Wispy Words and Worlds

Redirected

2011-07-16T13:54:00.000-07:00

This blog has moved to Tumblr! If you are interested in reading my latest posts please visit http://jayspeak.tumblr.com/

See you there soon :)

Moving.......?

2011-07-08T15:59:00.000-07:00

For a few weeks now I have been thinking of moving this blog to Tumblr. This has been more motivated by a need for change than anything else. I played around a little with Tumblr and liked what I saw. Will keep this blog updated with the change when it happens....

The Doppelgänger

2011-05-10T08:16:00.000-07:00

This is my first experiment with rhyme...I must admit it's not something I enjoyed. It did not come naturally or easily to me. Makes me feel my writing is stilted somehow....

I twinned my heart
so I had two halves
a good one for the right ways
and an 'evil' one for the fun days.

I hid the evil twin deep inside
so no one would know where it was.
The good one I wore on my sleeve
so I could lose it and not grieve.

The good heart grew tired soon.
there were no takers for something so right.
It stomped its feet and did slowly burn
It sulked and schemed and waited its turn...

Until one day I'll never know how
It tricked the bad twin to trade its place.
Now the bad one I wore on my sleeve
And many did try hard to thieve

I found it strange how I wasn't keen
to part ways with a heart so apt to lean
gladly toward these jolly looters
I turned down forthwith all my suitors.

But there he was in front of me
and I magicked by that impish heart...
His smiling eyes and quirky lip
made it easy for me to tip.

I gave him a heart don't know which
it was his forever to keep.
He hid it so well from my sight
and made me feel it was alright.

The twin is now a looking glass.
It's sometimes fair and mostly dark
It shows me what I want to see
All I desire and will to be

I have twinned myself now
a shadow self to keep my place
in a garden slowly turning brown
and a real self to hunt him down.

To ask him that which
He won't say -
"Is that the good heart you keep
that tricked its evil twin take leap?

Did you take it in earnest
or steal it in mere jest?
Is it your love that I did win
or am I forever cursed with its evil twin?"

My visit to Dakshineshwar temple

2011-01-12T03:08:00.000-08:00

Sometimes we experience an acute longing for something elusive...we feel its absence keenly but can't quite name it. It is dissatisfaction with life as is, coupled with helplessness. Life isn’t quite unbearable just... unexciting, perhaps. How can we alter something that has changed quietly on us without any obvious markers? Our contentment has splintered but we don’t see the bits since the pieces for all appearances seem whole. Trapped in a limbo state, we are crippled by our powerlessness to do anything. There are short moments of joy experienced in little things but unsustainable.

During such times I go back to moments in the past and linger awhile. I think of days when I just as keenly felt a sense of contentment and pure joy in the awareness of my own existence. I have felt the finitude and insignficance of my own life and the magnitude and all-pervasiveness of the universe simultaneously. It is at once frightening and exhilarating. These are moments that I term 'romantic' in the tradition of Wordsworth and Coleridge who have expressed in their poetry the terror and joy that they in their encounters with nature had experienced.

The first time I experienced it was in Calcutta in the year 2000. I had just completed my Master's degree in English and wanted a break from academics so that I could weigh my career options carefully and decide what direction my life would take. That wasn't the first time I was visiting the city. I had been there twice before but many years had passed since then.

I usually stay with my ancle and aunt when I visit Calcutta. My aunt sensed that I was in a restless and confused state and suggested to my uncle that he must get me out of the house. My uncle insisted that I visit Belur Math. It was my atheist days and I certainly did not want to visit religious sites. What I remember quite vividly about the visit was the boat journey we undertook on the Ganges from the Math to the Dakshineshwar temple. It was a trip that lasted 20 - 30 minutes. Dusk was grudgingly giving reins to late evening. My uncle and I got into the boat. It was manually oared and the passengers sat wherever they found a spot. I sat on the floor of the boat and could feel a kindred restlessness in the water.

There was a moon that had not quite reached its fullness but was growing with anticipation. Once the boat had been pushed into somewhat deeper waters, the oarsmen rigorously worked to transport us from one shore to another. I was aware of the chatter around me but was shrouded in a semi-darkness and seclusion not unlike that in a movie theater where the consciousness of being surrounded by people begins to dim as one begins to willingly get wrapped in the threads of the plot. I could only hear the sound of the oars and the water pushing and pulling alternatively, like lovers engaged in a power struggle. The moon was trying to arbitrate and got scattered for its efforts.

As darkness slowly extended its arms around the sky, I looked up at the twinkling stars. The night sky looked like a dark grey, almost black dupatta with sparkling white stones sprinkled across. Suddenly a bridge loomed overhead and we passed quietly and humbly from under its protective shadow. It was the Vivekananda bridge. I found it a thrilling experience to see the bridge approach and to pass under it. There was a stillness, a serenity that I felt surround me. All conversations tapered off as everyone fell quiet, awed by the poignancy of the moment. I felt like I was all alone that moment becoming one with the sky and the stars, the cloud and the moon and participating in the eternal and the divine. Something in me tells me I will never get to repeat the sublime experience in this lifetime.

Snippets : Collection of untitled poems

2010-11-15T12:21:00.000-08:00

My eyes are scorched,

but the image burns on...

my lips are crimson,

                        yet the song plays on...
                       all hope is exorcised,
                       still possessed by desire...
                       waiting to live,
                       I die everyday.....

***

1 The receding wave
slides quickly down my leg
fleeing as if
the very touch of my skin
contaminates it....

I cannot look away,
my gaze is locked
on its silken retreat exposing me
in its hurried
yet graceful abandonment.

I stand there
foolishly hoping
the next time
the swirling waters
seek me, caress me,
they but look back.....
a return,
filled with regret
fuelled by longing.

They never stagnate,
never pause
the desertion a ritual,
a game played
over and over again.

I turn around
walk back
to the sands
that cling fiercely
emboldened by
the wet skin's weak defence.

I sprinkle them along the way,
remnants of a lost love
that I will seek many times over -
a trace to follow
my return but
a looking back,
filled with regret
fuelled by longing.....
to replay the ritual of desertion,
no longer just a game,
but a surrender to be played
over and over again ***

Retrieving a lost silence...........

2010-10-08T20:44:00.000-07:00

It's funny how this post on the need for silence comes after an absence or silence of 3 years or so from the blogging world! Finding a few minutes of peace to attempt stringing my thoughts together has been difficult as I have constantly been overcome by events. Matrimony and motherhood seem to rob me of my speech however cliched I may sound.

I have always loved company and yet these days I yearn for solitude so I can let silence resonate within me. Recently, I realized I have been evading silence, afraid it may bring with it a sense of loneliness. Introspection may shatter the feeling of contentment I have been basking in. At work I firmly plug in my ear phones. No doubt it helps me concentrate, however on occasions when I forget my ear phones at home, paradoxically I feel I have gone deaf and to get my hearing back, I need the constant flow of music! Contrary to some people's impression, I am not trying to keep them out or ignore them, I am trying to keep myself out and hide from my thoughts.

Wanting to shut the world out to turn inwards and spend time by myself feels like a selfish thing to do and brings with it a truck load of guilt. Those around me feel left out and rejected when I express the need or desire to be alone. However, I need to surface so I can take a deep breath and dive down again.

In my student days I spent long hours on the terrace of my house. Most days I would be preparing for paper presentations and exams but equal time was lavished on plain day dreaming. It's an art that I have forgotten to practice. Painting, poetry, music, theater and movies make me feel alive. They are each an intensely personal experience and engagement of art, realized most when ruminating in silence.

In the monotonous routine that characterizes my life today, I have forgotten the beauty of silence. I fear what silence may remind me of or bring home to me. Like the pensieve in Harry Potter, I would love an instrument that would help me retrieve and relive moments in life, to shed new light on old labels.

The Rickshaw Man

2007-10-05T14:28:00.000-07:00

I stood at the window once again looking at the Gulmohar tree outside. My shoulders ached with the effort of suppressing the sag that threatened to pull them down. Silent sobs teetered dangerously at the corner of my lips. The tree was all afire with its brilliant red and yellow tinged blossoms. Its scientific name is royal Poinciana. It stood as a repository of memories that lingered from childhood days. There used to be several Gulmohar trees lined outside the school where I had had my primary education. In the afternoon when the school bell rang, my friends and I would rush out and start picking the flowers from the ground where they had fallen. It was important to pick one that had not yet been crushed underfoot. We would then compare to see who had the most number of flowers. This kept us occupied until we were ready to go home. We traveled by a cycle rickshaw and on the way home we would discuss the joys of collecting miscellaneous flowers and bird feathers. We would imagine that the filaments of the gulmohar flower were swords and parry with them. They each had a tiny oval seed-like particle on top which I am told are known as anthers in the botanical community. To us they determined whether we won our combat or not; for whoever managed to decapitate the opponent’s filament, was declared the victor - the meaningless triumphs of a typical middle-class life where the parts are more valuable than their sum, which often amounts to naught.

“Rickshaw man! Rickshaw man! Arun’s sitting in my place. Ask him to sit elsewhere”. I remembered our petty quarrels and the adjudicator of all them – Mani or ‘Rickshaw man’ as we called him. He was a tall, dark, and handsome man with a nice mustache covering most of his upper lip. His lips were dark from the beedi he was fond of smoking. He was fairly young when we knew him – probably in his thirties. His face always sported a smile, no matter how pesky we were – and we could be most annoying at times. He would buy us ice-candies if we didn’t have money ourselves. We were a big rowdy bunch but he was always generous when he had the small change to indulge in our cravings. It must have been tough for him since he didn’t earn much and had a family to support. He usually wore a shirt with a red or white banian inside and a lungi that he would fold up and tie around his waist. When he rode the rickshaw, you could see his leg muscles knotting up with the exertion. He would be dripping with sweat and on hot summer days, no one wanted to sit directly behind the rickshaw man for one could smell the pungent odor of his sweat. He was a huge fan of MGR and wouldn’t hear a word against him. He always sang ‘Thalaivar’s songs’ and had his rickshaw painted with the AIADMK party symbol and MGR’s mugshot.

“C’mon Rickshaw man! C’mon! We’ve got to beat the other rickshaw….go faster please!” Those excited shrieks and pleadings seem so cruel and sadistic now; but when I was a child, those races were no less than Formula One. There was anticipation, hope, exchange of insults, booing and cheering, all parading one after another. Mani would pedal as fast as he could and the initial rhythmic pedaling would soon turn to strained movements periodically interrupted by wheezing gasps of breath. We were sore losers. We targeted our frustration on our charioteer and told him what we thought of his prowess: “You are such a weak and useless rickshaw man! It’s no good traveling in your rickshaw.” He found them funny and always shook with laughter as his pedaling turned into an exertion.

There would be fresh races every afternoon and rickshaws would compete with one another…more importantly, brothers would compete with one another – Mani and Mari. Mari usually won on the account of having a less worn down and motor enabled rickshaw. His rickshaw was brightly painted and had colorful seat covers. We always chided Mani about upgrading his rickshaw, “Rickshaw man, when are you going to fix a motor to this rickshaw? That’s why we always lose no matter how hard or fast you pedal!”

“Why don’t you ask your parents to lend me some money so that I can fix this rickshaw and make it better than new?

I did ask my parents. They uttered some platitudes or diverted my attention to something else. I remember Mani often dropping in to speak to my mom when he would bring me home. He did once request a loan. Being middle-class ourselves, we couldn’t advance him any money. I can never forget the expression on his face - it was a mixture of disappointment, fatigue and hopelessness.

“You must cut down on your daily bouts of alcohol, Mani. Parimala came by this afternoon and she told me you’ve been diagnosed with tuberculosis. You don’t need alcohol to add to that!” My mother was the person that Parimala - Mani’s wife – often consulted and confided in. She believed that Mani respected my mom and followed her advice. That wasn’t strictly true. Mani did respect my mother; he only rarely followed her advice. He embraced life with all its paradoxical moments of pain and ecstasy without a care for what the next day held in its tightly curled fingers.

When we moved from the primary school to the main school for secondary education, my parents opted for the school bus service since they thought it to be safer and more reliable. Mani wasn’t so regular any more. There had been days when he wouldn’t show up. I saw Mani rarely after that since the school bus and Mani’s rickshaw didn’t cross each other very often. He still had that smile on his face, only he seemed to grow thinner each day.

Cycle rickshaws are almost obsolete today. Every time I think of my rickshaw trips back home, I am reminded of the wonderful times I had, the games I played and the generosity and vitality of the Rickshaw man. I have something to hold and cherish in my mind’s big and mostly black book; something to make me realize that life has its moments of joy and innocence wrapped in layers of pain and disappointment. I mustn’t let the layers fool me about what they conceal. The flowers I pick are limp these days and it isn’t easy to find one that hasn’t been crushed underfoot. The five-fold gulmohar flower swathes the tree in sparks of fire and kindles the imagination rendering an ordinary day extraordinary, with its fictitious fencing duels evoking memories of thrilling races. Everyday is a battle I fight, only this time the cuts and thrusts draw blood and the weapon is no longer a filament. Every day is a race I run, only to find out that finishing last isn’t the same as losing.

The Waiting Room

2007-10-01T20:04:00.000-07:00

It was a nondescript town. The station was almost empty except for the vendors, even though it was twelve in the afternoon. She walked towards the waiting room, where the Coolie was headed with her luggage. He carried the big suitcase on his head and the two small bags on each shoulder. Nirupa, thirty-three years old, was dressed very neatly with her hair tied in a knot. In her well-ironed salwaar kameez, she hardly looked as though she had been travelling the past two days.

“I’m a first-class passenger. This does not even remotely resemble a first-class waiting room.”

“There are no first-class waiting rooms here,” he answered indifferently. “This is a small place madam. Here we have only a single room for all passengers.”

“What place is this?”

“Nidrapura”

“I’ve never heard of it. I don’t think it’s even mentioned in the railway guide.”

“It isn’t. But everybody knows it exists,” he chuckled. “Everyone has to pass this place some time or the other. Some stop, others don’t.

“Well, I haven’t stopped by Choice. The train has some technical problem.”

“Is that what they told you?”

“Yes. Why? Isn’t it true?” she asked him suspiciously.

He looked at her for a few moments in silence before answering. He then shrugged and said,

“Who knows. I only heard that some train has got derailed at the next station. It will take some time for the lines to be cleared. This train will start only tomorrow.”

“Nonsense. It’s only a delay of a couple of hours. That’s what the ticket checker told us.”

The coolies smiled at her, “Maybe madam. Please pay twenty rupees. I have other passengers to attend to.”

“It’s a lot you are asking for just a couple of bags and suitcases.”

“You’re carrying very heavy baggage madam. You must offload some of it.”

Nirupa stared at him in disbelief at his insolence. She paid him the money grumbling to herself, “These coolies are all such cheats and greedy dogs.”

In a few moments, other passengers began to arrive and every one of them left their mark on Nirupa as she recalled them later. The first to enter was Daasi. She must have been around twenty eight – thirty years old. She was wearing a yellow chiffon sari with the pallu hanging loosely over her shoulder. A bright red lipstick and her big black bindi stood out in stark contrast to her sari. Her long hair was loosely plaited. She carried a small shoulder bag and moved to a bench in one corner of the room. An old couple walked in next. The same coolie followed them carrying their luggage. They chose a bench on the left corner of the room and settled down there. The coolie collected his money and walked out. Champa walked in with her exaggerated feminine gestures, looking uncertain and nervous. She chose a bench right at the center of the room. She did not carry any luggage. Vidya an eighteen-year old entered carrying a small suitcase and a handbag. She was the youngest of them all. She sat next to Nirupa. The room resounded with silence as the passengers looked at each other mutely. Suddenly, the old man asked wearily,

“How long will this take?”

The old woman seemed irritated at the question,

“Well they say we might only start tomorrow. I don’t understand why we have to stop in the middle of nowhere for a whole day!”

“Maybe we could take a bus out of here?”

“The coolie says it isn’t possible. This is the only train passing through this station. There are no bus facilities either. Strange place with just one coolie too.”

“There is no newspaper stand here. Give me that magazine we bought yesterday. I might as well read it.”

“Haven’t you read it already?”

“There is nothing else to do.”

She gave him the magazine. All eyes turned towards the door as a beggar woman in tattered clothes walked in. she moved to the corner where Daasi was seated and crouched at her feet, gazing at her. The coolie walked in and settled down in a corner. Daasi looked at the shriveled figure at her feet. The beggar woman stared at her with hopeful eyes.

“What is it? Why are you staring at me?” Daasi asked her.

The beggar woman did not respond. She was a picture of stillness and reticence.

“Are you hungry?”

…

Daasi turned to the coolie who sat in his corner smoking his beedi, paying no attention to anything else. “Is she deaf or something? What’s wrong with her?”

“She has lost her senses. She always walks in here with the passengers and sits quietly. She does not disturb anyone.”

“How long has she been here?”

“I remember seeing her here since my childhood. She used to sell flowers at the station. She had a beautiful daughter of sixteen. One day the girl was found missing. She had been selling flowers outside the village temple and suddenly disappeared without a trace. Some people claimed to have seen her abducted by some men. Nobody knows what happened to her.”

“What have the police to say?”

“Police? What police? We have no police stations or courts here. We are our own judges.”

Daasi pulled out an apple from her bag and offered it to the beggar woman who turned to one side and started eating it. Nirupa who had been listening to the exchange, fanned herself with her hand. She turned towards Vidya and remarked,

“God! This room does not even have a fan. I’m stewing in this heat.”

Vidya pulled out a thin notebook and offered it to Nirupa to fan herself with it.

“Where are you traveling to?” asked Vidya.

“Home … Jaagaranpur. What about you?”

“I am headed for my college in Prathampur.” She then lowered her voice and whispered, “Do you think it’s safe here?

“What do you mean ‘safe’? Are you trying to say there might be dacoits?” she frowned.

“Who knows? Besides which, apart from that old couple there, we have some great companions don’t you think?”

Nirupa glanced around. “I see what you mean.” She pointed to Daasi and said, “What about her?”

Vidya shook her head. “Don’t you see? She is …. Well, not a decent sort … you know…”

Nirupa stared at her in disbelief. “You mean … how can you make out? She looks normal to me. I would understand if you said that of that ‘thing’ there,” she pointed out to Champa.

“They are all the same. Just look at the way they have dressed up. I could puke. They have no class at all.”

“Great! We’re stuck in the middle of nowhere for no one knows how long and we have a madcap, a hermaphrodite and a prostitute for company.”

“You’ve forgotten those oldies there.”

“Oh yeah!”

Champa got up and walked over to where Nirupa and Vidya were seated.

“Could you tell me what the time is?”

Nirupa looked at her with contempt and asked her, “Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?”

“No, I guess not. I just wanted to know …”

“Whatever the time it might be, it is the right one I can tell you that.” The coolie interrupted.

“Don’t entertain such people. You never know what they might do,” Vidya warned Nirupa. “Abnormal creatures,” she said in disgust.

“Please don’t say that. I too am a woman like you. I am as normal as you are,” said a visibly hurt Champa.

Nirupa laughed at her response. “No way. You don’t even know who you are. Should I refer to you as he or she?”

“Neither. ‘It’ will suffice” said Vidya and they laughed.

Champa went back to her seat and sat down depressed.

“You think yourself above all of us don’t you?” asked Daasi suddenly.

Nirupa turned towards her. “No. Just better than at least three people I can identify here.”

“Well, you are mistaken. We are different only in the choices we make. But our choices in no way make us better than somebody else. You have chosen your way and I have chosen mine. It does not make either of us a saint or a devil….thought you were educated. What a pity.”

Nirupa was stung to the quick. “Shut up. You have no right talking to me like that. You shameless woman. You might think I don’t know who you are. But I do know your type. You don’t think twice before selling yourself to any man you come across. How dare you compare yourself to us?”

Vidya pointed to Champa, “And what about this ‘thing’ here? At least I know who I am and where I belong. Look at ‘it’. ‘It’ doesn’t even know if ‘it’ is male or female. It’s all so sickening. We are normal, sane people who do not in any way enter your gambit. Our level is a far elevated one. It’s a pity we have to share this room with you.”

Champa smiled at her sympathetically before replying, “It is not just a room that you share with us. Look deep within you and you’ll know we share the same fears, anxieties and feelings. How could you decide what’s normal and accepted. We are all branches of the same tree. Don’t you know that?”

Nirupa glared at her. “How dare you!” Vidya joined her in her indignation, “You uneducated, indecent creature, how would you know who we are.”

Champa looked at her calmly and asked, “Do you?”

…

“This is ridiculous,” said Nirupa.

“I am not uneducated,” continued Champa. “In fact, I am far more educated than either of you. And that beggar woman, more than all of us.”

Daasi walked over to where Champa was seated and placed her hand on her shoulder.

“You are right. I do sell my body to any man I come across and she is not ‘normal’. But she is special and so am I. But look at yourself. Where do you fit in our world? Because this is our world you know. Welcome to it.

“We do not want to fit into your world,” said Vidya sulking.

“But you are already a part of it. Look into a mirror and you will see several faces – mine, “ she pointed at Champa, “hers and even that beggar woman’s. She lost her daughter. Maybe that daughter is you. Not literally of course. But in the beginning, I too was a student like you …what’s your name?”

“Vidya,” she answered defiantly.

“Vidya,” Daasi paused before saying, “Actually that was my name too. Today, they call me Daasi.” She turned to Nirupa, “And what are you called?”

“Nirupa.”

“I was a Nirupa once I got married you know. My in-laws renamed me. I was then a lost daughter, lost in a new world, unable to carry my past with me. I travel light now you know,” she laughed and said, “I am now Daasi. You have two options. You could either become a Daasi or that beggar woman there. You could even carve your own path like Champa. But I am sure you won’t. You’ll probably end up like those ‘oldies’ there, reading the same magazine over and over again.”

“You don’t have the strength to become a Champa or a Daasi. You don’t have feelings or emotions to turn insane with loss. You have to undergo pain and suffering. You must know what sanity is in order to lose it.”

“We are all content with who or what we are. Can you say that about yourself?” This came from Champa. Nirupa and Vidya became silent, their tongues failing them.

Suddenly, the beggar woman came out of her preoccupied state and said, “Once you know what it’s like to be sane, you know you are insane.” She laughed hysterically. There was a terrible silence broken by the coolie’s calm and collected voice,

“If any of you need anything, just let me know. I’ll be at the guard’s room. You have a long way to go – a whole day and a whole night. In Nidrapura, there is only one way of escaping you know. It is by shedding all your unwanted things. You must leave them all here – your pretences, your securities, and your past. You must travel light. The train might have to leave behind a few bogeys. Make sure they are not yours….”

The train shuddered to a halt. Typical noises of a railway station could be heard in the background. Nirupa woke from her sleep in a jolt. She looked out of the window.

“What a terrible dream that was.”

It was a nondescript town. The station was empty except for the vendors even though it was twelve in the morning.

The Peddler of Dreams

2007-09-26T17:37:00.000-07:00

Nobody exactly knows how old Abu is. Ask him and he’ll say with a gentle smile, “As old as the universe.” He was bent with age and found movement very painful and difficult. “Why don’t you retire?” I would ask him half-serious. He would shake his head, “I sell dreams. There is no retirement for dreamers. Heaven forbid that day.”
He carried an old black box in one hand and a tripod in the other. He was usually seen in parks, playgrounds - places where children thronged. He loved them and was often seen outside some school or other around lunchtime or at the end of the day, when the last bell rang announcing freedom for the kids.
He called his box a magical one. It was what was called a ‘bioscope’ during my childhood. It had colourful slides inside and he charged an anna for a trip around the world, across boundaries of space and time. I remember seeing it everyday as a child. The wild forests, the high waterfalls and the beautiful, exotic animals were truly breathtaking.
“What is magical about it?” I remember asking him once.
“You see what you want to see,” he would say.
As I grew up, the box had lost its charm for me. “No Abu. They are not real,” I told him rather rudely. “They are a hoax. Such places don’t exist in real. They have been cleverly painted alright.”
I never saw him after that. Before leaving, he told me, “These places exist; they exist inside you as long as you believe in them. When you dismiss them as being unreal and spurious, they are destroyed.”
Yesterday, I saw him outside a very well known school. He had changed a lot. His once white kurta and crisp dhothi had turned dirty and torn. He stood in one corner glowering at passersby. I suddenly felt a yearning to revive those places in me.
“Abu, do you remember me?”
He looked at me silently without answering.
“Can I see your magic box?”
“NO,” he said harshly. “There is nothing inside it for you anymore. It’s all gone, dead. You’ve ruined it - you and your generation of modern technology. You’ve denied these children their beautiful dreams. You are the culprit. Get away from here,” his pitch rose shrilly.
The school watchman walked over to where we stood. “You filthy old beggar! How many times must I ask you to leave this place? Out mongrel! You are a menace to the children standing here with that wretched box of yours. Go away from here before I call the police.”
Abu moved away reluctantly muttering to himself, “Murderers … heartless machines …gone …all the dreams … butchered … they are dead … gone forever….”
Shocked, “What happened to him?” I asked the watchman.
“Don’t pay any attention to him sir. He is a lunatic. Gone berserk with age, he is. He stands here everyday with his stupid box calling out to children for a “magical show”. Some show! All a humbug. Who wants to see those stupid pictures anyway? There are no film stars, movie slides or cricketers. Naturally, the children don’t like it. When they tell him that, he starts abusing them, cursing them for killing his dreams. They get frightened and start crying. Such a bother! No matter how many times I drive him away, he is back after a while. He already has one foot in his grave. I wish someone would assist him with a shove.” He walked back shaking his head in disgust.
I stood there in stunned silence.

The Date

2007-09-04T08:53:00.001-07:00

There she was again today, sitting at the same table as she always did. He had discovered this café only recently. It was a quiet, cozy one, yet inexpensive. He found it convenient to stop there after work and drink a cup of coffee. It soothed his nerves. He was single and was staying by himself. He lived in a flat which he shared with two other men. They worked during the nights, in a call center and would come home just when he was leaving for work. They never spoke much except when they discussed bills. In his room, it was just him, his memories, and his loneliness. The café was his regular haunt these days. He missed his family back home. Being among people, seeing them relax, chatter away their worries, strangely gave him a sense of nostalgia and belonging that he needed so badly. She was probably there for the same reasons …

She looked at him and saw a man without any worries, sitting back and enjoying life leisurely. She thought about her own life as a customer sales executive in one of the largest cell phone manufacturing companies. On her toes all day, she could not give up her work even if she wanted to. Part of a big family, she was the eldest and her siblings were still at school. Her income combined with her father’s kept the family going. She once again looked at the man. It would be fun to know him. Maybe some of that happiness and security would rub off on her too. She thought of him walking over to her table and asking her out for a date - after introducing himself of course. She would never go out with strangers! Where would he take her out on their first date? Maybe the Taj or the Oberoi. But if he could afford the Taj or the Oberoi, surely he wouldn’t be here sipping coffee! Well in that case, he would take her to a movie or to the theatre.

Theatre or movies? No. That would be rather boring he thought. Where would she expect him to take her - if he ever mustered the courage to ask her out that is? He hoped she was the type who would enjoy walking on the seashore talking about herself and learning about him. He had met a few who could talk of nothing else but careers – theirs and his. Some even went to the extent of discussing the sort of house they must buy after marriage! All that after just a couple of dates for heaven’s sake!

After a couple of dates, he would probably take her home. He must have his own house. He seemed a loner. He had probably lost his family. That was fine because she hated big families and felt stifled. But she was sure he was single and stayed alone. Why else would a handsome young man like him hang around in a small café in the suburbs of the city until 8 o’ clock? When they do go out together, they must discuss music. Yes, that’s what people did before going deeper into a relationship. It would strike a ‘chord’ of harmony…

Music! What if she wanted to discuss music? He was tone deaf and several dates hadn’t worked out because he couldn’t enjoy music of any sort. He would simply have to grin and agree with whatever she said. If she probed deeper, he would say he didn’t have much time to listen to music and was rather outdated on the subject. He only had time to sit at a café for two hours staring across the tables at the same woman day after day! He almost got up and walked over to her table, but restrained himself at the last minute, full of self-doubts. Besides which, he was wearing his favourite shirt that day. He didn’t fancy milkshake on it. At least that’s what her drink looked like from his table.

He wanted to talk to her, but seemed to hesitate for some reason. In fact, she was even willing to bet that he had for a moment made up his mind to ask her but failed to make the move. What a slow coach! How long did he intend to just stare at her across the tables? She would have made the move. It was just that the café today was filled to its capacity and she didn’t fancy being sniggered at by so many people. It was already eight and she had to catch the bus at 8:05. Besides, since he wasn’t ready to ask her yet, she wanted to leave first. He mustn’t get the idea she was hanging around just for his sake.

He saw her pick up her stuff, pay the bill and walk out of the café. He cursed himself. Why hadn’t he taken a chance, gathered his courage and asked the question. It couldn’t go on forever. He suddenly felt exhausted. It had been a long day at the office today. He paid the bill and walked out.

Bela saw him leave and shook her head.

“What is it?” asked Surinder.

“It’s those two again. For the past three weeks I’ve seen them just looking at each other across the table and looking away. I’m positive they like each other and want to take the next step. But somehow they seem to prolong the staring stage forever. I don’t understand why. Surely the shyness can’t last that long?"

Surinder sighed. “Sometimes its is safe to maintain the status quo. That way, they can be whatever they choose to be, to each other. The minute they meet and get to know each other, they don’t even have their fantasies to fall back on. They will discover each other’s feet of clay. It’s better to wonder and not know, than to know and lose the wonder. "

***

The Surahi

2007-08-28T19:29:00.000-07:00

I remember that day very well for it was the day we were leaving for Naani’s house. Bhaiyya broke the surahi. I don’t know whether it was by accident or Bhaiyya had broken it on purpose, but in no time, the floor was flooded with water.

Even though I was only seven at that time, the high-strung atmosphere at home didn’t escape me. I was unusually quiet that day knowing somehow that things were not going the way they should have. Not wanting to be at the receiving end of Ma’s wrath, I sat on the bed sucking on a lollipop stick long after the lollipop itself had disappeared. My eyes zoomed in on the open suitcase and the saris inside. Ma was repacking for what I hoped would be the last time. Her collection of saris have always been exquisite and I remember how I sat there, wanting to grow up sooner to wear them.

The Surahi episode was a sort of climax to the cold war that had been going on between my parents. It all started with the usual preparations made for the summer vacations. Ma always looked forward to them as a welcome break from her routine. As I think of it now, she was more enthusiastic about them than Bhaiyya or I. It somehow didn’t matter that they always got cancelled each time. The next year she would start preparations all over again.

This time the trip had been planned to Delhi and Agra. All arrangements had been made. A week before our departure, Papa broke the news to us. He wouldn’t be able to make it due to a sudden crisis at his office.

“I don’t know how long it will take to resolve. They need me to see it through.”

Naturally I was very disappointed for Ma had promised to buy me a box of my favourite chocolates for the journey. But most affected by this catastrophe was the person who beat me to birth by a good five years – Bhaiyya.

That day we had been eagerly waiting for Papa to return from the office and take us shopping. Bhaiyya had as usual made several trips to the gate to spot Papa’s car. There was an unsuppressed excitement in the air. And then, came the inevitable announcement from Papa. A deathly silence followed it and I shiver even now as I recollect it. Ma stood numbed. With her handbag clutched tightly, her lips compressed into a thin angry line, she took my hand and walked out saying, “I am taking the car out. I might be late. Make your own tea.”

I meekly followed her and Bhaiyya dragged his feet behind us.

When we got back, there was a confrontation that even the Mahabharata could not have matched. I don’t mean to say they actually got down to blows, but the shouting match that followed, amply compensated for it.

“I should have known you would ditch us at the last minute. Isn’t that what you always do? Why make plans at all? While you visit places on business, we have to be content with making them on T.V. What do you want me to do with the things I have bought? Shall I return them?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know this is unavoidable,” said a very red Papa. “I might get that that long-awaited promotion after all. It depends on how successfully I handle this crisis. One would expect you to understand and sympathize, not throw tantrums like a child. I don’t expect you to stay behind. You are free to go ahead without me. I have seen them all before anyway.”

This seemed to add ghee to the blazing fire.

“Alone? With two children in tow? You’ve always chosen to travel by yourself even when you could have taken us with you. It’s always the same excuse – what about the children’s school? They can’t keep away so long. It’s not a pleasure trip you know. You will be bored to death there. Next time o.k.?” she mimicked him perfectly tone and all. “Well don’t think I’m going to stay back this time too for yet another crisis that seems to happen just when we plan a vacation. I am leaving for my mother’s place. Book the tickets right away or we’ll travel without reservation if necessary.”

Well there was nothing much he could do about it. He sent the driver to the station to book tickets for April 24th – the same day we’d planned to leave for Delhi. Though we didn’t exactly get tickets for the same day, we were to leave a week later thanks to a relative working in the railways whose clout Papa used.

The cold war at home didn’t subside though. With glowering looks and silent curses, both seemed convinced about being in the right and being the victim. As for Bhaiyya and me, we still had a train journey to look forward to.

All appearances of tranquility were destroyed with the shattering of the surahi. My mother jumped in fright. It brought things to a head. She rushed out of the room to the hall where it had been kept. Papa stormed in looking every bit the Spanish bull ready to charge. Arms akimbo, they faced each other, steaming at the ears. Bhaiyya had vanished. The snapping, the irritation and the smouldering anger that would often be directed at us, surrogate targets, had often stifled him and was probably the reason behind the broken surahi.

I tiptoed to the hall where the shattered pieces of my mother’s treasured surahi lay. It had been the first thing bought by my parents when they set up their house after marriage. Now it lay bestrewn in all directions. Tears sprung to her eyes and she sat down on the sofa beginning to sob. Call it instinctive chain reaction, or the result of the realization that I had just finished my last lollipop, I too began to cry. Not used to handling two weeping females at the same time, my father swung into action a trifle late. He began to console us – me with the chocolate in his pocket and Ma with assurances that he would try to join us at Naani’s place.

“I don’t know if you’d ever noticed. But I spotted a crack forming in the surahi last summer when we had planned to visit Jaipur. I thought we could replace it after this trip. Now we’ll have a new and better one perhaps.”

Slowly the sobs ceased and putting on a brave and resolute face, Ma went back to her repacking. I tapped my father’s knee knowing it was a good time to ask for those new toys I had seen advertised on TV. As for Bhaiyya, I still wonder where he’d disappeared to that day. But he did turn up an hour before we left for the station looking very dirty and very guilty.

The Little Mermaid

2007-08-26T06:27:00.000-07:00

The flat was a beautiful one. It was painted pearl white. Shruti could never tolerate anything ugly. She took care to surround herself with objects that were lovely and pleasing to the eye. She herself was an extremely graceful and ravishing woman. She had a wistful look, a kind of yearning for something unrealized. It was what drew most people towards her. She looked somehow untouched, vulnerable, needing to be protected from the harsh, outside world.

It was a well-maintained apartment. But then, Shruti was paranoid about keeping everything clean and organized. It gave her a sense of order. Often, when confused or tensed about something, she would rearrange her shelves and the furniture as though it somehow changed things.

Vishal put all her things in a large box deciding to sort them out later. As the afternoon wore on, he suddenly felt hungry. He knew that Shruti always kept her fridge well stocked. She had been a voracious eater. Her appetite had always frightened him. He had sometimes felt as though she would one day devour even the people around her. He opened the freezer to see if there were any of those ready to make food mixes that Shruti loved so much. It was there that he found what he had been unconsciously looking for, all along - her diary.

She had always hidden it in funny places. But the freezer? She probably thought it would congeal the memories they held, benumb the pain they expressed. All the pages up to the day she had moved into her new flat, had been torn out and perhaps discarded. Vishal made himself some noodles and sat on the divan to read. The window was right behind him and the sun shone brightly on his back.

***

6th June 1998

Today, I moved into my new flat, ‘Shanti Nivas’. It is located in a very peaceful area and faces the sea. Since it is on the outskirts of the city, there are not too many people around. It suits me fine. I don’t want anyone to recognize me or know who I am.

16th June 1998

I hate this place. Its not comfortable anymore. The past seems to play hide and seek with me. I thought I had erased all of it. But once again I have been proved wrong. I feel so lonely and frightened. The walls seem to mock at me and the room grows smaller each day and I think one day it will probably entomb me forever. The balcony is my only solace. I sit there and stare at the waves breaking on the shore and it somehow calms me. The sea’s sheer sense of space consoles me.

25th June 1998

I have started early morning walks on the beach. I sit for hours together until the sun comes out blazing in the sky. When the sand starts getting warm, I come back home. Everyday I see a man in a black track suit jogging on the shore. He is a tall man and jogs rather briskly. He seems familiar but I can’t remember where I’ve seen him before. We seem to be the only people around that time of the day. As he passes me, he never forgets to nod at me. I wonder who he is ….

30th June 1998

Today, after my walk, I sat down as usual on the shore gazing at the sea. Last night had been one of the worst ones ever. I had those nightmares again after a long time. I got up at three in the morning and couldn’t sleep. I saw those severed heads and those twisted bodies. It couldn’t be them. They were so alive and happy. Yes, I had been excluded from that trip too as from others. But this time forever – as though to punish me for the bad girl that I had been. But I had always tried so hard to please them. They had never needed me. They had had time only for each other. And now, they haunt me as if to make up for the time lost.
The sea calls out to me everyday. It beckons me to its cool embrace, promising eternal forgetfulness. Its waves tempt me. With every sweep they make of the shore, they seem to search for me, inching closer each time. And then, he appeared! Instead of nodding at me and moving on as usual, he stopped in front of me with a concerned look.

“Are you alright? Can I help you someway?”

I was puzzled. Why was he asking me that? The breeze suddenly seemed colder on my cheek. It was then that I realized that I had been crying. My face was wet. I quickly wiped it and shook my head. Not convinced, he sat down next to me. I don’t know how long we sat there next to each other in silence. But it was soon time to leave. We got up and left our way knowing somehow, we were bonded for life.

1st July 1998

Walking was a new experience today. Initially I was not too sure about going. I was dreading to face him feeling embarrassed about yesterday. What would I say if he asked me about it? But he didn’t. He walked with me and we got to know each other. He is a cricketer, a batsman. He has been on and off the national squad. He aspires to be picked for the forthcoming Australian series. Well, no wonder he looked so familiar.

16th July 1998

These days have been just glorious. We’ve been together most of the time. He is a wonderful man. He understands me so well and puts up with my tantrums and mood shifts patiently without ever complaining. I even told him about the air crash and them. He hugged me tightly after that and promised never to leave me. I think I am happy. I had forgotten how it feels to be like this and am scared this won’t last. What if he finds out?

5th August 1998

We’re engaged! I don’t believe this. We’ve become inseparably, a part of each other. I know I must tell him all about myself. But I am scared he’ll start hating me, like all the others. I love him so much. He takes pains to please me. He’s just been selected to go to Australia. I have never seen him so ecstatic before. We have to set a wedding date very soon. I cannot let him go away from me. He calls me his ‘little mermaid’.

8th August 1998

He has found out. Oh! What do I do? How can I explain to him that it wasn’t me? She was not I. She was a selfish bitch. I have only now taken possession of myself. The doctors have ensured me that she is dead and will never come back. But he refuses to listen to me. He is leaving in a few days. I have told him that I cannot live without his love. But he doesn’t believe me anymore. He has been avoiding my calls and refusing to meet me. He does not even come for our morning walks.

11th August 1998

I called him today. I have threatened to kill myself if he does not turn up for tomorrow’s walk. I hope he comes.
***
Vishal put the diary down. It was already evening and the sky was turning dark outside. He sat there thinking about what had happened. He had received a phone call from Pankaj the next day.

“She’s dead. Committed suicide. Her body has just been found washed ashore.”

Vishal rushed to the spot to help complete the formalities. It all seemed like a bad dream. Pankaj had been the one to tear the mask from Shruti’s face. His law firm had dealt with her case. Pankaj had then been only a student and had followed the case faithfully in the papers. After joining the firm, he had read the case details. When he saw the engagement snaps, he immediately recognized her.

“Don’t tell me you’re marrying her! Do you know who she is?”

“Of course I know. How do you know her anyway?”

“My firm had fought her case for her. Did she tell you that her parents died in an aircrash?”

“Yes she did. What case are you talking about?”

“Well, I thought as much. She is a murderess. She butchered her own parents while they were asleep. She was only 13 at that time. Can you imagine that! The police had to piece together the bodies for identification. She couldn’t stand their being happy together. She had always been a strange child, whining all the time that her parents didn’t love her. Both her parents were in business together and often traveled, leaving her in the care of her nanny. When they told her about one such trip, she insisted that they take her along, complaining that the nanny and gardener made her do “bad things”. Knowing her long history of lies, her parents took no notice of her. When they came back, she was very quiet. She waited until they were both asleep and with the sickle that they gardener used, she hacked them mercilessly”.

Vishal had not believed it at first. He was sure that girl was someone else, and not his sweet, innocent Shruti. But Pankaj finally had him convinced.

“I would recognize her anywhere. She spent seven years in a mental asylum where the prison authorities sent her for treatment. She is demented, psychotic and will probably kill you or someone in your family if they made her angry. Don’t you see she has been cheating you all along. She has ever since maintained that her parents died in air crash. If you still don’t believe me, I could take you to her doctor.”

When Vishal had confronted Shruti with it, she became hysterical. She first denied everything and then broke down and confessed to it. He felt betrayed and walked out before he killed her himself.

His mind went to the phone call she had made that fateful day. She had been trying to speak to him and had even come home but he had refused to meet her. He had ignored her warning him of dire consequences if he failed to meet her for the walk the next day, thinking it to be another desperate attempt to tie him to her. People like her only knew to strangle others with the web of their deceit, not kill themselves, or so he had thought.

He washed the dishes and walked out of the house that was now his. She had bequeathed it to him, meaning it to be a surprise wedding present. He walked to the beach uncertain of his own thoughts and sat down on the shore gazing at the waves breaking on the shore …..

The Torn Kite

2007-08-24T08:52:00.000-07:00

Thenmozhi crouched in a corner gazing eagerly at her mistress with admiration. Shanthi was getting ready for a party. She looked at Amma’s sari dreaming of being as beautiful as her one day. She was a scrawny girl, soon to turn thirteen, but looking no older than ten. She had black piercing eyes on a face where every other feature was nondescript. Her purple coloured Paavadai had frayed edges and was nearly dripping wet, which was not unusual since she was constantly washing and cleaning, giving it hardly a chance to dry. She ignored her growling stomach and carefully observed the way Shanthi applied her make-up. Suddenly Shanthi turned towards her.

‘What are you doing here? I asked you to clean the kitchen where the baby has dirtied the floor. Have you done it?’ she asked sharply.

Not finding her voice, Thenmozhi nodded her head vigourously.

“I know why you are sitting here. Don’t you dare even think of touching my make-up. You do remember what happened the last time you were caught with something that didn’t belong to you, don’t you?”

A sudden fear seized Thenmozhi as she remembered how Amma could react in anger. Thenmozhi had been caught eating the baby’s cereal and watching TV while Amma and Aiyya were away. Coming back to collect something she had forgotten, Shanthi was livid. She was deaf to Thenmozhi’s explanation that Aiyya had left the TV on and that she had merely been having left over cereal. Thenmozhi had been beaten with the high-heeled leather sandals that Shanthi had been wearing. But that was better than the other time when Amma heated the tail end of a steel serving ladle until it steamed, and branded Thenmozhi’s back with it, for breaking one of paapa’s imported toys that she had no business playing with in the first case.

‘Stop eyeing my jewellery and fetch the washed clothes from the terrace. They must have dried by now. It might rain today. I don’t want them wet all over again.’

As Thenmozhi scuttled off to the terrace, Shanthi resumed applying lipstick. ‘There is no trusting these wretched beggars,’ she thought.

She had employed Thenmozhi - even though she had only been 10 at the time - at her mother’s advice.

‘It is time you had a live-in maid, now that Pradeep and you have finally decided to start a family. If you employ a small and inexperienced girl, you can extract more work out of her. You will also be able to control her easily by beating her occasionally. After all, they are used to it. Better still take a girl from our village who knows nothing of the ways of the city. You remember Thenmozhi don’t you? She is the daughter of Munnusami our farm labourer. Ten years old, she is the oldest child and has five siblings – four daughters and finally a son! They didn’t stop trying until he was born!’

‘But Ma, will they be willing to send her to the city to live with me?’

‘They will only be too happy. One child less to feed and one daughter less to save from the roving eyes of the lecherous men of the family and neighbourhood. When you are away at work, you will need someone to look after the baby.’

‘How much would I have to pay her family? I can’t spend too much you know. I have to feed and clothe her as well.’

‘You don’t have to pay her anything. I will give her father something every month.’

The arrangement had suited Shanthi very well, especially after the baby came along. It was now three years since Thenmozhi came to work for them and she had been a dream come true. She hardly ever complained except for occasional pleas to take her to visit her village where she could meet “everybody”.

Thenmozhi woke up early every morning to prepare coffee. She was even beginning to cook decent meals now. She didn’t take up much room either since she slept in the cockroach-infested kitchen.

‘You look gorgeous’, said Pradeep as he walked in. His eyes shone with delight and pride at his beautiful wife who had retained her shape, post pregnancy. ‘Why don’t you wear that necklace I bought you for our anniversary last year?’ asked Pradeep hopefully.

‘It’s already out of fashion’, she said.

‘Where’s Then?’ he wanted to know.

Shanthi bristled at his shortening of the name. She positively hated the special interest he had been taking in her of late. ‘Why don’t we help her continue her learning? The poor girl misses going to school you know. We could teach her how to write letters,’ he had suggested. ‘After all it would help her keep in touch with her folks in the village and save us some money from the long-distance calls we make every month.’ She knew what it was all about. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, ‘Look, has Thenmozhi come of age? As soon as she does, send her back here. You can take one of her younger sisters instead. After all, men are not to be trusted. Who knows how Pradeep might change. Better not risk it.’ She shuddered for a moment. It was not unknown for husbands to play around with the live-in maids especially if they were young and naïve village- breds who could be silenced with money for the family or the threat of disrepute. Then was growing up to be a pretty girl and was fast outgrowing her clothes. She should have brought in a boy - would have saved a lot of trouble. Maybe she should bring Then’s brother and not her sister.

“Well, where is she?’ he persisted.

‘Your precious Then has gone to the terrace to fetch clothes’ she said, not bothering to hide her irritation.

***

Thenmozhi loved her trips to the terrace every evening to fetch the clothes. She felt happy looking at all the other houses around. She often wondered who lived in them. Her friends envied her life in the city. ‘Do you know that famous film stars like Rajnikant and Jyothika live in Chennai? I have heard that it is very common to spot them at grocery stores and vegetable markets on Sundays. Who knows, you might even bump into them one day!’ Thenmozhi had never minded the innumerable trips to the shops that she had to make after the baby was born. Sometimes Aiyya asked her to buy him cigarettes from the local teashops. She hated those men in the teashop who tried to make conversation with her, their eyes leering. She would furtively look into the big departmental stores and the cars passing by to catch a glimpse of some film star. She had never been lucky so far.

She looked at the blue sky. There was no prospect of rain. She wondered what her sisters and baby brother must be doing. The open space of the terrace filled her with a longing for the vast open pastures in her village. A fluttering string caught her eye. She tugged at it. It was entangled in the tall pole to which the clotheslines had been strung. She looked up and spotted the pretty kite. It was made of patches of red, green, yellow papers and even had a long tail made of some kind of sparkling paper. It reminded her of her days in the village when she ran through the streets chasing a kite during Pongal the harvest festival. She suddenly felt a desire to disentangle the kite. She wanted to pass a hand over it and hold it to her chest as if it were a piece of her past, a slice of her village life that she could keep to comfort her. She also wanted to set it free, to fly again, in the sky - proud and liberated, cradled in the arms of the wind, travelling long distances…

***

Suddenly, they heard something crash and a desperate ‘Ammaaaaaaa!!’ They rushed out and found to their horror that Thenmozhi had taken a fall from the terrace. She lay in a pool of blood. They went down the seven floors of their building with hearts racing. The watchman and some passersby crowded around her. Pradeep called for an ambulance and took the girl to the government hospital.

‘Curse that stupid girl! I thought she had more sense than to stand on the parapet wall of the terrace for a stupid torn kite. Who knows how much we have to shell out to the police who will want to squeeze us of every penny to report this as an accident; not to speak of the bribe we have to part with at the hospital although it is supposed to provide free treatment to all. And if the girl should die …. Aiyyo Kadavule! The postmortem and the handing over of the body will make paupers out of us.’ She was becoming hysterical now.

Pradeep came back looking very serious. ‘They couldn’t save her. We’ll have to send the body to her parents in the village. Have you asked your mother to inform them?’

‘Of course. What do you take me for?’ she snapped. ‘Naturally, Ma said she would take care of it. She said she would convey the message to Munnusami, the girl’s father.’

‘I have arranged for the body to be transported to her village. I have also informed my office that I will not be available for a couple of days, since I have to accompany the body.’

‘Don’t be silly. You don’t have to go. If you go there in person, they’ll probably expect you to pay them something. I’ll ask our driver to go with the body.’

***

Munnusami stood outside his hut looking at the road with tired eyes. He couldn’t believe it. How could Then have died so suddenly? The gods must be angry with him for not making the traditional goat sacrifice at the temple this year. But the roof needed mending before the rains started. Then earned a hundred rupees a month and the money had been kept aside for the repair work.

Chitra, walked out of the low hut. Her eyes were red. Her once dark curly hair now hung loose, dry and brown with neglect. ‘Has it come?’ she asked, her voice quivering with unasked questions and lingering doubts.

‘No, not yet. Have you spoken to Amudha? Pack her bags quickly. She has to leave immediately. Don’t listen to her wails. She will cry no doubt, but there is no other way. We need the money.’

Chitra burst into loud sobs. She felt helpless. She could still recall the day she had entered their hut with baby Then in her arms. She felt torn by grief. How could it have happened? Then had always been a responsible child. She had never shirked work at home and loved looking after her sisters and brother. When they had told her that she had to leave for the city to do housework for Mudalali amma, she had not once protested or complained. The wet pillow belied her strained cheerfulness in the morning, telling its own silent tale. It had been a while since the monthly telephone calls stopped. Chitra had been worried. But Then had always told them how happy she was and how kind Amma and Aiyya were to her.

The old rattling van entered the road with dust flying in its wake. It stopped outside the hut where Munnusami stood staring stonily. Chitra started keening loudly. ‘My baby girl, My darling daughter. How could you leave us like this?’ She beat her head and chest with calloused palms and the air rang loudly with her cries. She rocked on her foot swaying back and forth letting loose an anguish that till now had lay interred, born out of uncountable losses, finally waking out of deceptive numbness.

‘Amudha!’ Munnusami bellowed. ‘Come out quickly. Don’t make them wait.’ His voice shook with impotent rage and something else, a vague fear that he dared not admit.

Amudha walked out slowly. Tears in her eyes and a bundle of scanty belongings in hand, she dragged her feet to where the van stood, looking back one last time at their tiny hut.

Select Glossary

Aiyya – Sir/Master
Aiyyo Kadavule – Oh God
Amma – Madam/Mistress
Mudalaali – Employer
Paapa - Baby
Paavadai – A long skirt
Sari – Traditional wear for Indian women
Then – Short form of Thenmozhi. Also means ‘honey’ in Tamil.

Confessions of a Dreamaholic

2007-08-22T08:16:00.000-07:00

I take a drag
on a cigarette
of tightly rolled up dreams
until it burns out
scorching my lips.

I sink into a sleep
with my eyes open
in a fixed stare.
Wrapped in a haze
unseeing, unthinking
warm in its fold.

Soaring above
Unfettered, unfurled
my soul tears free
like a kite cut loose.

But when the wind drops
my tail drags me down
towards greedy branches
that snatch me
strangling me
in their embrace.

My chest constricts
I flail my limbs.
Desperate, I choke
upon my own breath
and close my eyes
to surface in reality.

I reach out
and feel my way
to my next pack.
Every spasm
not just a withdrawal
but a healing.

Prayer for mercy

2007-08-21T14:00:00.001-07:00

Stick the knife
In the heart.
Or at least,
Close to it…

Let the flames
Burn these eyes
Or at least
This vision…

But first,
Benumb the mind,
That feels
The pain.

Kill me
Before I die.

Introspections

2007-08-21T13:58:00.000-07:00

Deep in my self,
Invisible,
Insignificant,
A secret.

Tooth and claw,
It waits,
To be awakened.

I can hear
Its gentle hum

I can feel
Its dull ache

I can taste
Its sweet promises
I can smell
Its desperate fear
Wriggling,
Worming,
coming closer
with every movement.

Blurred shadows,
Cloud my sight.
Rough hands
Seize my neck

Gently stroking,
Infusing warmth,
Soft lips,
Whispering notes
Of a forgotten song

Lay me down,
Lull me to sleep,
Bury me
In layers of dream,
Draped like linen,
drenched in silence,
Like a seed,
In winter’s
Cold grave,
Left to throb
With life
Within.

Deep within my self,
Invisible,
Insignificant,
A secret.
A self.

Crime and Punishment

2007-08-21T13:54:00.000-07:00

I claw my way
Into the hole.
Dark and silent,
Wet walls,
Damp with tears
Of past, present, future,
Then and now,
Here and beyond,
All contained
In a space
That is
My haven and hell.

Pincers clicking,
Drawing closer.
Piercing, probing
I crouch,
I surge,
I tremble,
I steel
I hide,
I seek.
Every beginning
An end,
I devour
And spit
Myself.

I burn
In the hell
That I am,
Seeking naught
But Forgiveness
Finding naught
But scorn.

I,
The judge and jury,
The victim
And offender.

Sounds of memories

2007-08-21T13:53:00.000-07:00

Footsteps…
Sounds…
of distant memories
turning into a rush of feet.

A deluge of pain -
A never-ending cord
That binds me
Till I choke.

Breath
Feeds into me
Betrays hope
Of ever-elusive Death.
Slowly the cord unwinds
And leaves behind
Another footstep
To echo endlessly

Song of solitude

2007-08-21T13:49:00.002-07:00

I strum upon the strings
Of my dreams.
A discordant snatch
Of songs of tomorrow
Fills my ears.

Whirling like a disc,
Notes enwrap me.
I draw upon them
To feed the hollowness within.
Where is my symphony?

Tugging at a duet,
A lone performer.
Singing both parts,
Groping towards
A crescendo
Plummeting
With every refrain.

My magnum opus,
My concerto,
My sonata -
That final screech
Before a sweeping silence
That brings
In its wake
Sweet forgetfulnessness.

Of Things

2007-08-21T13:49:00.001-07:00

It is,
Of things I should’ve said
But didn’t;
Of thoughts I wanted to suppress,
But couldn’t;
Of pain that ought to have died
But lingers;
Of secrets open
Yet unrevealed;
Of memories that might’ve faded
But flash at my insistence;
Of what could’ve been,
But isn’t;
Of love that yearned to be expressed,
But wasn’t;

Moth and Candle

2007-08-21T13:48:00.003-07:00

Enveloped in flames
As moment’s pleasure
Turns to moment’s pain
And love’s embrace
Death’s stranglehold.

Trophies

2007-08-21T13:48:00.001-07:00

Blank stare
Stuffed within,
Trapped forever
in moments
Of terror,
of death,
more alive than man.

Riots

2007-08-21T13:47:00.003-07:00

Forked tongue, poison-breath
Two-legged monster sharpens
His claws yet again

Death

2007-08-21T13:47:00.001-07:00

Red light, neutral gear
Dusty windshield, silent wheels
Still tracks, empty tank

Crush

2007-08-21T13:46:00.001-07:00

Blushing cheeks, wild eyes,
Heartbeats quicken, forever asking,
‘Is this love?’

Déjà vu

2007-08-21T13:41:00.000-07:00

Yet another time
A temptation

Yet another time
A disappointment

Yet again
A betrayal

Yet again
The knife twists

But this one sharper
This cut deeper.

An inward shriek
A silent gasp

Dreams perish
Tears linger...

But this pain forever
This pain, a scar.

Coma

2007-08-21T13:20:00.000-07:00

Memories congealed
Sensations numb, pulsing veins
Deny life and death.

Motherhood

2007-08-21T13:19:00.000-07:00

Woman
Carries the seed
Nurturer, guardian.
Severing bonds, kicking womb comes
Her child.

Suture

2007-08-21T13:12:00.000-07:00

I finger the suture
That knits my wound
And feel the twinge
Of sweet pain,
Of longings unfulfilled
That lie coiled beneath
My skin.

It slithers against my touch
Twisting in self-defence.
Raises its hood
And bares its fangs
Defying my probes
Defending its ground

I play the pipe of memories
And it bows its head
In graceful accession
I reach out to grasp it-
A rope that rises
Towards the skies
Calloused palms
Numb fingers
Climbing steadily
Towards
sudden jerk
And the rope falls.
I plunge,Back
to the present.

Warm blood seeps out
Colours the suture with life
Opens the crevice
I drown in the pain,
I clutch at a string -
The suture that knits
Together the banks
Of my river
Of dreams.
A tug at the two ends,
A healing that begins
But leaves behind
An itch.

I finger the suture
That knits my wound...

The Itch

2007-08-21T13:05:00.000-07:00

I scratch myself.
An itch
That stems from the heart
And spreads until
My skin pares.
I feel my bones
And file at them
With an emery board
Of memories.
Dust.

A chance wind.
I Rise again.
Swirling in the air
Settle down.
A potter's hands
Kneading,
Her fingers coaxing,
Promising shape.

Burnt in a kiln,
I am a vessel.
Coals in my self,
Effusing warmth,
Burning every moment
Embracing the heat.

Held by the son,
Harbinger of freedom
From life's funeral pyre.
Broken in a moment,
Stamped underfoot,
Clinging to the flesh,
Desperate for life.
Nestling in a crack,
Just when the journey
Seemed to end,
The beginning of an itch.