All it takes is a moment of resolve. I haven’t been planning it for long. I never plan things, you see.
I have been living here for quite long. Moving into this flat seven years back seemed a wise decision then. Never been much of a dreamer, but should admit that this abode looked all too good. I paint its walls a hue of blue, that make up for the real sky that I get to see very little. Just a tinge of a cloud could only make things better. Yeah, leave a dash of white up there near the ceiling. Great! They sneer when they see my bedroom – No beds? Whats wrong with you for Gawd’s sake? And I doze off on a mattress stashed with huge pillows that I carefully lay out in my no-beds room. The living room has cacti in small earthen pots on the windowsills that are locked; I hear them sigh all day and night. I get used to the silence that prevails in my kitchen, except for the occasional clattering of the cooking ware and the beeping of the microwave.
Slouched on the sofa, sometimes I think of my father lying in the emergency ward, and his wavering voice, as he clutches on to my palm, looking deep into my misty eyes. I am not sure what he sees in me, but I sense disappointment. A few hard breaths later, he is gone, and the coldness of his body seems strange to me. Someone tells me it isn’t the end of the world, but had it ever begun in the first place?
And then I think of her, who was much more than a friend. I sit beside her, as she swoops off a damp clay pot off the wheel, painfully explaining to me the intricacies of the skill. Soil taints her long fingers and she brushes aside a long strand of hair that threatens to caress her cheeks. She glances at me with a fond rage at having thus barged into her small world, and in the night, with her lips brushing against my chest, murmurs that this cant go on for ever. Let’s part when we love each other the most; let this craving for each other remain as it is…She walks out of my room, leaving her lipstick smudges on my sheets, her sweat merged with mine.
I should admit that life has been treating me rather fairly. Ups and downs, they tell me, are a part of the game. But when it’s all too plain, it starts getting into you after a while. Of late, I have started to yearn for any kind of gross aberration in my routine. I keep hoping for the alarm to wake me horribly late at 9, fervently wish my car would break down on its way, and have wild fantasies of my colleagues going berserk at my having dozed off in the midst of my work. I think of my roofs that never seem to leak and my perfect drainage pipes that never seem to get blocked, with a slight sense of regret. I smirk as I see myself locked up in some desolate dark room, or caught in the terrace of a skyscraper with no way down. But nothing of the sort ever happens.
And thus it goes on, until it gets to a point, where I sit up and ponder as to where I am heading. I see that it doesn’t make much of a difference to anyone else that I hover around these fading walls. Can’t blame them really, poor souls, busy bees. My mother has just had an open-heart surgery, sir…the garden badly needs a pruning, don’t you think… I need to get my son a new mobile……The celebration is just round the corner, and there are scores of things to be done…I’m so sorry I forgot your birthday, was tired after the weekend trip…you know, I am sure she has the hots for me…
It feels so cold in here, what with the downpour going on for hours now. I watch it impassively trickling down the toilet panes. I turn the shower off and dab myself dry. The razor gleams a sleek sharpness twitched between my fingers. Sorry world, but I just cant take it any longer…I am not intimidated by pain, but I don’t want to make a mess of my first attempt to kill myself. I can be clumsy when it comes to doing something that deserves the utmost care. I take a close look at my wrist and the nerves jutting out. I draw a faint line across it and blood follows the razor edge. I need to get it deeper in and keep clotting at bay. Damn! That hurts a bit…
I shudder all of a sudden at the shrill doorbell ringing at an unearthly hour. Blood readily trickles down my arm. I give up dying, for the moment, and wrap up my wrist with the towel, hastily putting on a robe. Water drips down my legs as I walk wearily towards the door. I find myself facing a woman in her thirties drenched in the rain. A girl of about four, hangs on to her arm, and looks up at me. She folds her umbrella, as the girl snuggles even closer. And then walks past me into the room with an air of indifference about her that leaves me stunned.
I close the door and follow her; she carelessly leaves her sandals beside my magazine rack. The girl looks around bewildered and moves to the cacti for a closer inspection.
I couldn’t leave her somewhere else…but she wont be much of a trouble, I assure you… she shrugs absent mindedly, shuffling through the contents of her handbag. Contentment and relief flit across her face as she finds a tiny pack of crayons inside.
Come here…and leave those plants alone. You will hurt your fingers with those thorns. She hands over the pencils to the girl who has got herself an old newspaper. She flops down on the floor with the colors, and starts hunting for a picture.
The woman seems lost for a moment in thought, and then turns towards me, and smiles. She unfolds a crimson sheet and throws it over my couch. Sleep over here when you are done with your painting…and be a good girl… She whispers to the girl and pats her on the head. The child lets out a coarse cough. It’s the night air…never does her any good…She glances at the vase of dry yellow asters. You should throw in violet against white…that always looks better. I used to take flower arrangement classes once…
The girl is oblivious to our presence, and asks for some paper. She opens her purse and hands out a used tissue. The girl gets back to her business. Her frail grasp lends fresh colors to a coarse sketch that resembles a large tree. What color is the swing, Ma? Her voice is frigid as she answers. Leave it brown. She notices my awkward gait and looks perplexed. You have done up the house beautifully…wife gone home? I wasn’t sure if I got the flat number right- 19 or 90? - over the phone, there was too much of a fracas…and one has to think of the bloody cops all the time… And the fucking rain…seems to be in no mood to stop… You were about to take a bath, I suppose…
I sense my state of undress, and walk towards my no-beds-room to get some clothes on. I hear her telling the child that she was now a big girl and that there was nothing to be afraid of sleeping alone. I turn around and see her standing at the door. She stares at my wrist all wrapped up. She isn’t conventionally beautiful; I wouldn’t give her a second look on the streets.
Could I use the washroom? She asks, her glances darting all over the room. She is sure to see the blood inside. Might even scream. I hear her splashing the water around. She comes out wearing an olive green nightdress and looks squarely on my face. I squat down on the floor and turn away from her. She starts pulling away the towel wrapped around my wrist and stares at the incision. Without a word she gets up and leaves.
These come handy on several occasions…She soon returns with some damp cotton that smells of a disinfectant. Not everyone is sane out there in the world…most of the times I have been badly torn up; I have managed on my own…She pauses a few moments. The medics know all about the bruises when they see them… they are too nosy and make a huge hue and cry…never visit the creeps hence…
She rolls out cotton over my cut that doesn’t look too good. The blood has turned darker and reminds me of strawberry jelly. She doesn’t look at my face much. She wraps it all up clean with some plaster and sighs.
Lie down; if you are feeling weak…If you have got something up there, I could make you some hot coffee…that is, if you feel like having some…
She sits beside me on the mattress with the hot drink. I see her small toes pressed against the floor. The nape of her neck curves down lusciously, but she looks quite pale. She throws a sideward glance at me, and looks amused. Her arms are bare and her body, lean. Heedless of my stare, her eyes are stubbornly stuck at something remote. She puts down the cup and starts examining her fingernails.
I badly needed the money, and hence came, despite the flood out there in the streets. Are you still in the mood? She hesitantly asks a few minutes later. My girl must have fallen asleep…Let me close the door… she gets up, taking the empty mugs with her.
No…let it be… I clasp her hand, pulling her down. She is confused, but gives in with an apathetic face. Her fingers make a hesitant move inside my palm. It relieves me that she doesn’t have questions for me. She should know that I don’t have answers for them. I move closer to her and bury my face on her lap. She hugs me close and runs her fingers through my hair; I weep with a fierce fervor that rips me apart. She doesn’t utter a sound; I sleep assured by her warmth. I dream of a canoe that lies on the shore of a lake that lies still. Nothing moves. It’s all quiet.
I wake up to find that I am all alone. As I sense the slight warmth of the sun drifting in, I notice a crumpled tissue near the faded asters. Beside the green tree, beneath the wooden swing, I see the words scribbled as if in haste.
Moving on…just can’t afford to quit…
river reverie.
" river reverie
Monday, October 16, 2006 ||
12:06 AM ||
The Bharathapuzha is in no mad hurry unlike the haughty crimson sun that looks all set to drop rapidly down the scarlet sky. She seductively slithers across the vast expanses of soggy land, her sedate ripples retelling a multitude of legends that the sandy shores have witnessed across the times.
On a wooden canoe that swings from left to right, with the oarsmen poised precariously at either ends, the land suddenly seems to me, a tiresome place to live in. The rock and roll of the ferryboat reverberates an old lullaby that rushes in, unsettling an array of memories in the process. The journey across the raging river, all of a sudden turns out to be a passionate exploration into the self, when haphazard thoughts splatter across the worn-out mind, as vigorously as the water droplets that splash across my face. As the canoe hits against the muddy banks, he gently asks if I would let him hold my hand as I wade through the water and move on to the shore. And then I take note of the elderly man, and a half of a leg that he had lost somewhere along the voyage, long back. The crutches could deceive you, he suggests, as the shallow sand might give in unpredictably to the swindling waves. He latches on to my shoulders and trots on a limb across the shallow waters, and speaks of how the gigantic river was fast drying up and a zillion other things. A lilting malady is unraveled as I soon watch him disappear beyond a dry pathway, far beyond the screaming siren of a hurrying train along the gleaming sleek rail lines. Yet another half-scribbled tale struggles to gain a contour somewhere deep within me, and resignedly surrenders a little later, with a sigh.
Lying on my back on the wet sand, the waves lapping against my feet, I gaze at the alluring moon that has sprinkled a golden hue all over the serene waters. The dark silhouette of the fading canoe paints an exquisite portrait, and the radiant silence resonates with the most mesmerizing melody ever. Wholly awash in the moonlight, I realize that time stands still on moments as these.
wayward whispers.
" wayward whispers
Thursday, October 05, 2006 ||
1:46 AM ||
Adi’s brilliant tag demands a concise self portrait; a simple verbal sketch of eight random facts about me, that could probably help unearth a few facets of the person that I am. Here goes:
1. I am often good-humoredly accused of laughing out all too loud, smiling all too wide and laughing and smiling all too often.
2. I’m a certified hypochondriac. Enlighten me with the symptoms of any fantastic illness found anywhere across the whole wide world, and I guarantee you that I would identify all those in me within minutes, without fail.
3. I can’t swim; I am Pithikosophobic. ;)
4. I can be horribly moody and switch myself off absolutely from the world for a few hours or days once in a while. I rebounce back pretty soon without fail, though.
5. I am a bit too indifferent towards my looks and appearance. And I mean a ‘too’ with quite a few ‘o’s.
6. I live, eat and breathe movies. Seldom passes by a day, without my having watched a film.
7. I am a lazy bone who’s ironically working non-stop.
8. Destiny intrigues me. When I think of two persons distinctively meant to meet at some point of their lives or the other, in the most casual of ways, never even realizing that they actually met. I see someone from wherever, walking to a bus stop, hopping onto a bus, dropping off somewhere, driving a car, roaming around, far, real far from his home, in a park or a hotel, reading a magazine from a make-shift shack, in a theatre, loitering on the pathways, having a munch on a roadside dhaba and then... walking past me, never looking at me, me never seeing him either... just walking past for a second, brushing against each other, never to meet again - it has been predestined.
The jangle and rattle over, the 8-Facts-Tag is hereby officially handed over to legendary AI, endearing Kathy, tranquil Mindinside, adorable Hannelie, exquisite Neermathalam and serene Suji !
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Being-a-Blogger tag jointly latched onto my garb, by Kathy and Sree, implies that an introspection is long due. About a year into blogging, I find myself retorting to 14 queries that span across the blogging arena, responses to which will be restricted, I promise, to a maximum of two sentences each.
1. Are you happy / satisfied with your blog, with its content and look?
I couldn’t have asked for more, when it comes to the Kaleidoscope and the All-Green feel, given my abysmally stumpy technical know-how. As for the content, I write on anything that drives my fingers onto the keyboard.
2. Does your family know about your blog?
Yes, my mom does, and she amusedly goes through my posts and the comments once in a while. She’s quite familiar with most of my Blogger friends as well, at least by their names.
3. Do you feel embarrassed to let your friends know about your blog or you just consider it as a private thing?
Not a bit. Most of my bosom buddies know about, read my blog and even leave comments. As for privacy, there is not much of a difference between the real-me and the blogger-me.
4. Did blogs cause positive changes in your thoughts?
Much more than blogs themselves, Bloggers have. There have been more than a few instances when I have been struck by the intensity or sincerity, frankness or freedom of a blogger, that has lured me onto that blog, time and again.
5. Do you only open the blogs of those who comment on your blog or you love to go and discover more by yourself?
I do make it a point to pay a counter visit to my visitors’ blogs and let them know that their stopover is sincerely appreciated. But I am too much of a wanderer and sightseer to restrict myself to those blogs alone, and hence find myself exploring a multitude of blogs, if I have the time.
6. What does visitors counter mean to you? Do you care about putting it in your blog?
At the moment, it means that I have had about ten thousand indistinguishable people, reaching this minuscule place on the internet, many of which who have left without a second thought in a matter of seconds, several of which who have loitered around for a few minutes, quite a lot of which who have bothered to read a line or two, a number of which who have liked what they have read and expressed an opinion of their own, some of which who have actually bothered to come back and a few of which who have in the process, made a difference to my life.
7. Did you try to imagine your fellow bloggers and give them real pictures?
I have. A million times. I’ve categorized them into three – vague pencil sketches with a vagabond stroke lending life here or there, lucid paintings with vibrant colors filling up the voids and elaborate portraits that have been excruciatingly done with immense thought paid to each immaculate detail.
8. Admit. Do you think there is a real benefit for blogging?
I guess more than as a means to an end, for me, it’s an end in itself.
9. Do you think that bloggers society is isolated from real world or interacts with events?
Blogging is as much real as life can get to be.
10. Does criticism annoy you or do you feel it’s a normal thing?
Whether online or offline, infuriation doesn’t help much. I would feel there’s something definitely wrong, if one doesn’t encounter a critical statement every now and then.
11. Do you fear some political blogs and avoid them?
Politics totally disinterests me, and hence I do.
12. Did you get shocked by the arrest of some bloggers?
I have always had grave concerns regarding Censorship of any kind. And more than the arrest of ‘some’ bloggers, it perturbed me to see that sometimes it’s hazardous to have a staunch opinion of one’s own.
13. Did you think about what will happen to your blog after you die?
Heritance could be ruled out, for sure. I guess I would be content with a 404 error, preferably in Green.
14. What do you like to hear? What’s the song you might like to put a link to in your blog?
As years gently pass by, I am ever more fascinated by the song from Golmaal, ‘Aanewala pal jaane wala hain, ho sake to is mein, zindagii bitaa do, pal jo ye jaane vaalaa hai.....’ If ever you find a Jukebox on this blog, rest assured that you would find this lilting melody on the play list for sure.
I'd truly love it if inimitable Sunil, creative Rachna, incredible Shark, vivacious Jeevan, endearing James and amicable Manish would let us into their fascinating Blogger Worlds as well!!
