Something of Myself
Saturday, November 25, 2006
For You
It burns slowly. The throat is left dry after much of it. Memories and wishes spring alive. A growing sensation fills you - swiftly moves time and with it, you realise that nothing is as it was. Or even, nothing is as it seems!
How much will it cost me to travel and explain to you how much I owe it to you? How many corpses do I have to stamp before I arrive in front of you? Don't blame it on me. I always put faith in you, as much as you put in me. I don't need to tell anyone, but I keep telling myself that I am whatever I am because of you. You remember the ice-creams by Victoria, five days a week, same old Kwality man, chocobar or vanilla? That taught me how to love selflessly. You remember lunch at 3:30pm, together? That taught me the meaning of commitment. You remember waking up each time I winced in pain, cause the liver was giving up? That taught me how to care. You remember standing by me, saying nothing, keeping your hand on my shoulder before the funeral pyre? That taught me the importance of silence. You remember the trip to the morgue to reclaim the body? That taught me that life had to end, someday. You remember us having ilish together at Haldia - palatable ilish - your words? That taught me to unwind. You remember our conversation by the sea? That taught me how to interpret pauses - the importance of saying things important by not saying anything at all. You remember how you convinced her otherwise, everytime she was mad at you? That taught me how to submit, the importance of surrender, one, two, many times, often times, just to ensure, to enable, to secure the nearest future for the bleakest present. Ha! It all seems so distant right now - almost as if it never happened. Was that a dream or is this one?
I cannot begin to explain what it meant to me - the effects are here to be seen by anyone who brushes by me. A glance, a quick exchange, a long-lasting relation, a dirty feud, a punch below the belt - whatever it might be, they will meet you, for sure, through me.
It's a shame they won't know that it's not me, it's you who they meet. It's not me, it's you who they love. It's not me, it's you who they feel disappointed with. They won't know. An invisible yet inevitable finality is etched on every attempt that they make to interact with me.
These days I feel like a drug - an expiry date stamped on the foil. They'll use it till I am good. And then, one day, when they pick me up (cause there is an urgent need), they will see the date and get a new strip.
Human capsules are meant to be like that. Pity they don't go terribly well with alcohol.
It burns slowly. The throat is left dry after much of it. Memories and wishes spring alive. A growing sensation fills you - swiftly moves time and with it, you realise that nothing is as it was. Or even, nothing is as it seems!
How much will it cost me to travel and explain to you how much I owe it to you? How many corpses do I have to stamp before I arrive in front of you? Don't blame it on me. I always put faith in you, as much as you put in me. I don't need to tell anyone, but I keep telling myself that I am whatever I am because of you. You remember the ice-creams by Victoria, five days a week, same old Kwality man, chocobar or vanilla? That taught me how to love selflessly. You remember lunch at 3:30pm, together? That taught me the meaning of commitment. You remember waking up each time I winced in pain, cause the liver was giving up? That taught me how to care. You remember standing by me, saying nothing, keeping your hand on my shoulder before the funeral pyre? That taught me the importance of silence. You remember the trip to the morgue to reclaim the body? That taught me that life had to end, someday. You remember us having ilish together at Haldia - palatable ilish - your words? That taught me to unwind. You remember our conversation by the sea? That taught me how to interpret pauses - the importance of saying things important by not saying anything at all. You remember how you convinced her otherwise, everytime she was mad at you? That taught me how to submit, the importance of surrender, one, two, many times, often times, just to ensure, to enable, to secure the nearest future for the bleakest present. Ha! It all seems so distant right now - almost as if it never happened. Was that a dream or is this one?
I cannot begin to explain what it meant to me - the effects are here to be seen by anyone who brushes by me. A glance, a quick exchange, a long-lasting relation, a dirty feud, a punch below the belt - whatever it might be, they will meet you, for sure, through me.
It's a shame they won't know that it's not me, it's you who they meet. It's not me, it's you who they love. It's not me, it's you who they feel disappointed with. They won't know. An invisible yet inevitable finality is etched on every attempt that they make to interact with me.
These days I feel like a drug - an expiry date stamped on the foil. They'll use it till I am good. And then, one day, when they pick me up (cause there is an urgent need), they will see the date and get a new strip.
Human capsules are meant to be like that. Pity they don't go terribly well with alcohol.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Thought Pools
Tired to my bones, I try to recollect some of the thoughts that have been preying on my mind over the weekend. I wish I had a Microsoft Word jacked into my body, so that whenever the words leaked, it could have been aptly typed out and saved in one of my partitioned hard drives (yes, my memory is partitioned). I have lost so many words, so many sentences, so many phrases, so many thoughts, just because I didn't have a pen and paper to put them down! I tried saving them as texts on my mobile but the damn thing doesn't store much! Aarggghhh!
One of the niggling thoughts that has been on my mind is the idea of a 'victim'. I can't remember which text it was, but there was one in my B.A. syllabus wherein we were de-constructing the idea of a 'victim.' The construct of being a victim is fascinating to me. What makes a victim? Who decides the fate of a victim? They say, history is written by victors; are victims invariably part of the losing side? Can there be a victorious victim? I tried knitting this thought further but failed to do it because of mundane responsibilities that we all have to take care of! But I have promised myself to get back to it and this is an attempt to serve as a reminder. :)
Following from that, I have been worrying about the idea of exploitation - the definition of it - the difficulty of defining exploitation plagues me [...]
He asked me if they fell in love when they got married or afterwards. I wasn't sure so I couldn't answer. The little child, who serves chai across the road, came up to me yesterday and begged for a rupee to buy a candy. I couldn't refuse. I ended up giving him ten. Does that make me kind or was it my frail attempt to feel good about myself (he had intense kind eyes though) in a world is essentially cruel and selfish [...]
She told me last night that they met up again and she couldn't let go of him. I smiled. I knew she won't be able to. She needed to get through this phase to understand that they are inseparable. Life's like that - it takes silly, un-noticed, lonely, soul-wrapping moments to weigh the odds - to realize that this pain, this fear, this love, this anger - all of it is what makes us human(e) [...]
Does the full stop imply anything else apart from a courteous notation that here is where my reader should pause?! Do we really exclaim at the sight of the exclamation mark? Do we only ask questions to ourselves when confronted with the question mark? Does the full stop imply the end of a thought or is it just a signal of continuity - hang on a second, that's the comma, isn't it and by the way, when do we put the apostophes? [...]
This post is a clear indication of the fact that my body is tired to the bones. I am going fucking crazy. I really am. :)
Tired to my bones, I try to recollect some of the thoughts that have been preying on my mind over the weekend. I wish I had a Microsoft Word jacked into my body, so that whenever the words leaked, it could have been aptly typed out and saved in one of my partitioned hard drives (yes, my memory is partitioned). I have lost so many words, so many sentences, so many phrases, so many thoughts, just because I didn't have a pen and paper to put them down! I tried saving them as texts on my mobile but the damn thing doesn't store much! Aarggghhh!
One of the niggling thoughts that has been on my mind is the idea of a 'victim'. I can't remember which text it was, but there was one in my B.A. syllabus wherein we were de-constructing the idea of a 'victim.' The construct of being a victim is fascinating to me. What makes a victim? Who decides the fate of a victim? They say, history is written by victors; are victims invariably part of the losing side? Can there be a victorious victim? I tried knitting this thought further but failed to do it because of mundane responsibilities that we all have to take care of! But I have promised myself to get back to it and this is an attempt to serve as a reminder. :)
Following from that, I have been worrying about the idea of exploitation - the definition of it - the difficulty of defining exploitation plagues me [...]
He asked me if they fell in love when they got married or afterwards. I wasn't sure so I couldn't answer. The little child, who serves chai across the road, came up to me yesterday and begged for a rupee to buy a candy. I couldn't refuse. I ended up giving him ten. Does that make me kind or was it my frail attempt to feel good about myself (he had intense kind eyes though) in a world is essentially cruel and selfish [...]
She told me last night that they met up again and she couldn't let go of him. I smiled. I knew she won't be able to. She needed to get through this phase to understand that they are inseparable. Life's like that - it takes silly, un-noticed, lonely, soul-wrapping moments to weigh the odds - to realize that this pain, this fear, this love, this anger - all of it is what makes us human(e) [...]
Does the full stop imply anything else apart from a courteous notation that here is where my reader should pause?! Do we really exclaim at the sight of the exclamation mark? Do we only ask questions to ourselves when confronted with the question mark? Does the full stop imply the end of a thought or is it just a signal of continuity - hang on a second, that's the comma, isn't it and by the way, when do we put the apostophes? [...]
This post is a clear indication of the fact that my body is tired to the bones. I am going fucking crazy. I really am. :)
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Untitled
July 13, 1990
She tip-toed her way inside the hall, wearing blue denims and white tee. She was tall at nearly 6 feet, her bosoms well-formed, her waist neatly toned; she had a neckline that would put Munroe to shame. She took the last row, third seat from the wall. Quietly she sat. He kept watching her in awe. Hormones spilling all over. It was a hot Indian afternoon.
They ended up being friends for a while, as he was sucked into the possibilities of a romantic relationship. Then she just vanished. From the city. From his life.
The only explanation offered was this – ‘I really love him, and I need to follow my heart.’
August 27, 1995
The bus would have got her killed, only if she was not agile enough to flung herself to the ground. She stood there, covered with mud, white people laughing at her. She was beautiful, he thought. He had to help, for he was the only darkie around. He offered. She went to his apartment, changed, thanked him and went home.
They ended up dating each other for three years – giving romance a wholly different definition each time they exchanged looks. Expensive wine followed. Dolce Gabbana, and the likes were donned to visit parties and clubs. Music, alcohol, dance, smokes, and sex: this is what Harold Robbins or Sydney Sheldon would capture in 2 pages.
And it lasted exactly that long. She never vanished. She took a clean exit.
The only explanation offered was this – ‘I need to move on. I don’t think we can be together anymore.’
November 05, 1999
She was the kind of woman who attracted attention with everything she did. She broke a glass, people looked at her; she visited schools, people looked at her; she steered the boat, people looked at her; chocolate cake all over, people looked at her. He put some more chocolate on her right cheek.
She looked at him.
They ended up in a weird, un-named, unconditional relationship. Selfless she was, forever pining for lost worlds.
She is married now, staying with her husband (whom she calls doc) in a remote village near Porstmouth, UK.
The only explanation offered was this – ‘I’ll always be around. For as long as you need me.’
January 01, 2003
She was wearing a white saree, and she spoke very little all through the evening as he set his eyes on her. They exchanged phone numbers and promised to be in touch since he was in Australia and she was planning to emigrate permanently.
They ended up in a hotel room in Perth. When she walked in, there were flowers all over, champagne in the bucket, swiss chocolates and a live panda waiting to be hugged.
The sex was mind-blowing and after being with her for 10 years, he was beginning to get mind-fucked.
There was no explanation offered.
December 25, 2010.
She was working on her laptop as he rang the bell. The apartment was small, on the 28th floor in New York City. It was a dark, winter evening but New York was as alive as London on the day England won their Ashes in 2005. They sat in the verandah, sipping Smirnoff and Coke. They were in their late 40s now. Age had taken its toll on both as they lighted one Marlboro Lights after the other.
The desire for physical pleasure, (lust as they seem to call it), had tempered itself. The explanations etched in his heart. There were other desires that were pregnant now.
They ended up in an old home in India. At 82, his libido does not do much talking. He speaks slowly as she listens intently with those grey eyes, - ‘You know something Honey, you look beautiful. They tell me that you have wrinkles and that you cannot even walk the way you used to. But when I look at you, as you read out The Ode to Nightingale, I can’t but help falling in love with you, over and over again.’
July 13, 1990
She tip-toed her way inside the hall, wearing blue denims and white tee. She was tall at nearly 6 feet, her bosoms well-formed, her waist neatly toned; she had a neckline that would put Munroe to shame. She took the last row, third seat from the wall. Quietly she sat. He kept watching her in awe. Hormones spilling all over. It was a hot Indian afternoon.
They ended up being friends for a while, as he was sucked into the possibilities of a romantic relationship. Then she just vanished. From the city. From his life.
The only explanation offered was this – ‘I really love him, and I need to follow my heart.’
August 27, 1995
The bus would have got her killed, only if she was not agile enough to flung herself to the ground. She stood there, covered with mud, white people laughing at her. She was beautiful, he thought. He had to help, for he was the only darkie around. He offered. She went to his apartment, changed, thanked him and went home.
They ended up dating each other for three years – giving romance a wholly different definition each time they exchanged looks. Expensive wine followed. Dolce Gabbana, and the likes were donned to visit parties and clubs. Music, alcohol, dance, smokes, and sex: this is what Harold Robbins or Sydney Sheldon would capture in 2 pages.
And it lasted exactly that long. She never vanished. She took a clean exit.
The only explanation offered was this – ‘I need to move on. I don’t think we can be together anymore.’
November 05, 1999
She was the kind of woman who attracted attention with everything she did. She broke a glass, people looked at her; she visited schools, people looked at her; she steered the boat, people looked at her; chocolate cake all over, people looked at her. He put some more chocolate on her right cheek.
She looked at him.
They ended up in a weird, un-named, unconditional relationship. Selfless she was, forever pining for lost worlds.
She is married now, staying with her husband (whom she calls doc) in a remote village near Porstmouth, UK.
The only explanation offered was this – ‘I’ll always be around. For as long as you need me.’
January 01, 2003
She was wearing a white saree, and she spoke very little all through the evening as he set his eyes on her. They exchanged phone numbers and promised to be in touch since he was in Australia and she was planning to emigrate permanently.
They ended up in a hotel room in Perth. When she walked in, there were flowers all over, champagne in the bucket, swiss chocolates and a live panda waiting to be hugged.
The sex was mind-blowing and after being with her for 10 years, he was beginning to get mind-fucked.
There was no explanation offered.
December 25, 2010.
She was working on her laptop as he rang the bell. The apartment was small, on the 28th floor in New York City. It was a dark, winter evening but New York was as alive as London on the day England won their Ashes in 2005. They sat in the verandah, sipping Smirnoff and Coke. They were in their late 40s now. Age had taken its toll on both as they lighted one Marlboro Lights after the other.
The desire for physical pleasure, (lust as they seem to call it), had tempered itself. The explanations etched in his heart. There were other desires that were pregnant now.
They ended up in an old home in India. At 82, his libido does not do much talking. He speaks slowly as she listens intently with those grey eyes, - ‘You know something Honey, you look beautiful. They tell me that you have wrinkles and that you cannot even walk the way you used to. But when I look at you, as you read out The Ode to Nightingale, I can’t but help falling in love with you, over and over again.’
Monday, November 06, 2006
My Thinking Cap
Not thinking much these days, hence running out of things to write about. I am considering giving my thinking cap a thorough wash, it's quite muddy, and stained - need a spanking new one, but can't afford to lose the old, it's like changing your parents for Christ's sake! It seems weird, but I oftentimes wonder, how this place would be, how individuals would be if they did not keep a track of their thoughts. Now that is singularly different from memory, cause memory to me, is like a trunk full of everything that we have ever been. Keeping track of thoughts is like a secret chamber inside that trunk that is full of jewels, flowers, moss and clotted blood.
Have you observed people indulging themselves in the act of 'thinking'? It's strange how different people 'think' differently. Some keep it for the last couple of hours before they retire for the day, some do it as a part of their jobs, some do it in the toilet, some (they tell me) even during sex, others just take time off from their normal lives, go away to just relax and think.
I have never found thinking to be a stressful activity. Perhaps because my objective has always been to come up with a solution. And if it was unsolvable, then come up with the best possible back-up plan. No, it's obviously not that serious all the time - there have been numerous instances when the thinking was cheap, flirty, vulgar, promiscuous...and all that! ;)
Anyways, having expressed the lack of 'thoughts' at the upfront, I seemed to have bragged about a load of shit all the while. Let's go home. Let's give it a wash. Let's see how it looks.
Not thinking much these days, hence running out of things to write about. I am considering giving my thinking cap a thorough wash, it's quite muddy, and stained - need a spanking new one, but can't afford to lose the old, it's like changing your parents for Christ's sake! It seems weird, but I oftentimes wonder, how this place would be, how individuals would be if they did not keep a track of their thoughts. Now that is singularly different from memory, cause memory to me, is like a trunk full of everything that we have ever been. Keeping track of thoughts is like a secret chamber inside that trunk that is full of jewels, flowers, moss and clotted blood.
Have you observed people indulging themselves in the act of 'thinking'? It's strange how different people 'think' differently. Some keep it for the last couple of hours before they retire for the day, some do it as a part of their jobs, some do it in the toilet, some (they tell me) even during sex, others just take time off from their normal lives, go away to just relax and think.
I have never found thinking to be a stressful activity. Perhaps because my objective has always been to come up with a solution. And if it was unsolvable, then come up with the best possible back-up plan. No, it's obviously not that serious all the time - there have been numerous instances when the thinking was cheap, flirty, vulgar, promiscuous...and all that! ;)
Anyways, having expressed the lack of 'thoughts' at the upfront, I seemed to have bragged about a load of shit all the while. Let's go home. Let's give it a wash. Let's see how it looks.
