourselves is not the destiny meant for us. If so, we will write another, if we have to. And we will make it worthwhile."
"Will they...what if..."
"They will come. Even if we all do what we gave word against doing."
"I cannot think."
"Leave it to us. Leave this to me, to us."
The couch sags under the weight of the shattered heart. Red-rimmed eyes but still with enough pride to stay dry.
The one standing clips open a cell. One word into it: "Shark"
An inhaled breath on the other end of the line. "Eagle" and the line snaps.
A grim smile.
"They were waiting for the connecting flight to New York in Johannesburg." "We will bring them home."
A bitter laugh. "The very words I said six years ago."
"And you kept them, didnt you?"
The voice catches. "I did nothing then. It was all you."
"Then I will do it again. You know that."
"I trust you."
"I always keep your trust."
Strangled laugh. "You get enough opportunities."
Low voice. "We couldnt know." "God, none of us thought..."
"We have known this. Always." A hard grip on the other's wrist. A voice hoarse. "I want them."
"It is obvious that we have lived a sham. We built the destiny that we are living today. Word for word. Act for act." A hand on broken-hearted shoulders. "Maybe what we created for ourselves is not the destiny meant for us. If so, we will write another, if we have to. And we will make it worthwhile."
"Will they...what if..."
"They will come. Even if we all do what we gave word against doing."
"I cannot think."
"Leave it to us. Leave this to me, to us."
The couch sags under the weight of the shattered heart. Red-rimmed eyes but still with enough pride to stay dry.
The one standing clips open a cell. One word into it: "Shark"
An inhaled breath on the other end of the line. "Eagle" and the line snaps.
A grim smile.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Beyond
I see you. Your rich caramel skin. Your white smile. Your sleek limbs. The innocent sensuous way you move.
I see you. Your gentle touch. Your acknowledging eyes. Your snarky wit. Your ready laughter. The way you lean into my space. Unknowingly.
I see you. Your flickering eyes sneaking a look at me over the wine glass. Looking at me in the glassed interior. Following my movements with subtle shifts of your body.
You do not see the hairs at the back of my neck stand up. You do not feel the rush of blood down my spine.
I see you. The way you smile at me a second longer than usual. How you always face me wherever you are in the room. How you manouvre conversations to speak to me about the poetry in weaving words. How you hand me the napkin before the thought has formed in my head. How you ask me if I wanted another helping before I reach out for it myself. How you speak to me and not at me.
I see you. How careful you are to soothe my ego in entertaining discussions and how you do not hold back during intense political debates. I see the respect you hold for me in your no-holds-barred arguments.
I see me. In the answering smile you draw, in the reflexive thanking touch that I extend, in the warmth of my eyes on seeing you across the room, in the gut twisting emotions you let loose in me with a slight twist of your lips.
We speak the language of tingling tension between our spaces, of crackling chemistry in fleeting glances, of knowledge of being for each other and of understanding that we can never be.
Except in the happenings beyond the dark curtain of eyelashes or in that rolling fertile expanse where stallions cavort and race with the sun on gleaming backs for a taste of green freedom.
I see you. Your gentle touch. Your acknowledging eyes. Your snarky wit. Your ready laughter. The way you lean into my space. Unknowingly.
I see you. Your flickering eyes sneaking a look at me over the wine glass. Looking at me in the glassed interior. Following my movements with subtle shifts of your body.
You do not see the hairs at the back of my neck stand up. You do not feel the rush of blood down my spine.
I see you. The way you smile at me a second longer than usual. How you always face me wherever you are in the room. How you manouvre conversations to speak to me about the poetry in weaving words. How you hand me the napkin before the thought has formed in my head. How you ask me if I wanted another helping before I reach out for it myself. How you speak to me and not at me.
I see you. How careful you are to soothe my ego in entertaining discussions and how you do not hold back during intense political debates. I see the respect you hold for me in your no-holds-barred arguments.
I see me. In the answering smile you draw, in the reflexive thanking touch that I extend, in the warmth of my eyes on seeing you across the room, in the gut twisting emotions you let loose in me with a slight twist of your lips.
We speak the language of tingling tension between our spaces, of crackling chemistry in fleeting glances, of knowledge of being for each other and of understanding that we can never be.
Except in the happenings beyond the dark curtain of eyelashes or in that rolling fertile expanse where stallions cavort and race with the sun on gleaming backs for a taste of green freedom.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Whee!!!ful Day :D
I am officially 30 years old today. And I think I have just had the crackiest, most happy, most wonderful and most delicious birthday ever.
The second part of the day, especially, saw me wearing a perpetual smile :D
*Shoutout to Joy* - I may be able to interest you in a certain video ;) very soon.
Thanks for the shower of sparkles and sprinkles...
The second part of the day, especially, saw me wearing a perpetual smile :D
*Shoutout to Joy* - I may be able to interest you in a certain video ;) very soon.
Thanks for the shower of sparkles and sprinkles...
Friday, October 31, 2008
Birthday :)
And very soon...I shall cross the threshold into a personal milestone :) The big 3-O and I am utterly thrilled at the thought.
Strangely I do not feel my age, if you know what I mean.
Looking back, I think I am regressing. In that, as I get older: I am becoming younger in thought and words and actions *I know, that just about left MY head spinning*
And I doubt this is denial *heh* (I did have a scare for a moment there when the thought first occurred to me)
I feel replenished, recharged, ready: its like a second chance.
Strangely I do not feel my age, if you know what I mean.
Looking back, I think I am regressing. In that, as I get older: I am becoming younger in thought and words and actions *I know, that just about left MY head spinning*
And I doubt this is denial *heh* (I did have a scare for a moment there when the thought first occurred to me)
I feel replenished, recharged, ready: its like a second chance.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Diwali Sparklers
I love Diwali. The festival of lights is among my favourite festivals. I love its simplicity. Mostly, I love this festival because over the years, this time of year has seen the most exciting developments in my life. Coincidence or Destiny: I can judge that without prejudice before my final breath.
2003: On a cold night right after Diwali, the single most important turning point of my life stepped out of a train on to Bhopal railway station with a fever and a dazzling smile. I see that spark of a smile even behind my closed eyes.
2004: This Diwali night saw several lights being lit and fires kindled.
The sky intermittently lit by sparklers and showers and rockets. Little brown earthen lamps and colourful candles show off their laughing flames from balconies and terraces all around the apartment complex. A small dark room in a second-floor apartment: Lit by dancing light from a large bowl filled with rose petals and floating candles. Two forms on the floor giggling, munching, discovering and plotting.
2005: The flames grew in strength. Diwali was all about stepping into spaces and stretching boundaries and being comfortable in all skins. When plain words became heated avowals... When every touch spoke for deeper feelings… When there were no candles lit but enough fires ignited…
2006 & 2007: The push and pull of distance was fuel to raging flames.
And now it is Diwali 2008…And we stand at the threshold of another journey. As we “wallow in these deliciously unknown feelings” – life seems so much more like an air diving adventure – all thrills and anticipation and adrenaline but at the moment of reckoning it all comes down to simple moves: keep position, make adjustments for air and wind movements, a tug and a pull and stay afloat till you are on solid earth. A prayer wings up that I may heed these moves.
Let there be light in all our lives.
To all visitors to the Muse, wishing you a Happy Diwali and a prosperous year ahead. Be safe, take care and keep visiting.
2003: On a cold night right after Diwali, the single most important turning point of my life stepped out of a train on to Bhopal railway station with a fever and a dazzling smile. I see that spark of a smile even behind my closed eyes.
2004: This Diwali night saw several lights being lit and fires kindled.
The sky intermittently lit by sparklers and showers and rockets. Little brown earthen lamps and colourful candles show off their laughing flames from balconies and terraces all around the apartment complex. A small dark room in a second-floor apartment: Lit by dancing light from a large bowl filled with rose petals and floating candles. Two forms on the floor giggling, munching, discovering and plotting.
2005: The flames grew in strength. Diwali was all about stepping into spaces and stretching boundaries and being comfortable in all skins. When plain words became heated avowals... When every touch spoke for deeper feelings… When there were no candles lit but enough fires ignited…
2006 & 2007: The push and pull of distance was fuel to raging flames.
And now it is Diwali 2008…And we stand at the threshold of another journey. As we “wallow in these deliciously unknown feelings” – life seems so much more like an air diving adventure – all thrills and anticipation and adrenaline but at the moment of reckoning it all comes down to simple moves: keep position, make adjustments for air and wind movements, a tug and a pull and stay afloat till you are on solid earth. A prayer wings up that I may heed these moves.
Let there be light in all our lives.
To all visitors to the Muse, wishing you a Happy Diwali and a prosperous year ahead. Be safe, take care and keep visiting.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Invert
- When extremely sane people lose control - in a very good way, of course
- When close-lipped folks get an insane desire to spill beans and all
- When supposedly mature people have to clamp down on an irresistible urge to giggle endlessly
- When thoughts long turned over and over in the cached away recesses of mind are let out into the free air
- When close-lipped folks get an insane desire to spill beans and all
- When supposedly mature people have to clamp down on an irresistible urge to giggle endlessly
- When thoughts long turned over and over in the cached away recesses of mind are let out into the free air
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Chandrayaan-1: Lift off for India – Thumbs down for India's English media
October 22, 2008: 6:30 am (IST)
India sent its first Moon Mission, the Chandrayaan - 1, this morning.
I waited for the live telecast, then sat wide-eyed through it with goose-bumps for company and then watched and rewatched it on all news channels available to me.
I watched the anticipation, the countdown and the blast off with the enthusiasm of a 30-year-old who grew up on comics and stories and legends of the Apollo moon missions.
I was reminded of lazy noontimes lying sprawled on my tummy on the floor of my balcony crawling the Marvel comics' version of the Apollo moon missions, the test flights, the agonies and the triumphs that was part of the whole package.
I still remember my 10-year-old self sitting with a 6-year-old neighbour in my lap as he turned page after page of the same comics book with the same wide-eyed thrill of unreachable skies. This was the routine every April afternoon for the next four years :) The kid went on to be a mechanical engineer and I love to think that his desire was formed on those precious afternoons.
I remember my 16-year-old self lying on my terrace in early evening twilight and gazing at the moon and thinking of the secrets it embraces and gives away to only those courageous and far-thinking enough to attempt to pry those secrets - An hour later, I was on a bus which took me away from home for the first time and I stymied the longing to go back to my home comfort with thoughts of the lonely moon and the men brave enough to have visited her.
Today, I watched the lift-off and then trawled through the 130 channels available to me searching for a news channel to give me the juice on the Chandrayaan-1. I was bouncing in my seat, excited, thrilled, speechless with overwhelming joy, sending prayers and love across to hundreds of scientists and engineers who worked towards this iconic day for India.
In minutes, I was deflated. This gave way to crushing disappointment followed by a heart-breaking betrayal and a realisation of Indian media realities. In moments, I had come down from the thrilling skies back to sodden earth.
No English news channel could give me anything besides the mandatory blast-off visual.
I log on to the internet, hoping for something to satiate my Chandrayaan-1 hunger: nah da...moon mission can go to the skies, but the rotten politicians of the land deserve more screenspace and wordspace. Well, I didnt know that.
To the English media of this land - you who boast and pride yourself on moulding yourself to American media ideals of yellow journalism - I strongly doubt that if this was the first US moon mission, they would have filled time and space with the general divisiveness of politics. Instead, there would have been stories of scientists, of mission timelines, of what their breakfast constituted, of hurdles and achievements and talkshows of when they can send Man to moon.
Not in my country. We consider scientists as boring entities, we give them ridiculously mangy facilities and while attending page 3 parties with the 'right' people, we will ridicule and crib and rant about how little our space mission has achieved.
40 mins later, Asianet - a Malayalam channel, satisfied my craving. They had a 15 minute capsule of engineers assembling the machine that is right now orbiting our planet on its way to Earth's constant companion in good times and bad.
I have an Indian's fool hope that some children somewhere in this country caught the coverage and watched it wide-eyed with goosebumps for company and thought 'to hell with breakfast'. I hope that there will be more children and young people clueing in to newspapers and tv news to track that solitary rocket.
I certainly shall.
So I can revisit those lazy afternoons which seem to have passed aeons ago.
Those afternoons did not send me to moon or even space.
But I orbit imaginary words, I land on uncharted worlds and breach new boundaries of the space of my imagination.
Resounding cheers for all scientists, engineers, mechanics and the chai boy who kept them all well-supplied with the energiser liquid :)
Thank You for this day.
India sent its first Moon Mission, the Chandrayaan - 1, this morning.
I waited for the live telecast, then sat wide-eyed through it with goose-bumps for company and then watched and rewatched it on all news channels available to me.
I watched the anticipation, the countdown and the blast off with the enthusiasm of a 30-year-old who grew up on comics and stories and legends of the Apollo moon missions.
I was reminded of lazy noontimes lying sprawled on my tummy on the floor of my balcony crawling the Marvel comics' version of the Apollo moon missions, the test flights, the agonies and the triumphs that was part of the whole package.
I still remember my 10-year-old self sitting with a 6-year-old neighbour in my lap as he turned page after page of the same comics book with the same wide-eyed thrill of unreachable skies. This was the routine every April afternoon for the next four years :) The kid went on to be a mechanical engineer and I love to think that his desire was formed on those precious afternoons.
I remember my 16-year-old self lying on my terrace in early evening twilight and gazing at the moon and thinking of the secrets it embraces and gives away to only those courageous and far-thinking enough to attempt to pry those secrets - An hour later, I was on a bus which took me away from home for the first time and I stymied the longing to go back to my home comfort with thoughts of the lonely moon and the men brave enough to have visited her.
Today, I watched the lift-off and then trawled through the 130 channels available to me searching for a news channel to give me the juice on the Chandrayaan-1. I was bouncing in my seat, excited, thrilled, speechless with overwhelming joy, sending prayers and love across to hundreds of scientists and engineers who worked towards this iconic day for India.
In minutes, I was deflated. This gave way to crushing disappointment followed by a heart-breaking betrayal and a realisation of Indian media realities. In moments, I had come down from the thrilling skies back to sodden earth.
No English news channel could give me anything besides the mandatory blast-off visual.
I log on to the internet, hoping for something to satiate my Chandrayaan-1 hunger: nah da...moon mission can go to the skies, but the rotten politicians of the land deserve more screenspace and wordspace. Well, I didnt know that.
To the English media of this land - you who boast and pride yourself on moulding yourself to American media ideals of yellow journalism - I strongly doubt that if this was the first US moon mission, they would have filled time and space with the general divisiveness of politics. Instead, there would have been stories of scientists, of mission timelines, of what their breakfast constituted, of hurdles and achievements and talkshows of when they can send Man to moon.
Not in my country. We consider scientists as boring entities, we give them ridiculously mangy facilities and while attending page 3 parties with the 'right' people, we will ridicule and crib and rant about how little our space mission has achieved.
40 mins later, Asianet - a Malayalam channel, satisfied my craving. They had a 15 minute capsule of engineers assembling the machine that is right now orbiting our planet on its way to Earth's constant companion in good times and bad.
I have an Indian's fool hope that some children somewhere in this country caught the coverage and watched it wide-eyed with goosebumps for company and thought 'to hell with breakfast'. I hope that there will be more children and young people clueing in to newspapers and tv news to track that solitary rocket.
I certainly shall.
So I can revisit those lazy afternoons which seem to have passed aeons ago.
Those afternoons did not send me to moon or even space.
But I orbit imaginary words, I land on uncharted worlds and breach new boundaries of the space of my imagination.
Resounding cheers for all scientists, engineers, mechanics and the chai boy who kept them all well-supplied with the energiser liquid :)
Thank You for this day.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
The Man (5/?)
“Will you stop that?”
“Easy for you to say. Yours is not the face that is known to the wrong eyes.”
“Well…wearing down the floor is not going to wipe that.”
“What will you have me do?”
“I would say that you rest now. They will wait for sundown…I cannot have you slow on your legs or mind then.”
Manikyam drops into the couch at the corner of the room, away from the windows.
“Are you always so friendly?”
“I do my best.”
A small muscle around his mouth flickers. It is there for a moment and disappears soon enough. He sits with his head in his hands. I almost feel bad. But four days of waiting is making even me jittery. I have hunkered down far longer so I cannot understand why this bothers me. My instincts are zapping like nervous synapses and I am loathe to disregard them. Not now. Definitely now.
I am beginning to have a bad feeling about this. There are two SUVs parked down the block every day and every night the light in that no-longer-vacant second floor apartment opposite the field mocks me. What is the plan? I can make out no pattern, no going ins and outs - they probably have stocked up on food, I can pick up no phone frequencies, not for radio either. These are not amateur goondas...These men are thorough, all sleek eelishness as they go around doing their dirty work without leaving any trails. I can feel the electric anticipation in the air. If a life was not at stake, I would call this fun.
Manikyam is not a patient man. He wants this to get over. Till yesterday, he believed that the men had no idea about our location. And then at noon, the yellow piece of cloth – we sought you and found you - was tied to their window. Ever since, I have had a fretting, pacing, obsessing over guilt, Manikyam on my hands. With my nerves a-jangle, I was not exactly being the perfect company for him now.
Slowly, Manikyam slides down the couch and I hope that for his sake, he can get some sleep. He kept awake last night. Despite all assurance that I would wake him if there was a reason to do so. I lectured him on the benefits of sleep for a while. Then realised, the man has the right to worry about the next sunrise. It is his life at stake.
I make myself comfortable on the wooden chair sat near the door of our safehouse.
What is a safehouse with its cover blown called?
I cannot believe myself. Our cover is blown, I have a hunted man on my hands, I do not want his blood on my conscience, I want to get out from this alive, and I am asking myself riddles.
I slump down on the chair and think back to the Wednesday when predictable madness went upside down its head.
“Easy for you to say. Yours is not the face that is known to the wrong eyes.”
“Well…wearing down the floor is not going to wipe that.”
“What will you have me do?”
“I would say that you rest now. They will wait for sundown…I cannot have you slow on your legs or mind then.”
Manikyam drops into the couch at the corner of the room, away from the windows.
“Are you always so friendly?”
“I do my best.”
A small muscle around his mouth flickers. It is there for a moment and disappears soon enough. He sits with his head in his hands. I almost feel bad. But four days of waiting is making even me jittery. I have hunkered down far longer so I cannot understand why this bothers me. My instincts are zapping like nervous synapses and I am loathe to disregard them. Not now. Definitely now.
I am beginning to have a bad feeling about this. There are two SUVs parked down the block every day and every night the light in that no-longer-vacant second floor apartment opposite the field mocks me. What is the plan? I can make out no pattern, no going ins and outs - they probably have stocked up on food, I can pick up no phone frequencies, not for radio either. These are not amateur goondas...These men are thorough, all sleek eelishness as they go around doing their dirty work without leaving any trails. I can feel the electric anticipation in the air. If a life was not at stake, I would call this fun.
Manikyam is not a patient man. He wants this to get over. Till yesterday, he believed that the men had no idea about our location. And then at noon, the yellow piece of cloth – we sought you and found you - was tied to their window. Ever since, I have had a fretting, pacing, obsessing over guilt, Manikyam on my hands. With my nerves a-jangle, I was not exactly being the perfect company for him now.
Slowly, Manikyam slides down the couch and I hope that for his sake, he can get some sleep. He kept awake last night. Despite all assurance that I would wake him if there was a reason to do so. I lectured him on the benefits of sleep for a while. Then realised, the man has the right to worry about the next sunrise. It is his life at stake.
I make myself comfortable on the wooden chair sat near the door of our safehouse.
What is a safehouse with its cover blown called?
I cannot believe myself. Our cover is blown, I have a hunted man on my hands, I do not want his blood on my conscience, I want to get out from this alive, and I am asking myself riddles.
I slump down on the chair and think back to the Wednesday when predictable madness went upside down its head.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Of Midnight Calls
A cold warm night:
The clock struck the witching hour minutes back
A body tosses and turns on the bed in the corner of a little room
The body should have been asleep hours back
But a Friday night comes with concessions...of reading favourite blogs, of sneaking a look at the next chapter of an Archer book, of listening to rollicking Bollymusic, of dozing in a chair with the night light on, of keeping company with midnight...
Options run out and the tired body and sleepy eyes finally hit the pillow
A missed call: an olde code of bonding, of remembering...
A smiley received back
A sleepy haze takes over
A ring
A call
From a beloved
Disbelief for a span of a moment
Neverending giggles spanning minutes which seem like hours
Numbness at the end of status quo
An unwalked path
Delicious strangeness
Anticipation at this state of newness
Sleep thrown down
Silent giggles in the silence of the night
Soft smiles - will the morning confirm these happenings?
A night's sleep spent at the edge of a pillow
Scary, looked forward to, anticipated: Not the new state, but the new state with the same person, the same lovely beloved being - long known, long friended, long loved, of fluffy dreams, of single-mindedness to see their fruition...
To Joy...
All that I have ever said to you, I say all that back again :)
And I look forward to saying all that all over again and again...
The clock struck the witching hour minutes back
A body tosses and turns on the bed in the corner of a little room
The body should have been asleep hours back
But a Friday night comes with concessions...of reading favourite blogs, of sneaking a look at the next chapter of an Archer book, of listening to rollicking Bollymusic, of dozing in a chair with the night light on, of keeping company with midnight...
Options run out and the tired body and sleepy eyes finally hit the pillow
A missed call: an olde code of bonding, of remembering...
A smiley received back
A sleepy haze takes over
A ring
A call
From a beloved
Disbelief for a span of a moment
Neverending giggles spanning minutes which seem like hours
Numbness at the end of status quo
An unwalked path
Delicious strangeness
Anticipation at this state of newness
Sleep thrown down
Silent giggles in the silence of the night
Soft smiles - will the morning confirm these happenings?
A night's sleep spent at the edge of a pillow
Scary, looked forward to, anticipated: Not the new state, but the new state with the same person, the same lovely beloved being - long known, long friended, long loved, of fluffy dreams, of single-mindedness to see their fruition...
To Joy...
All that I have ever said to you, I say all that back again :)
And I look forward to saying all that all over again and again...
Thursday, October 16, 2008
2 o- clock musings
Is Self the most edited commodity...
Is Truth the most edited commodity...
What if a majority of our friends are the ones we inherited? What would be the feeling when they are gone?
Is Truth the most edited commodity...
What if a majority of our friends are the ones we inherited? What would be the feeling when they are gone?
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
The Man (4/?)
I was boiling the milk for tea on a tepid Tuesday when the knock sounded at the door. My ears heard it and my brain said ‘this is it’ but my sleepless-for-four-straight-days body said ‘it’s only that tiresome child’ and I continued leaning on the counter waiting for the familiar bubble of boiled milk. So when the soft knocks persisted for maybe two minutes or hours, my sluggish body finally registered the frantic synapses running across my reason. Hurling curses at myself in the seven languages that I know, I hurried softly over and peeked through the hole on the wall, fitted with a miniature lens. What or rather who, I saw made me sag against the wall for a moment.
It was Prasad. But really the name is not important. You may recognize him. Or not. You may have seen him and even known him but never as Prasad. Such are the transient identities in our line of work. Prasad, however, doesn’t know philosophical.
The moment the door was pulled open, he burst in and closed the door firmly. Then he held me by my shoulders and ran a good look over me. He might have seen what he sought, for he gave a sharp nod and let go of me. He walked into the kitchen with a “Why do you always get the devil’s shift?” I shrugged as I followed him and said, “I was going to make tea”. Prasad halted near the door of the kitchen and turned back at me. “Go on and sit down. I will get some tea for us.” When I would have demurred, he gave me a slight push. As I was too tired to resist, I obeyed him. I moved to sit on the edge of the bed leaving the lone plastic chair in the room to Prasad. Next, I was only aware of a mild shaking: Indeed I had dozed off. Prasad had pulled up the little stool and was setting down two full steaming mugs. As I got up from the bed and saw the big mugs in place of my usual cups, my face creased into a severe frown. And I got a “You wont need the milk for a while. It will only go bad” for my trouble.
Now that it was in the open, we were restless. The pretense was over.
“It is Manikyam. He is exposed. The police know him.”
The sleep deprivation was not helping. “Why should…”
Prasad interrupted “The wrong kind re.”
Ah. I still wanted to sleep badly. But now there was a feeling rising up back my spine. “You want?”
Prasad seemed reticent. A faint alarm was starting to toll in my mind. What was worrying him? It was just one person. I knew Manikyam was too important a cargo. But we have men trained just for such an exigency. Men who know the right places to hide the right people from the wrong people. So what…
“I am sorry. But I do not have time.”
More light there. And the tingles grew.
“This will be yours, Shekhar. All yours. I did not ask for this. But I do not have anyone else to give you.” He downed the hot tea in one go (I do not understand how some people never get scalded) and sat beside me on the bed, our legs touching. No hand on my shoulders this time.
And a heavy load settled in my stomach.
I got up from the bed and walked into the kitchen with my mug. “I need more sugar.” I didn’t need sugar. I needed to walk, to let the blood flow into my brain, to think. Walking back I stop beside the wall opposite. “What should I know?”
Prasad sighs. He tears a sheet from a notebook lying on the nearby wooden shelf and writes swiftly but softly. “And get some sleep. Its 8:12 now. You have till midday.”
Hands the note to me and says, “You know the rest.” No more eye contact either, it seems. I take it and carefully look through it. Any questions I have must be asked here and now. After this, I must look for answers on my own.
I closely follow Prasad the few paces to the door. He stops and turns back to me. Takes my hands in his own large hands. I never noticed that before. And his fingers are comfortably knotty. Reminds me of the jackfruit tree back in my village. But he is speaking.
“Keep him safe. For all our sakes.”
I understand this.
"Kill him, if you are going down."
I understand this too.
“This will not last one night.” I am beginning to realise that too.
He whispers, “If you live, you will know where to find me. I will see you then. At the end of this.”
He is out the door and gone in moments.
I close and bolt the door. I pick up the mug and take an experimental sip. The tea is cold and syrupy. I gulp it down. Could be the last tea I get in a while. I wash the mug and put it on the counter. I then clean the milk pan and the tea saucepan and place them on the kitchen shelf.
After drying my hands, I look at the note again. Yes I know all the details. I burn it in the fire of my stove and flush the ashes down the toilet.
The instructions were clear.
I nod.
I can deliver.
This is what I do best, after all.
It was Prasad. But really the name is not important. You may recognize him. Or not. You may have seen him and even known him but never as Prasad. Such are the transient identities in our line of work. Prasad, however, doesn’t know philosophical.
The moment the door was pulled open, he burst in and closed the door firmly. Then he held me by my shoulders and ran a good look over me. He might have seen what he sought, for he gave a sharp nod and let go of me. He walked into the kitchen with a “Why do you always get the devil’s shift?” I shrugged as I followed him and said, “I was going to make tea”. Prasad halted near the door of the kitchen and turned back at me. “Go on and sit down. I will get some tea for us.” When I would have demurred, he gave me a slight push. As I was too tired to resist, I obeyed him. I moved to sit on the edge of the bed leaving the lone plastic chair in the room to Prasad. Next, I was only aware of a mild shaking: Indeed I had dozed off. Prasad had pulled up the little stool and was setting down two full steaming mugs. As I got up from the bed and saw the big mugs in place of my usual cups, my face creased into a severe frown. And I got a “You wont need the milk for a while. It will only go bad” for my trouble.
Now that it was in the open, we were restless. The pretense was over.
“It is Manikyam. He is exposed. The police know him.”
The sleep deprivation was not helping. “Why should…”
Prasad interrupted “The wrong kind re.”
Ah. I still wanted to sleep badly. But now there was a feeling rising up back my spine. “You want?”
Prasad seemed reticent. A faint alarm was starting to toll in my mind. What was worrying him? It was just one person. I knew Manikyam was too important a cargo. But we have men trained just for such an exigency. Men who know the right places to hide the right people from the wrong people. So what…
“I am sorry. But I do not have time.”
More light there. And the tingles grew.
“This will be yours, Shekhar. All yours. I did not ask for this. But I do not have anyone else to give you.” He downed the hot tea in one go (I do not understand how some people never get scalded) and sat beside me on the bed, our legs touching. No hand on my shoulders this time.
And a heavy load settled in my stomach.
I got up from the bed and walked into the kitchen with my mug. “I need more sugar.” I didn’t need sugar. I needed to walk, to let the blood flow into my brain, to think. Walking back I stop beside the wall opposite. “What should I know?”
Prasad sighs. He tears a sheet from a notebook lying on the nearby wooden shelf and writes swiftly but softly. “And get some sleep. Its 8:12 now. You have till midday.”
Hands the note to me and says, “You know the rest.” No more eye contact either, it seems. I take it and carefully look through it. Any questions I have must be asked here and now. After this, I must look for answers on my own.
I closely follow Prasad the few paces to the door. He stops and turns back to me. Takes my hands in his own large hands. I never noticed that before. And his fingers are comfortably knotty. Reminds me of the jackfruit tree back in my village. But he is speaking.
“Keep him safe. For all our sakes.”
I understand this.
"Kill him, if you are going down."
I understand this too.
“This will not last one night.” I am beginning to realise that too.
He whispers, “If you live, you will know where to find me. I will see you then. At the end of this.”
He is out the door and gone in moments.
I close and bolt the door. I pick up the mug and take an experimental sip. The tea is cold and syrupy. I gulp it down. Could be the last tea I get in a while. I wash the mug and put it on the counter. I then clean the milk pan and the tea saucepan and place them on the kitchen shelf.
After drying my hands, I look at the note again. Yes I know all the details. I burn it in the fire of my stove and flush the ashes down the toilet.
The instructions were clear.
I nod.
I can deliver.
This is what I do best, after all.
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Man (3/?)
We keep up the soft chatter for the pretense is dying down as the time to lower the shields closes in. I take off my shirt and fold it over the chair. Jo hugs me from behind, kissing the back of my neck and running her hands soothingly over my chest and sides. I hold on to her hands; treasuring her smell and feel - Jo - my mantra to sanity, to coping, to living. I can feel Jo lifting her head as her hands still. I know what Jo is doing: she is looking at my back, or rather at the dark jagged scar that runs halfway across my back to end at my left side perilously close to the heart.
I flinch. I hate the scar unconditionally - I hate all its connotations of a violent brutal and unforgiving past that we have tried desperately to leave behind. And apparently unsuccessfully.
That night is seared into my memory - I dream of it all some nights. One reason that I do not seek dreams. It was a humid night when you could just sit at one place and still sweat profusely. I had to protect a key informer who had been found out by the wrong people. And word was that the safehouse would be attacked soon. I was the closest operative and had instructions to stay with the witness till the safehouse could be secured.
To Be Continued...(in other words, my muse has fled).
The Man (2/?)
The house is quiet and dark as I open the door and step inside, but I can hear voices at the back - gay voices belonging to my most precious treasures. Smiling, I close the door behind me. How can a simple act free us so? Closing the door is like an order to the outside world to stay out and keep away from my sacred haven. This is my sanctuary - my escape - my salvation - my chance at redemption. I have lost much in life but I would readily give up whole treasures to keep my precious ones safe.
The tinkly laughter floats into the fast darkening room and a small laugh surprises itself from me. I walk into the bedroom undressing carefully. With a small restless body in the house, it is not undangerous to leave discarded clothing around. As I put on the green T-shirt with a haphazardly placed Powerpuff Girls sticker on it, I can see the lights in the house coming on and the swift patter of feet. I am hardly out of the room when my little girl launches herself on to me with a gleeful welcome laugh and a squealed 'Daddy'. I hold fast to her, my Lenny, for an extra beat treasuring her smell of talcum and oil and mango which was apparently her post-afternoon-nap snack. But my little one is sharp and looks a question at me. So I press an extra kiss on her forehead and say with a mock wail "I missed you so today" which makes her laugh dismissively at her father's apparent childishness.
Lenny tugs at me to let her down and pulls me to the little study off the kitchen which doubles up as my wife's study. My wife looks up from her computer, beams at me and motions me over so she can indulge in a kiss with whole words looking at us. Jo has these large twinkly eyes and when coupled with the wide smile from her full lips, leaves me gasping even ten years after I fell head over heels in love and lust with the fiesty spirited girl who knew her mind and cleared some cobwebs off mine. We move to the kitchen table for tea and rusk for the two of us and coconut cookies for Lenny. We chat and catch up on our day and slowly the cloak of love warms up our little family cocoon.
Evening sets in and it is back to our daily chores - my wife cuts vegetables and indulges Lenny's current love of rhymes, and I prepare the rice. For about 2 hours, the air is rife with the chanting of rhymes, the cooker's whistles, familiar rustles and tinkling of cookery and a occasional fall of a spoon or glass that startles the two girls hunched over at the table, soft murmur of words as mother and daughter commune about the mysteries of words and sentences and mother and father go about preparing the night's delicacies - a simple preparation of rice, mixed vegetables, dal and poppadums (Lenny's favourite).
At dinner, father is made aware of little girls with sheep, twinkling stars and why he must not make a face because then the wind goblin would freeze his face and what will Lenny tell her friends then? Much laughter follows. The laughter bout continues as we watch Uncle Donald's shenanigans with his three nephews. Lenny, who is convinced that only boys have all the fun, heaves a too-loud-to-be-true sigh. I share a look with a grimacing Jo - we have spoken about taking a holiday for some time, maybe it is time to set a date with the beach.
After Lenny is tucked into her bed with a blessing of dreams full of adventurous rides, we wage war with the dishes speaking softly about everything and nothing: India's miserable outing at the cricket world cup, the coming elections, the neighbor's sick dog, lenny's friends, the temple festival, her work and the list goes on...Nothing is debated, everything is mentioned and specifics will be discussed later based on the importance and priority of each. The day slowly winds down for us and after making sure that the doors and windows are properly secured and Lenny safely travelling her dreams, we move into our sanctum.
The Man (1/?)
(2003- Coastal India - Rubber Plantation: The plantation manager, in his early 40s, in his office preparing to leave. Takes the bag from the little wooden cupboard near the window, puts his lunch tiffin in, tucks in his umbrella and zips up the bag. Slinging it over his shoulders, he takes a cursory look at his locked drawers and some inconsequential papers still on the table and leaves the room waving at some lingering folk outside.)
Lingering: That dark man in the dark trousers, pale checked shirt with the bottons neatly done, steel watch on his wrist, wears black sandals everytime. Every Friday, he is always by that sal which skirts the pond tending to his cycle. But he scares me because I know that naught is wrong with his cycle any of these times. He watches me, I know that too. How? I can feel it. Feelings are our sixth sense at work: cannot be ignored. I walk fast past him and increase my pace as I walk keeping the trees carefully behind me; he raises my hackles: he scares me. It has been eight years, it is long enough, I thought it was long enough, it should have been long enough to let me live, to let still waters be, to not throw this pebble into my quiet existence.
But who can reason with paranoia. Because what else is this. And I must not get this way. Erase that frown from your face - you are losing touch, you need to practice. Visibly schooling my face, I keep up my pace till the cycle parking. Casting a practised nonchalant look around the shed and the trees behind it as well as the way I rushed in from, I wheel the cycle to face the road. By the time, I am home 7 minutes later, I have worked up a sweat - a combined result of the cycling and the anxiety.
(2003- Coastal India - Rubber Plantation: The plantation manager, in his early 40s, in his office preparing to leave. Takes the bag from the little wooden cupboard near the window, puts his lunch tiffin in, tucks in his umbrella and zips up the bag. Slinging it over his shoulders, he takes a cursory look at his locked drawers and some inconsequential papers still on the table and leaves the room waving at some lingering folk outside.)
Lingering: That dark man in the dark trousers, pale checked shirt with the bottons neatly done, steel watch on his wrist, wears black sandals everytime. Every Friday, he is always by that sal which skirts the pond tending to his cycle. But he scares me because I know that naught is wrong with his cycle any of these times. He watches me, I know that too. How? I can feel it. Feelings are our sixth sense at work: cannot be ignored. I walk fast past him and increase my pace as I walk keeping the trees carefully behind me; he raises my hackles: he scares me. It has been eight years, it is long enough, I thought it was long enough, it should have been long enough to let me live, to let still waters be, to not throw this pebble into my quiet existence.
But who can reason with paranoia. Because what else is this. And I must not get this way. Erase that frown from your face - you are losing touch, you need to practice. Visibly schooling my face, I keep up my pace till the cycle parking. Casting a practised nonchalant look around the shed and the trees behind it as well as the way I rushed in from, I wheel the cycle to face the road. By the time, I am home 7 minutes later, I have worked up a sweat - a combined result of the cycling and the anxiety.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)